Summary: Soft launch photos that you posted and the stories behind them.
w/c: 6.6k
a/n: This is a little series I'm making based on a request. You can find the Garrett Graham one here and the Beau Maxwell one here. I plan to make separate soft launch blurbs for each guy. I got a little carried away with the backstory for this one; it just felt like a perfect storyline for Dean. Hope you enjoy :)
Masterlist
Your Soft Launch Posts w/ Dean
(In my head, these kinda make more sense to have been posted like all at once after the ending. But still taken over the span of a few months like the priors.)
Photo Booth Kisses
You've known Dean Di Laurentis since freshman year, though "known" might be too generous a word for what you were back then. You knew of him the way everyone at Briar knew of him—number 66, left defenseman, with a slap shot that could make the glass shake and a reputation that preceded him into every party, every bar, every room he walked into.
You met at a party after one of his hockey games. Well, "met" is also generous. You collided, more accurately.
It was the first home game of the season, and you'd been there in the stands with your roommate Sarah, screaming yourself hoarse when Briar scored in overtime. You'd grown up watching hockey with your dad every weekend, huddled on your worn couch with hot chocolate and a running commentary on every play. When you'd decided on Briar for college, one of the things that sealed the deal was knowing you could keep that tradition alive, even if it meant watching alone in the student section instead of next to your dad.
The after-party was at one of the off-campus houses the hockey team practically owned, all sticky floors and too-loud music and the smell of cheap beer and victory. You were near the kitchen, trying to explain to Sarah why that last goal had been such a brilliant play, when someone knocked into you hard enough that your drink sloshed over the rim of your cup.
"Shit, sorry—" The apology died when you turned around and found yourself face-to-face with Dean Di Laurentis himself, still riding the high of the win, his golden hair damp at the edges, grey eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline. He looked you up and down with a slow, appreciative smile that probably worked on most girls. "Haven't seen you around before. You a Puck Bunny, or are you here with someone?"
You felt your spine straighten. "Excuse me?"
"You know." He leaned against the wall, all casual confidence. "Puck Bunny. Jersey chaser. Here for the players." His smile widened. "Because if you are, I'm happy to—"
"I'm here because I like hockey," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you'd intended. "Actual hockey. The sport. I've been watching it since I was six years old, and that goal you scored in the second period? It was decent, but you telegraphed the shot. The goalie knew exactly where you were going."
His eyebrows shot up. For a second, he just stared at you, and you couldn't tell if he was offended or impressed. Then he laughed, this genuine, surprised sound that made something flutter traitorously in your chest.
"Telegraphed it, huh?"
"Your shoulder dropped. Dead giveaway."
"And you know this because...?"
"Because I actually watch the game instead of just showing up to get laid afterward."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Okay, fair. I'm Dean."
"I know who you are."
"And you are...?"
You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he said, "Let me buy you a drink to make up for the Puck Bunny comment."
"This is a house party. The drinks are free."
"Then let me get you a free drink."
You should have walked away then. You should have seen exactly what he was—a player in every sense of the word, someone who collected girls like hockey pucks after practice. But there was something about the way he was looking at you, like you'd surprised him and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that, that made you stay for one drink.
One drink turned into an hour of arguing about hockey, about whether fighting should be allowed in the game, about the best players in the NHL. He was smart and funny and so goddamn charming that you had to keep reminding yourself what he was.
When he asked for your number at the end of the night, you said no.
"Why not?" He looked genuinely confused, like this was a new experience for him.
"Because I'm not interested in being another name on your list, Di Laurentis."
"What list?"
You just looked at him.
He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Okay, but what if I want to talk about hockey with you?"
"Then you can find me at the next game."
And he did. He saw you in the stands at the next game, and the one after that. Over the following semesters, Dean Di Laurentis made it his personal mission to get you to go out with him.
He'd find you in the library and leave coffee on your table with notes debating your takes on the latest NHL trades. He eventually secured your number and texted you after games asking if you'd noticed how he didn't telegraph his shots anymore. He showed up at the campus coffee shop where you worked Tuesday mornings, ordering the same terrible black coffee and leaving ridiculous tips.
"Dinner," he'd say, leaning across the counter with that crooked smile. "Just dinner. We can talk about hockey the whole time."
"No."
"A movie?"
"No."
"A walk? Just a walk across campus. Very public. Very innocent."
"Dean, no."
"Why not?" He'd lean closer, and you'd catch the scent of his cologne, something clean and woodsy that made your stomach flip. "Give me one good reason."
"Because you sleep with anything that moves, and I'm not interested in being another notch on your bedpost."
"What if I promised you wouldn't be?"
"Your promises don't mean much when half the girls in my dorm have stories about you."
He'd wince at that, but he never denied it. At least he was honest.
The thing was, part of you wanted to say yes. Part of you noticed the way his face lit up when he talked about hockey, the way he actually listened when you talked, the way he kept showing up even when you kept turning him down. But you'd seen too many girls fall for Dean Di Laurentis and end up crying in the bathroom at parties, and you weren't going to be one of them.
Then you met Mark.
Mark was safe. Mark was a business major who didn't play sports, who took you on actual dates and called when he said he would and introduced you to his parents over Parents' Weekend. Mark was everything Dean wasn't—steady, reliable, boring.
You didn't realize he was boring until after you broke up.
Dean backed off when you started dating Mark. You'd see him sometimes at games or around campus, and he'd nod at you, smile that crooked smile, but he never pushed. Never tried to get between you. You almost respected him for it.
Mark and you lasted a year and a half. You broke up about three months ago. It was mutual and amicable and completely bloodless, which should have told you everything you needed to know about your relationship. When you can break up with someone and feel mostly relieved, you probably shouldn't have been together in the first place.
You didn't tell anyone except Sarah, but somehow Dean knew within a week.
He didn't pounce immediately, which surprised you. Instead, he just started showing up again. At the coffee shop, back to his Tuesday morning routine. At the library, leaving coffee and notes like no time had passed at all.
"I'm sorry about Mark," he said one day, sliding into the chair across from you in the library.
"How did you even know?"
He shrugged. "I pay attention."
"It's fine. It was mutual."
"Still." He was quiet for a moment, spinning his coffee cup between his hands. "You doing okay?"
And the thing was, he seemed to genuinely care about the answer. You talked for an hour that day, and he didn't ask you out once. Didn't make a move. Just talked to you like you were friends, like he actually gave a shit about how you were doing.
He did that for weeks. Just... showed up. Made you laugh. Reminded you why you'd been tempted in the first place.
"Malone's tonight," Sarah said one Friday. "You need to get out of this apartment."
Malone's was the bar where everyone went after games and Briar had won that night, so the place was packed with celebrating students. You were three beers in and finally feeling like yourself again when Dean appeared at your elbow.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." You had to raise your voice over the music. "Good game."
"You were there?"
"I'm always there."
His smile could have lit up the whole bar. "Want to get some air? It's loud as hell in here."
You should have said no. You should have remembered all your reasons, all your rules. But you were tired of being careful, tired of being the girl who always said no, tired of pretending you didn't feel the pull between you every time he was near.
"Yeah, okay."
Outside, the winter air was sharp and cold, and you could see your breath in the glow of the streetlights. Dean's car was parked at the back of the lot, and you ended up leaning against it, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
"I've missed you," he said quietly.
"You've seen me like three times this week."
"You know what I mean."
You did. God help you, you did.
"Dean—"
"I know. I know all your reasons. I know what you think of me, and you're probably right. But I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since freshman year."
"You've been with plenty of other girls since freshman year."
"Yeah." He turned to face you fully, and in the dim light, his eyes were dark and serious. "Because I couldn't have you."
It was a line. It had to be a line. Dean Di Laurentis had a million lines, and this was just another one.
But when he kissed you, it didn't feel like a line.
It felt like falling, like the moment right before a fight breaks out on the ice when everything goes still and sharp. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, and when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your mouth.
"Your place or mine?" he murmured against your lips.
"Car," you said, because you couldn't wait, because if you waited you might remember all your reasons and change your mind.
His car was cramped and awkward, the steering wheel digging into your back, his head hitting the roof when he moved wrong, both of you laughing breathlessly in the dark. It wasn't smooth or practiced. It was fumbling and desperate and real in a way you hadn't expected. His hands were everywhere—tangled in your hair, sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd disappear. You could taste beer and want on his tongue, could feel his heart hammering against yours.
When it was over, you sat in the fogged-up car, your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.
"I should drive you home," he said, his voice rough.
"Yeah."
But when you got to your apartment, neither of you wanted the night to end. You ended up in your bed, and this time it was slower, softer. This time you could see his face in the lamplight, could watch the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. He took his time, learning what made you gasp, what made you arch into him. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, murmured your name like a prayer.
This time, it felt dangerous in a completely different way.
That was two months ago.
Two months of Dean showing up at your apartment at midnight after games, still riding the high of victory or nursing the sting of defeat. Two months of stolen mornings and tangled sheets and the smell of his cologne on your pillows. Two months of inside jokes and late-night food runs and the way he kisses your shoulder when he thinks you're asleep.
Two months of not talking about what this is.
You're not dating. You're not a couple. You're just... this. Whatever this is. And you keep telling yourself you're fine with it, that you knew what you were getting into, that you're not going to be the girl who falls for Dean Di Laurentis and expects him to change.
But sometimes, when he looks at you a certain way, or when he remembers how you take your coffee, or when he texts you in the middle of the day just to say something reminded him of you—sometimes you wonder if maybe you already are.
Sometimes you wonder if maybe he's already changed.
"Babydoll, you coming?" Dean asks, holding his hand out to you as he stands at the entryway of the bar. His cheeks are flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the crowded venues you've already hit tonight.
It's a Saturday night, and he'd convinced you to come out with him and his teammates for a bar crawl. So far the group has made it to three bars with two more to go, and you're about five drinks in—though you've been slacking compared to some of the others, nursing your drinks while they've been throwing them back like water.
You're reaching for his hand when something across the street catches your eye. Outside a nightclub, illuminated by neon lights, sits a vintage photo booth. The kind with the velvet curtain and the promise of four grainy pictures that will probably be terrible and perfect all at once.
You drunkenly point at it, your eyes lighting up. "Look!" you grin, your words slightly slurred. "Dean, look!"
He follows your gaze and chuckles, that warm sound that makes your stomach flip every single time. "A photobooth? What, you wanna go in?"
"Please?" You clasp your hands together in front of your chest, giving him your best pleading expression. It's ridiculous and over-the-top, and you know it, but the alcohol has made you brave and uninhibited in a way you usually aren't.
He stares at you for a moment, and you watch his expression soften. His jaw clenches slightly, and there's something in his eyes—something tender and almost vulnerable—that makes your heart skip. "Since you asked so nicely," he teases, but his voice is quieter than before, more sincere.
He grabs your hand and leads you across the street, weaving through the late-night traffic with the confidence of someone who's had just enough to drink to feel invincible. The photo booth smells like old plastic and the ghost of a thousand other people's memories. Dean fishes some crumpled bills out of his wallet and feeds them into the machine before sitting down on the small bench.
He pulls you into his lap without hesitation, and you giggle as you shift to get comfortable, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you can feel him smile against your neck.
"Silly face first," you insist, turning to look at him with exaggerated seriousness.
He laughs and leans forward to start the countdown. When the flash goes off, you're both making ridiculous faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, cheeks puffed. The second shot is more of the same, Dean making a face like a fish while you pretend to strangle him.
But by the third photo, something shifts. The silliness fades into something softer. You turn in his lap to face him, and instead of making a face, you just look at him. Really look at him. His dark eyes are warm and focused entirely on you, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"Hi," he whispers, like he's seeing you for the first time.
"Hi," you whisper back.
The flash goes off, capturing the moment—his hand still in your hair, your face tilted up toward his, the way you're looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
For the fourth and final shot, he kisses you. It's soft and unhurried, tasting like whiskey and want and something that feels dangerously close to love. Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and you kiss him back like you're trying to memorize the feeling of his mouth on yours.
When you pull apart, you're both breathing a little harder than necessary.
"That one's definitely gonna be my favorite," he murmurs against your lips.
You don't tell him that it's yours too. You don't tell him that you're starting to think maybe this—whatever this is—might be more than just two people scratching an itch. You don't tell him that you're terrified of how much you're starting to care.
Instead, you just smile and let him pull you out of the booth, your hand in his, the four photos clutched in your other hand like they're the most precious thing in the world.
Maybe they are.
Skin Care
Two weeks later, it's a Friday night, and Dean has come over to your apartment. He was supposed to go out with his friends tonight, but when he asked if you wanted to come, you declined. You'd had a headache all day, and you just wanted to stay in and relax without the assault of loud music and a crowded frat house.
Going out every weekend was kinda his thing, but you were like a drug that he needed his fix of, so he'd asked if he could come over. You'd said yes without hesitation—which should have been your first clue that things had shifted between you.
The hookup happened less than five minutes after he arrived, urgent and familiar, your bodies moving together like they'd been doing this for months. Because they have. But afterward, as you lay tangled in your sheets in your favorite pajama set, eating the Chinese takeout he'd ordered, something felt different. Softer. More like a date than a booty call.
Dean got up to use the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving the door open to talk to you. "This was way better than going out tonight." He says as you hear the toilet flush and the clatter of him putting the seat back down. What a gentleman.
"You're so full of shit, I know you wish you were out getting wasted on frat row with a girl on either arm," you say, rolling your eyes. That's sort of what he's notorious for, but part of you thought if that's what he wanted to do with his night, nothing was stopping him. He chose to skip out on it, to spend time with you.
He doesn't respond right away. You hear the faucet turn on before he speaks. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I preferred that to getting to see the face you make when you cum," He says teasingly, and you blush.
"Shut up," You mutter, stabbing a piece of broccoli from your takeout container. The room is quiet for a couple of minutes as you scroll through Instagram on your phone.
"Do I look like a smurf?" Dean's voice echoes from your bathroom.
You look up from your phone to see him standing in the doorway, your cooling face mask strapped to his head. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and you can't help but laugh.
"What are you doing?" you ask, setting your food aside.
"I found it in the tiny fridge," he says, motioning to your skincare fridge. "Is this like in case you get punched in the face?"
"No, you idiot," you laugh, shaking your head. "It's for depuffing. It's part of my skincare routine, but I usually just use it when I’m hungover or something."
He studies himself in the mirror with exaggerated seriousness. "Maybe I should get one of these."
"Do you want me to do my routine on you?" you ask, already reaching for your phone to snap a picture of him looking ridiculous.
"Hell yeah!"
"It'll cost you," you say with a smirk. "Another round."
He matches your smirk and crosses his arms. "As if I'd say no to that, Babydoll."
You roll your eyes at the nickname, but you're already standing up, taking his hand and leading him back to your bathroom. It's small and warm, lit by the soft glow of your vanity lights. Your products are lined up like little soldiers—serums and essences and creams in glass bottles and sleek tubes.
"Okay, first we need to take that off then we’ll use some cleanser," you say, guiding him to sit on the edge of your bathtub. You move your hands behind his head to undo the straps and gently slip it off his face. Next, you grab a washcloth and wet it with warm water before squeezing a little bit of your cleanser onto it. You rub the cloth over his face, your fingers carefully on his skin as you wipe away the suds. He watches you the entire time, his dark eyes tracking your movements like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.
"This is very intimate," he murmurs.
"Shut up," you say, but you're smiling.
You pat his face dry and start with the toner, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad. As you swipe it across his forehead, his cheekbones, his jawline, he sits perfectly still. There's something vulnerable about him like this—letting you take care of him, trusting you with his face. It's such a stark contrast to the confident hockey player who usually commands every room he enters.
"This smells like flowers," he observes as you move to the essence.
"It's rose and hyaluronic acid," you explain, gently patting the liquid into his skin. Your fingers are gentle, methodical. "It hydrates."
"You're very thorough," he says, and there's something almost tender in his voice.
You apply the serum next, then the moisturizer, your hands moving across his face with practiced ease. By the time you're done, his skin is glowing, and he looks at you with an expression that makes your chest tighten.
"Your turn," he says, reaching for your wrist.
"What? No—"
"Come on. Teach me."
So you do. He stands up and lifts you onto the counter and stands between your legs as he carefully applies each product to your face, his touch uncertain but earnest. He concentrates like he's performing surgery, his brow furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly. It's endearing and ridiculous and somehow the most intimate thing you've done together.
When he's finished, he cups your face in his hands and just looks at you for a long moment.
"What?" you ask softly.
"Nothing," he says. "You're just... really beautiful."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. This isn't what you signed up for. This domestic, tender version of Dean. This version that does your skincare with you and looks at you like you matter.
"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's go to bed."
“What about the other round I owe you?” He asks jokingly.
“Mmm, you’ll just have to pay me back in the morning.” You say, crawling into bed.
“Deal,” He says, watching you for a moment before settling into the sheets beside you. He pulls you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in him, the scent of your skincare products mingling between you.
For the first time in four months, you don't try to convince yourself that this is just physical. You don't try to pretend that what you're feeling is anything less than real.
And that terrifies you more than anything else ever has.
Cigarettes After What?
The snow starts falling on a Tuesday night, fat flakes that stick to your apartment windows and muffle the sounds of the city below. You knew that they were calling for snow tonight, but figured it wouldn’t be much, so Dean still came over after practice. Speaking of Dean, you're too busy with Dean to notice the snow falling. His mouth on your neck, his hands everywhere, the familiar heat building between you until it peaks and breaks like a wave.
Afterward, you're lying tangled in your sheets, your skin still flushed and damp with sweat. The radiator hisses softly in the corner, filling the room with warmth that makes you feel drowsy and content. Dean's fingers trace lazy patterns on your hip—circles, figure eights, abstract shapes that make your skin tingle. You're staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath, when you notice how quiet it is outside. The usual sounds of your apartment complex—car horns, distant sirens, drunken college students—are all muted, softened by something.
"It's snowing," you say, turning your head to look at the window. The flakes are coming down thick and fast now, blanketing everything in white. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the falling snow, making it look almost magical.
Dean props himself up on one elbow to look, his hair messy from your fingers, his lips still swollen from kissing. "Shit. That's a lot of snow."
You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. "Winter storm warning. They're saying twelve to eighteen inches. Possibly more."
"Guess I'm stuck here," he says, and there's something in his voice—not disappointment, but something softer. Relief, maybe. Hope.
"Guess so," you murmur, setting your phone down beside you.
You should feel trapped. Anxious. The walls should feel like they're closing in. Instead, you feel something dangerously close to contentment. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Dean settles back against your pillows, pulling you closer so your head rests on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "Put on some music," he suggests, his fingers playing with your hair.
You scroll through your phone with one hand, and without really thinking about it, you pull up Cigarettes After Sex. The opening notes of "K." fill the room, dreamy and atmospheric, all reverb and longing. Dean makes a soft sound of approval, his chest rumbling under your ear.
"Good choice," he says. "I love this band."
"You know them?"
"Babydoll, I'm not a complete Neanderthal," he teases. "I have taste."
You smile against his skin. "Could've fooled me."
He pinches your side gently, and you squirm, laughing. The song shifts to "Affection," and you lie there for a while, listening to the music, watching the snow fall through the window. Dean's hand finds yours under the covers, his fingers lacing through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you've been doing this for years instead of months. His thumb strokes across your knuckles, back and forth, a soothing rhythm that matches the music.
The weight of his hand in yours feels significant somehow. More intimate than sex. More real.
"I need a cigarette," you say eventually, even though you only smoke when you're drunk or stressed or feeling something too big to name. Right now, you're definitely feeling the latter two.
"Me too," Dean says quietly.
You extract yourself from the warmth of the bed reluctantly, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You pull on his hoodie—it smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and a pair of sweatpants. Dean tugs on his boxers and t-shirt, not bothering to look around your bedroom floor for his pants. The apartment is warm from the radiator, but you grab a blanket anyway, wrapping it around your shoulders as you unlock the sliding door to your small balcony.
The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean and shocking after the warmth inside. Your breath comes out in white puffs. Snow has already accumulated on the railing, on the small bistro table you never use, on the two chairs you bought at a yard sale and never sit in. You brush the snow off the railing, the cold biting at your fingers, and lean against it. Dean stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through the blanket.
The city looks different in the snow. Softer. Quieter. Almost peaceful.
You light two cigarettes with shaking fingers—from the cold or nerves, you're not sure—and pass one to him. The smoke curls up into the falling snow, disappearing into the white. You take a drag and feel the familiar burn in your lungs, the slight head rush that comes with it.
"It's beautiful," you say quietly, watching the snow fall. It's hypnotic, the way the flakes spiral and dance in the wind.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you glance at him, he's looking at you, not the snow. His dark eyes are intense, searching your face like he's trying to memorize every detail.
Your heart does that complicated thing again. That flutter and squeeze that you've been trying to ignore for weeks.
He looks away, takes a drag of his cigarette. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things. You can feel the tension building, the weight of everything you've both been avoiding.
"Can I ask you something?" he says after a moment, his voice careful.
"Sure."
He's quiet for a long moment, like he's gathering courage. "What are we doing?"
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy and inevitable. You take a drag of your cigarette, buying yourself time. Your heart is hammering now, your palms sweating despite the cold.
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, Babydoll," he says, and his voice is gentle but firm. "You know what I mean."
You do. You've known for weeks now, maybe longer. You've just been too scared to acknowledge it. Too scared to put words to the thing that's been growing between you, taking root in the spaces between hookups and late-night conversations and domestic moments that feel too real.
"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
Dean turns to face you fully, and you can see the frustration and fear and hope warring in his expression. "I do," he says. "I know exactly what we're doing. At least, I know what I'm doing."
You can't look at him. You stare at the glowing end of your cigarette instead, watching the ash build. "Dean—"
"I'm falling for you," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for too long. "Hell, I think I've been falling for you since freshman year, since that first party when you told me you actually liked hockey and weren't just there for the players. But especially these last few months. Every time I'm with you, every time I leave, it gets harder. And I know that's not what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual, just hooking up, no strings. But I can't keep pretending this is just sex."
Your breath catches. The cigarette trembles slightly in your hand, ash falling onto the snow-covered balcony floor.
"Dean—"
"You don't have to say anything," he continues, and now there's desperation in his voice. Vulnerability that you've never heard from him before. "I just needed you to know. Because I can't keep doing this if it's only physical for you. If I’m just your rebound. I can't keep showing up here and pretending I don't want more. It's killing me."
The vulnerability in his voice breaks something open in your chest. This is Dean Di Laurentis, the guy who's had half the campus in his bed, the confident hockey star who never seems rattled by anything. The guy who walks into parties like he owns them, who scores goals and makes it look effortless, who's never met a challenge he couldn't charm his way through.
And he's standing on your balcony in the middle of a snowstorm, half-dressed and shivering, telling you he's falling for you. Telling you it's killing him.
You take another drag of your cigarette, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.
"Say something," he says quietly. "Please."
"I don't know what to say," you whisper.
"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth. If this is just physical for you, if I'm just another hookup, tell me. I'll deal with it. But I need to know."
You look at him then, really look at him. His dark eyes are pleading, his jaw tight with tension. Snow is catching in his hair, on his bare shoulders, melting against his warm skin. He looks vulnerable and terrified and so goddamn beautiful it makes your chest ache.
"It's not just physical for me either," you whisper.
He goes very still. "What?"
"I'm scared," you admit, and now the words are tumbling out, unstoppable. "I'm terrified, actually. Because I just got out of a year and a half long relationship and I told myself I wouldn't do this. When you started showing up for coffee on Tuesdays again and then the library and texting me after your games… I told myself I wouldn't fall for you. You were supposed to be the guy I said no to. The player, the hockey star who goes through girls like they're disposable. I wasn't supposed to be one of them."
"You're not—"
"But somewhere between the car at Malone's and the photo booth and you doing my skincare routine with me, I did. I fell for you. And I don't know how to unfeel it. I don't know how to go back to not caring."
Dean's face transforms. The fear melts away, replaced by something that looks like wonder. He sets his cigarette on the railing with shaking hands and steps closer, cupping your face in his palms. His hands are cold from the air, but his touch is gentle, reverent. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears you didn't realize were falling.
"Then don't," he says simply. "Don't unfeel it. Don't go back. Just... let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this."
"What if you break my heart?" you ask, and your voice cracks on the last word. "What if this is just new and exciting for you? Like you’re just riding a high after the chase and in a few weeks you get bored and move on to someone else?"
"What if you break mine?" he counters. "What if I give you everything and you decide I'm not worth it? We're both taking a risk here, Babyl. But I think you're worth it. I know you are."
The snow falls around you, soft and silent, accumulating on the balcony floor, on the railing, on both of you. You're shivering now, from cold and emotion and the weight of this moment.
"I've never felt like this before," Dean continues, his voice raw. "I've been with other girls, yeah. But it was never... it never meant anything. It was just physical. Just fun. But with you, it's different. Everything's different. I think about you all the time. When I'm at practice, when I'm with the guys, when I'm supposed to be studying. I think about the way you laugh at my stupid jokes and the way you look when you're concentrating on something and the way you feel in my arms. I think about how you actually watch the games, how you know the plays, how you yell at the refs. I think about how you let me do your skincare routine and how you look in my t-shirt and how you make me want to be better."
Your breath hitches. "Dean—"
"I'm in love with you," he says, and the words hang in the air between you, crystalline and perfect. "I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified too. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe without you."
The snow falls around you, soft and silent, as you look up at him. His eyes are so dark, so earnest. You can see your reflection in them, can see the hope and fear mirrored back at you.
"Okay," you breathe.
"Okay?"
"Okay. No more trying to unfeel."
Dean's smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. And then he's kissing you, deep and slow and full of promise. You taste smoke and snow and something that feels dangerously like forever. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tangling in it, pulling you closer. You drop your cigarette, forgotten, and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him despite the cold.
The kiss is different from all the others. It's not urgent or desperate or fueled by alcohol and lust. It's tender and deliberate and full of meaning. It's a promise and a confession and a beginning all at once.
When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your hearts racing. Snow has accumulated on both of you, melting where your bodies press together.
"We should go inside," you say, but you don't move.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he doesn't move either. He just looks at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You're shivering."
"So are you."
"Don't care," he murmurs, and kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.
When you finally do go inside, the warmth of the apartment is almost overwhelming. You slide the door closed behind you, shutting out the cold and the snow and the rest of the world. Dean pulls you close, wrapping the blanket around both of you, and you stand there in the middle of your living room, just holding each other.
"So what does this make us?" you ask against his chest.
"Whatever you want," Dean says, his chin resting on top of your head. "But I'd really like to call you my girlfriend."
Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too big for your chest. "I'd like that too."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face again. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, and you think that maybe falling isn't so scary after all. Not when someone's there to catch you. Not when that someone is Dean Di Laurentis, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
The music is still playing from the speaker in your bedroom—"Apocalypse" now, all haunting vocals and dreamy guitar. The snow is still falling outside, blanketing the city in white. And you're standing in your apartment with Dean, officially his girlfriend, feeling like everything has shifted into place.
"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's get back in bed. I'm freezing."
"Best idea you've had all night," he says with a grin, and lets you lead him back to your bedroom.
You climb under the covers together, and he pulls you against him immediately, his arms wrapping around you, his legs tangling with yours. You're both still cold from the balcony, but you warm each other, body heat building between you.
"I can't believe you're my girlfriend," Dean murmurs against your hair.
"I can't believe you're my boyfriend," you reply. "Four months ago, I would've laughed if someone told me this would happen."
"Four months ago, I was already planning how to make it happen," he admits. "I just had to be patient."
You tilt your head back to look at him. "Patient? You?"
"For you? Yeah." He kisses your forehead. "You're worth waiting for."
Your heart does that complicated thing again, but this time it doesn't scare you. This time, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, trapping you together in your small apartment. But you don't feel trapped. You feel safe. Warm. Loved.
And for the first time in four months, you're not afraid of what comes next.
Summary: Soft launch photos that you posted and the stories behind them.
w/c: 6.6k
a/n: This is a little series I'm making based on a request. You can find the Garrett Graham one here and the Beau Maxwell one here. I plan to make separate soft launch blurbs for each guy. I got a little carried away with the backstory for this one; it just felt like a perfect storyline for Dean. Hope you enjoy :)
Masterlist
Your Soft Launch Posts w/ Dean
(In my head, these kinda make more sense to have been posted like all at once after the ending. But still taken over the span of a few months like the priors.)
Photo Booth Kisses
You've known Dean Di Laurentis since freshman year, though "known" might be too generous a word for what you were back then. You knew of him the way everyone at Briar knew of him—number 66, left defenseman, with a slap shot that could make the glass shake and a reputation that preceded him into every party, every bar, every room he walked into.
You met at a party after one of his hockey games. Well, "met" is also generous. You collided, more accurately.
It was the first home game of the season, and you'd been there in the stands with your roommate Sarah, screaming yourself hoarse when Briar scored in overtime. You'd grown up watching hockey with your dad every weekend, huddled on your worn couch with hot chocolate and a running commentary on every play. When you'd decided on Briar for college, one of the things that sealed the deal was knowing you could keep that tradition alive, even if it meant watching alone in the student section instead of next to your dad.
The after-party was at one of the off-campus houses the hockey team practically owned, all sticky floors and too-loud music and the smell of cheap beer and victory. You were near the kitchen, trying to explain to Sarah why that last goal had been such a brilliant play, when someone knocked into you hard enough that your drink sloshed over the rim of your cup.
"Shit, sorry—" The apology died when you turned around and found yourself face-to-face with Dean Di Laurentis himself, still riding the high of the win, his golden hair damp at the edges, grey eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline. He looked you up and down with a slow, appreciative smile that probably worked on most girls. "Haven't seen you around before. You a Puck Bunny, or are you here with someone?"
You felt your spine straighten. "Excuse me?"
"You know." He leaned against the wall, all casual confidence. "Puck Bunny. Jersey chaser. Here for the players." His smile widened. "Because if you are, I'm happy to—"
"I'm here because I like hockey," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you'd intended. "Actual hockey. The sport. I've been watching it since I was six years old, and that goal you scored in the second period? It was decent, but you telegraphed the shot. The goalie knew exactly where you were going."
His eyebrows shot up. For a second, he just stared at you, and you couldn't tell if he was offended or impressed. Then he laughed, this genuine, surprised sound that made something flutter traitorously in your chest.
"Telegraphed it, huh?"
"Your shoulder dropped. Dead giveaway."
"And you know this because...?"
"Because I actually watch the game instead of just showing up to get laid afterward."
He laughed again, shaking his head. "Okay, fair. I'm Dean."
"I know who you are."
"And you are...?"
You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he said, "Let me buy you a drink to make up for the Puck Bunny comment."
"This is a house party. The drinks are free."
"Then let me get you a free drink."
You should have walked away then. You should have seen exactly what he was—a player in every sense of the word, someone who collected girls like hockey pucks after practice. But there was something about the way he was looking at you, like you'd surprised him and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that, that made you stay for one drink.
One drink turned into an hour of arguing about hockey, about whether fighting should be allowed in the game, about the best players in the NHL. He was smart and funny and so goddamn charming that you had to keep reminding yourself what he was.
When he asked for your number at the end of the night, you said no.
"Why not?" He looked genuinely confused, like this was a new experience for him.
"Because I'm not interested in being another name on your list, Di Laurentis."
"What list?"
You just looked at him.
He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Okay, but what if I want to talk about hockey with you?"
"Then you can find me at the next game."
And he did. He saw you in the stands at the next game, and the one after that. Over the following semesters, Dean Di Laurentis made it his personal mission to get you to go out with him.
He'd find you in the library and leave coffee on your table with notes debating your takes on the latest NHL trades. He eventually secured your number and texted you after games asking if you'd noticed how he didn't telegraph his shots anymore. He showed up at the campus coffee shop where you worked Tuesday mornings, ordering the same terrible black coffee and leaving ridiculous tips.
"Dinner," he'd say, leaning across the counter with that crooked smile. "Just dinner. We can talk about hockey the whole time."
"No."
"A movie?"
"No."
"A walk? Just a walk across campus. Very public. Very innocent."
"Dean, no."
"Why not?" He'd lean closer, and you'd catch the scent of his cologne, something clean and woodsy that made your stomach flip. "Give me one good reason."
"Because you sleep with anything that moves, and I'm not interested in being another notch on your bedpost."
"What if I promised you wouldn't be?"
"Your promises don't mean much when half the girls in my dorm have stories about you."
He'd wince at that, but he never denied it. At least he was honest.
The thing was, part of you wanted to say yes. Part of you noticed the way his face lit up when he talked about hockey, the way he actually listened when you talked, the way he kept showing up even when you kept turning him down. But you'd seen too many girls fall for Dean Di Laurentis and end up crying in the bathroom at parties, and you weren't going to be one of them.
Then you met Mark.
Mark was safe. Mark was a business major who didn't play sports, who took you on actual dates and called when he said he would and introduced you to his parents over Parents' Weekend. Mark was everything Dean wasn't—steady, reliable, boring.
You didn't realize he was boring until after you broke up.
Dean backed off when you started dating Mark. You'd see him sometimes at games or around campus, and he'd nod at you, smile that crooked smile, but he never pushed. Never tried to get between you. You almost respected him for it.
Mark and you lasted a year and a half. You broke up about three months ago. It was mutual and amicable and completely bloodless, which should have told you everything you needed to know about your relationship. When you can break up with someone and feel mostly relieved, you probably shouldn't have been together in the first place.
You didn't tell anyone except Sarah, but somehow Dean knew within a week.
He didn't pounce immediately, which surprised you. Instead, he just started showing up again. At the coffee shop, back to his Tuesday morning routine. At the library, leaving coffee and notes like no time had passed at all.
"I'm sorry about Mark," he said one day, sliding into the chair across from you in the library.
"How did you even know?"
He shrugged. "I pay attention."
"It's fine. It was mutual."
"Still." He was quiet for a moment, spinning his coffee cup between his hands. "You doing okay?"
And the thing was, he seemed to genuinely care about the answer. You talked for an hour that day, and he didn't ask you out once. Didn't make a move. Just talked to you like you were friends, like he actually gave a shit about how you were doing.
He did that for weeks. Just... showed up. Made you laugh. Reminded you why you'd been tempted in the first place.
"Malone's tonight," Sarah said one Friday. "You need to get out of this apartment."
Malone's was the bar where everyone went after games and Briar had won that night, so the place was packed with celebrating students. You were three beers in and finally feeling like yourself again when Dean appeared at your elbow.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." You had to raise your voice over the music. "Good game."
"You were there?"
"I'm always there."
His smile could have lit up the whole bar. "Want to get some air? It's loud as hell in here."
You should have said no. You should have remembered all your reasons, all your rules. But you were tired of being careful, tired of being the girl who always said no, tired of pretending you didn't feel the pull between you every time he was near.
"Yeah, okay."
Outside, the winter air was sharp and cold, and you could see your breath in the glow of the streetlights. Dean's car was parked at the back of the lot, and you ended up leaning against it, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of him.
"I've missed you," he said quietly.
"You've seen me like three times this week."
"You know what I mean."
You did. God help you, you did.
"Dean—"
"I know. I know all your reasons. I know what you think of me, and you're probably right. But I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since freshman year."
"You've been with plenty of other girls since freshman year."
"Yeah." He turned to face you fully, and in the dim light, his eyes were dark and serious. "Because I couldn't have you."
It was a line. It had to be a line. Dean Di Laurentis had a million lines, and this was just another one.
But when he kissed you, it didn't feel like a line.
It felt like falling, like the moment right before a fight breaks out on the ice when everything goes still and sharp. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, and when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your mouth.
"Your place or mine?" he murmured against your lips.
"Car," you said, because you couldn't wait, because if you waited you might remember all your reasons and change your mind.
His car was cramped and awkward, the steering wheel digging into your back, his head hitting the roof when he moved wrong, both of you laughing breathlessly in the dark. It wasn't smooth or practiced. It was fumbling and desperate and real in a way you hadn't expected. His hands were everywhere—tangled in your hair, sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd disappear. You could taste beer and want on his tongue, could feel his heart hammering against yours.
When it was over, you sat in the fogged-up car, your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.
"I should drive you home," he said, his voice rough.
"Yeah."
But when you got to your apartment, neither of you wanted the night to end. You ended up in your bed, and this time it was slower, softer. This time you could see his face in the lamplight, could watch the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. He took his time, learning what made you gasp, what made you arch into him. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, murmured your name like a prayer.
This time, it felt dangerous in a completely different way.
That was two months ago.
Two months of Dean showing up at your apartment at midnight after games, still riding the high of victory or nursing the sting of defeat. Two months of stolen mornings and tangled sheets and the smell of his cologne on your pillows. Two months of inside jokes and late-night food runs and the way he kisses your shoulder when he thinks you're asleep.
Two months of not talking about what this is.
You're not dating. You're not a couple. You're just... this. Whatever this is. And you keep telling yourself you're fine with it, that you knew what you were getting into, that you're not going to be the girl who falls for Dean Di Laurentis and expects him to change.
But sometimes, when he looks at you a certain way, or when he remembers how you take your coffee, or when he texts you in the middle of the day just to say something reminded him of you—sometimes you wonder if maybe you already are.
Sometimes you wonder if maybe he's already changed.
"Babydoll, you coming?" Dean asks, holding his hand out to you as he stands at the entryway of the bar. His cheeks are flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the crowded venues you've already hit tonight.
It's a Saturday night, and he'd convinced you to come out with him and his teammates for a bar crawl. So far the group has made it to three bars with two more to go, and you're about five drinks in—though you've been slacking compared to some of the others, nursing your drinks while they've been throwing them back like water.
You're reaching for his hand when something across the street catches your eye. Outside a nightclub, illuminated by neon lights, sits a vintage photo booth. The kind with the velvet curtain and the promise of four grainy pictures that will probably be terrible and perfect all at once.
You drunkenly point at it, your eyes lighting up. "Look!" you grin, your words slightly slurred. "Dean, look!"
He follows your gaze and chuckles, that warm sound that makes your stomach flip every single time. "A photobooth? What, you wanna go in?"
"Please?" You clasp your hands together in front of your chest, giving him your best pleading expression. It's ridiculous and over-the-top, and you know it, but the alcohol has made you brave and uninhibited in a way you usually aren't.
He stares at you for a moment, and you watch his expression soften. His jaw clenches slightly, and there's something in his eyes—something tender and almost vulnerable—that makes your heart skip. "Since you asked so nicely," he teases, but his voice is quieter than before, more sincere.
He grabs your hand and leads you across the street, weaving through the late-night traffic with the confidence of someone who's had just enough to drink to feel invincible. The photo booth smells like old plastic and the ghost of a thousand other people's memories. Dean fishes some crumpled bills out of his wallet and feeds them into the machine before sitting down on the small bench.
He pulls you into his lap without hesitation, and you giggle as you shift to get comfortable, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you can feel him smile against your neck.
"Silly face first," you insist, turning to look at him with exaggerated seriousness.
He laughs and leans forward to start the countdown. When the flash goes off, you're both making ridiculous faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, cheeks puffed. The second shot is more of the same, Dean making a face like a fish while you pretend to strangle him.
But by the third photo, something shifts. The silliness fades into something softer. You turn in his lap to face him, and instead of making a face, you just look at him. Really look at him. His dark eyes are warm and focused entirely on you, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"Hi," he whispers, like he's seeing you for the first time.
"Hi," you whisper back.
The flash goes off, capturing the moment—his hand still in your hair, your face tilted up toward his, the way you're looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
For the fourth and final shot, he kisses you. It's soft and unhurried, tasting like whiskey and want and something that feels dangerously close to love. Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and you kiss him back like you're trying to memorize the feeling of his mouth on yours.
When you pull apart, you're both breathing a little harder than necessary.
"That one's definitely gonna be my favorite," he murmurs against your lips.
You don't tell him that it's yours too. You don't tell him that you're starting to think maybe this—whatever this is—might be more than just two people scratching an itch. You don't tell him that you're terrified of how much you're starting to care.
Instead, you just smile and let him pull you out of the booth, your hand in his, the four photos clutched in your other hand like they're the most precious thing in the world.
Maybe they are.
Skin Care
Two weeks later, it's a Friday night, and Dean has come over to your apartment. He was supposed to go out with his friends tonight, but when he asked if you wanted to come, you declined. You'd had a headache all day, and you just wanted to stay in and relax without the assault of loud music and a crowded frat house.
Going out every weekend was kinda his thing, but you were like a drug that he needed his fix of, so he'd asked if he could come over. You'd said yes without hesitation—which should have been your first clue that things had shifted between you.
The hookup happened less than five minutes after he arrived, urgent and familiar, your bodies moving together like they'd been doing this for months. Because they have. But afterward, as you lay tangled in your sheets in your favorite pajama set, eating the Chinese takeout he'd ordered, something felt different. Softer. More like a date than a booty call.
Dean got up to use the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving the door open to talk to you. "This was way better than going out tonight." He says as you hear the toilet flush and the clatter of him putting the seat back down. What a gentleman.
"You're so full of shit, I know you wish you were out getting wasted on frat row with a girl on either arm," you say, rolling your eyes. That's sort of what he's notorious for, but part of you thought if that's what he wanted to do with his night, nothing was stopping him. He chose to skip out on it, to spend time with you.
He doesn't respond right away. You hear the faucet turn on before he speaks. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I preferred that to getting to see the face you make when you cum," He says teasingly, and you blush.
"Shut up," You mutter, stabbing a piece of broccoli from your takeout container. The room is quiet for a couple of minutes as you scroll through Instagram on your phone.
"Do I look like a smurf?" Dean's voice echoes from your bathroom.
You look up from your phone to see him standing in the doorway, your cooling face mask strapped to his head. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and you can't help but laugh.
"What are you doing?" you ask, setting your food aside.
"I found it in the tiny fridge," he says, motioning to your skincare fridge. "Is this like in case you get punched in the face?"
"No, you idiot," you laugh, shaking your head. "It's for depuffing. It's part of my skincare routine, but I usually just use it when I’m hungover or something."
He studies himself in the mirror with exaggerated seriousness. "Maybe I should get one of these."
"Do you want me to do my routine on you?" you ask, already reaching for your phone to snap a picture of him looking ridiculous.
"Hell yeah!"
"It'll cost you," you say with a smirk. "Another round."
He matches your smirk and crosses his arms. "As if I'd say no to that, Babydoll."
You roll your eyes at the nickname, but you're already standing up, taking his hand and leading him back to your bathroom. It's small and warm, lit by the soft glow of your vanity lights. Your products are lined up like little soldiers—serums and essences and creams in glass bottles and sleek tubes.
"Okay, first we need to take that off then we’ll use some cleanser," you say, guiding him to sit on the edge of your bathtub. You move your hands behind his head to undo the straps and gently slip it off his face. Next, you grab a washcloth and wet it with warm water before squeezing a little bit of your cleanser onto it. You rub the cloth over his face, your fingers carefully on his skin as you wipe away the suds. He watches you the entire time, his dark eyes tracking your movements like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.
"This is very intimate," he murmurs.
"Shut up," you say, but you're smiling.
You pat his face dry and start with the toner, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad. As you swipe it across his forehead, his cheekbones, his jawline, he sits perfectly still. There's something vulnerable about him like this—letting you take care of him, trusting you with his face. It's such a stark contrast to the confident hockey player who usually commands every room he enters.
"This smells like flowers," he observes as you move to the essence.
"It's rose and hyaluronic acid," you explain, gently patting the liquid into his skin. Your fingers are gentle, methodical. "It hydrates."
"You're very thorough," he says, and there's something almost tender in his voice.
You apply the serum next, then the moisturizer, your hands moving across his face with practiced ease. By the time you're done, his skin is glowing, and he looks at you with an expression that makes your chest tighten.
"Your turn," he says, reaching for your wrist.
"What? No—"
"Come on. Teach me."
So you do. He stands up and lifts you onto the counter and stands between your legs as he carefully applies each product to your face, his touch uncertain but earnest. He concentrates like he's performing surgery, his brow furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly. It's endearing and ridiculous and somehow the most intimate thing you've done together.
When he's finished, he cups your face in his hands and just looks at you for a long moment.
"What?" you ask softly.
"Nothing," he says. "You're just... really beautiful."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. This isn't what you signed up for. This domestic, tender version of Dean. This version that does your skincare with you and looks at you like you matter.
"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's go to bed."
“What about the other round I owe you?” He asks jokingly.
“Mmm, you’ll just have to pay me back in the morning.” You say, crawling into bed.
“Deal,” He says, watching you for a moment before settling into the sheets beside you. He pulls you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in him, the scent of your skincare products mingling between you.
For the first time in four months, you don't try to convince yourself that this is just physical. You don't try to pretend that what you're feeling is anything less than real.
And that terrifies you more than anything else ever has.
Cigarettes After What?
The snow starts falling on a Tuesday night, fat flakes that stick to your apartment windows and muffle the sounds of the city below. You knew that they were calling for snow tonight, but figured it wouldn’t be much, so Dean still came over after practice. Speaking of Dean, you're too busy with Dean to notice the snow falling. His mouth on your neck, his hands everywhere, the familiar heat building between you until it peaks and breaks like a wave.
Afterward, you're lying tangled in your sheets, your skin still flushed and damp with sweat. The radiator hisses softly in the corner, filling the room with warmth that makes you feel drowsy and content. Dean's fingers trace lazy patterns on your hip—circles, figure eights, abstract shapes that make your skin tingle. You're staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath, when you notice how quiet it is outside. The usual sounds of your apartment complex—car horns, distant sirens, drunken college students—are all muted, softened by something.
"It's snowing," you say, turning your head to look at the window. The flakes are coming down thick and fast now, blanketing everything in white. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the falling snow, making it look almost magical.
Dean props himself up on one elbow to look, his hair messy from your fingers, his lips still swollen from kissing. "Shit. That's a lot of snow."
You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. "Winter storm warning. They're saying twelve to eighteen inches. Possibly more."
"Guess I'm stuck here," he says, and there's something in his voice—not disappointment, but something softer. Relief, maybe. Hope.
"Guess so," you murmur, setting your phone down beside you.
You should feel trapped. Anxious. The walls should feel like they're closing in. Instead, you feel something dangerously close to contentment. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.
Dean settles back against your pillows, pulling you closer so your head rests on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "Put on some music," he suggests, his fingers playing with your hair.
You scroll through your phone with one hand, and without really thinking about it, you pull up Cigarettes After Sex. The opening notes of "K." fill the room, dreamy and atmospheric, all reverb and longing. Dean makes a soft sound of approval, his chest rumbling under your ear.
"Good choice," he says. "I love this band."
"You know them?"
"Babydoll, I'm not a complete Neanderthal," he teases. "I have taste."
You smile against his skin. "Could've fooled me."
He pinches your side gently, and you squirm, laughing. The song shifts to "Affection," and you lie there for a while, listening to the music, watching the snow fall through the window. Dean's hand finds yours under the covers, his fingers lacing through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you've been doing this for years instead of months. His thumb strokes across your knuckles, back and forth, a soothing rhythm that matches the music.
The weight of his hand in yours feels significant somehow. More intimate than sex. More real.
"I need a cigarette," you say eventually, even though you only smoke when you're drunk or stressed or feeling something too big to name. Right now, you're definitely feeling the latter two.
"Me too," Dean says quietly.
You extract yourself from the warmth of the bed reluctantly, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You pull on his hoodie—it smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and a pair of sweatpants. Dean tugs on his boxers and t-shirt, not bothering to look around your bedroom floor for his pants. The apartment is warm from the radiator, but you grab a blanket anyway, wrapping it around your shoulders as you unlock the sliding door to your small balcony.
The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean and shocking after the warmth inside. Your breath comes out in white puffs. Snow has already accumulated on the railing, on the small bistro table you never use, on the two chairs you bought at a yard sale and never sit in. You brush the snow off the railing, the cold biting at your fingers, and lean against it. Dean stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through the blanket.
The city looks different in the snow. Softer. Quieter. Almost peaceful.
You light two cigarettes with shaking fingers—from the cold or nerves, you're not sure—and pass one to him. The smoke curls up into the falling snow, disappearing into the white. You take a drag and feel the familiar burn in your lungs, the slight head rush that comes with it.
"It's beautiful," you say quietly, watching the snow fall. It's hypnotic, the way the flakes spiral and dance in the wind.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you glance at him, he's looking at you, not the snow. His dark eyes are intense, searching your face like he's trying to memorize every detail.
Your heart does that complicated thing again. That flutter and squeeze that you've been trying to ignore for weeks.
He looks away, takes a drag of his cigarette. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things. You can feel the tension building, the weight of everything you've both been avoiding.
"Can I ask you something?" he says after a moment, his voice careful.
"Sure."
He's quiet for a long moment, like he's gathering courage. "What are we doing?"
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy and inevitable. You take a drag of your cigarette, buying yourself time. Your heart is hammering now, your palms sweating despite the cold.
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, Babydoll," he says, and his voice is gentle but firm. "You know what I mean."
You do. You've known for weeks now, maybe longer. You've just been too scared to acknowledge it. Too scared to put words to the thing that's been growing between you, taking root in the spaces between hookups and late-night conversations and domestic moments that feel too real.
"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.
Dean turns to face you fully, and you can see the frustration and fear and hope warring in his expression. "I do," he says. "I know exactly what we're doing. At least, I know what I'm doing."
You can't look at him. You stare at the glowing end of your cigarette instead, watching the ash build. "Dean—"
"I'm falling for you," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for too long. "Hell, I think I've been falling for you since freshman year, since that first party when you told me you actually liked hockey and weren't just there for the players. But especially these last few months. Every time I'm with you, every time I leave, it gets harder. And I know that's not what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual, just hooking up, no strings. But I can't keep pretending this is just sex."
Your breath catches. The cigarette trembles slightly in your hand, ash falling onto the snow-covered balcony floor.
"Dean—"
"You don't have to say anything," he continues, and now there's desperation in his voice. Vulnerability that you've never heard from him before. "I just needed you to know. Because I can't keep doing this if it's only physical for you. If I’m just your rebound. I can't keep showing up here and pretending I don't want more. It's killing me."
The vulnerability in his voice breaks something open in your chest. This is Dean Di Laurentis, the guy who's had half the campus in his bed, the confident hockey star who never seems rattled by anything. The guy who walks into parties like he owns them, who scores goals and makes it look effortless, who's never met a challenge he couldn't charm his way through.
And he's standing on your balcony in the middle of a snowstorm, half-dressed and shivering, telling you he's falling for you. Telling you it's killing him.
You take another drag of your cigarette, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.
"Say something," he says quietly. "Please."
"I don't know what to say," you whisper.
"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth. If this is just physical for you, if I'm just another hookup, tell me. I'll deal with it. But I need to know."
You look at him then, really look at him. His dark eyes are pleading, his jaw tight with tension. Snow is catching in his hair, on his bare shoulders, melting against his warm skin. He looks vulnerable and terrified and so goddamn beautiful it makes your chest ache.
"It's not just physical for me either," you whisper.
He goes very still. "What?"
"I'm scared," you admit, and now the words are tumbling out, unstoppable. "I'm terrified, actually. Because I just got out of a year and a half long relationship and I told myself I wouldn't do this. When you started showing up for coffee on Tuesdays again and then the library and texting me after your games… I told myself I wouldn't fall for you. You were supposed to be the guy I said no to. The player, the hockey star who goes through girls like they're disposable. I wasn't supposed to be one of them."
"You're not—"
"But somewhere between the car at Malone's and the photo booth and you doing my skincare routine with me, I did. I fell for you. And I don't know how to unfeel it. I don't know how to go back to not caring."
Dean's face transforms. The fear melts away, replaced by something that looks like wonder. He sets his cigarette on the railing with shaking hands and steps closer, cupping your face in his palms. His hands are cold from the air, but his touch is gentle, reverent. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears you didn't realize were falling.
"Then don't," he says simply. "Don't unfeel it. Don't go back. Just... let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this."
"What if you break my heart?" you ask, and your voice cracks on the last word. "What if this is just new and exciting for you? Like you’re just riding a high after the chase and in a few weeks you get bored and move on to someone else?"
"What if you break mine?" he counters. "What if I give you everything and you decide I'm not worth it? We're both taking a risk here, Babyl. But I think you're worth it. I know you are."
The snow falls around you, soft and silent, accumulating on the balcony floor, on the railing, on both of you. You're shivering now, from cold and emotion and the weight of this moment.
"I've never felt like this before," Dean continues, his voice raw. "I've been with other girls, yeah. But it was never... it never meant anything. It was just physical. Just fun. But with you, it's different. Everything's different. I think about you all the time. When I'm at practice, when I'm with the guys, when I'm supposed to be studying. I think about the way you laugh at my stupid jokes and the way you look when you're concentrating on something and the way you feel in my arms. I think about how you actually watch the games, how you know the plays, how you yell at the refs. I think about how you let me do your skincare routine and how you look in my t-shirt and how you make me want to be better."
Your breath hitches. "Dean—"
"I'm in love with you," he says, and the words hang in the air between you, crystalline and perfect. "I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified too. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe without you."
The snow falls around you, soft and silent, as you look up at him. His eyes are so dark, so earnest. You can see your reflection in them, can see the hope and fear mirrored back at you.
"Okay," you breathe.
"Okay?"
"Okay. No more trying to unfeel."
Dean's smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. And then he's kissing you, deep and slow and full of promise. You taste smoke and snow and something that feels dangerously like forever. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tangling in it, pulling you closer. You drop your cigarette, forgotten, and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him despite the cold.
The kiss is different from all the others. It's not urgent or desperate or fueled by alcohol and lust. It's tender and deliberate and full of meaning. It's a promise and a confession and a beginning all at once.
When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your hearts racing. Snow has accumulated on both of you, melting where your bodies press together.
"We should go inside," you say, but you don't move.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he doesn't move either. He just looks at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You're shivering."
"So are you."
"Don't care," he murmurs, and kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.
When you finally do go inside, the warmth of the apartment is almost overwhelming. You slide the door closed behind you, shutting out the cold and the snow and the rest of the world. Dean pulls you close, wrapping the blanket around both of you, and you stand there in the middle of your living room, just holding each other.
"So what does this make us?" you ask against his chest.
"Whatever you want," Dean says, his chin resting on top of your head. "But I'd really like to call you my girlfriend."
Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too big for your chest. "I'd like that too."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face again. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, and you think that maybe falling isn't so scary after all. Not when someone's there to catch you. Not when that someone is Dean Di Laurentis, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
The music is still playing from the speaker in your bedroom—"Apocalypse" now, all haunting vocals and dreamy guitar. The snow is still falling outside, blanketing the city in white. And you're standing in your apartment with Dean, officially his girlfriend, feeling like everything has shifted into place.
"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's get back in bed. I'm freezing."
"Best idea you've had all night," he says with a grin, and lets you lead him back to your bedroom.
You climb under the covers together, and he pulls you against him immediately, his arms wrapping around you, his legs tangling with yours. You're both still cold from the balcony, but you warm each other, body heat building between you.
"I can't believe you're my girlfriend," Dean murmurs against your hair.
"I can't believe you're my boyfriend," you reply. "Four months ago, I would've laughed if someone told me this would happen."
"Four months ago, I was already planning how to make it happen," he admits. "I just had to be patient."
You tilt your head back to look at him. "Patient? You?"
"For you? Yeah." He kisses your forehead. "You're worth waiting for."
Your heart does that complicated thing again, but this time it doesn't scare you. This time, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, trapping you together in your small apartment. But you don't feel trapped. You feel safe. Warm. Loved.
And for the first time in four months, you're not afraid of what comes next.
a/n: so sorry for taking a couple of days to upload this, i wanted to make sure it was perfect!! this is my longest project to date and i'm so proud of it i love them sm. 💗.
summary: in which an on-ice accident brings fifteen years of hidden feelings to light in a boston hospital room
Hockey was a dangerous sport. Dean knew that, and he still chose to play. He skated his way through elementary school, high school and now college.
Most people believed his trips outside at night were to the rink, that hockey was what calmed him down when he couldn’t sleep, or when he had too much on his mind and the world felt too loud. But hockey wasn’t what served that purpose, it was you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
15 years ago
You and Dean met at age seven, in New York city. Both of your families had penthouses in the same building, which caused you to run into each other often.
Your friendship bloomed during a Christmas dinner that same year. Mother had instructed you to buy a lengthy list of products at the bodega next to the complex, and Dean’s mother had done the same.
The two of you bumped into each other and got the grocery lists mixed up, causing you to buy the wrong ingredients for your families. When your mother realized what had happened, she went to Dean’s family flat in hopes of sorting things out.
Instead of simply exchanging the products and leaving, Dean’s mother and her decided to host the dinner together, immediately clicking. That night, they both spent their time chatting while you two snuck out of the room, and went someplace else.
“How many drinks in do you think they are?” he asked you, moving the horse on the board and killing one of your bishops.
“I’d say about halfway through the second bottle, knowing my mother,” you answered, a huff coming out of both of your mouths.
“Check,” he announced.
“Not so fast, Di Laurentis,” you countered, bringing your queen to trap his king to the edge of the board. “Checkmate.”
He saw it, your king would deliver the final blow, and he’d lost. For the first time, Dean Di Laurentis had been beaten by someone at chess.
Despite being annoyed at himself for not predicting your move, he was glad to see your mouth shape into a grin, even if you bragged about the win for the following week.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
7 years ago
After that night, you and Dean declared that you were to be friends. Not just friends– best friends. So, even as the years passed, you two remained constants in each other’s lives. He told you everything, and you did the same.
New York was your city, the space where you could just be the two of you. No outside pressure, no drama, and no complications. Christmases evolved into spring breaks and summer breaks as soon as you two had the power to decide where you wanted to go, which was around the start of high school, due to the lack of attention you received from your parents.
Whenever people wondered if distance put a strain on your relationship, you both laughed. One of the best parts of being reckless teenagers was that you often took trains to see each other, stealing the apartment keys from your parents and spending weekends in the flats, switching penthouses every night.
“Mine or yours tonight?” Dean asked you, putting the tray of blueberry muffin batter in the oven’s middle rack.
“We did yesterday here, so switching it up would be nice, don’t you think? Plus, I think my mom left some of her good liquor over there,” you giggled, raising your brows and smiling.
“Would you look at that? Her first good act of the decade,” he laughed.
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll bring our bags over there then. Should we go buy chips from the bodega or something?” he inquired, after opening the snack cabinet and seeing there weren’t any left.
“Sure, but why don’t we go on a dinner picnic to prospect park or something, that’d be cool,” you suggested, putting the remaining dirty baking dishes in the dishwasher.
“You are a genius, pretty girl, let’s go,” he said, grinning and placing a kiss to the top of your head.
“The muffins, idiot!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
This fall
Dean called you after every important thing in his life, because you were the most important person in it. Even if you two fought, which you didn’t do very often, you found your way back to each other, back to New York.
Ever since you started college, you two saw each other often. With you studying at Harvard and him studying at Briar, the distance that separated you was smaller.
That was why you’d showed up to every single game the Hawks played since the start of college. The boys often wondered who that girl in the opposing team’s stand wearing a Di Laurentis jersey that looked like it was years old was. They knew of you, but they’d never actually met you.
God, Dean never shut his mouth up when it came to you.
“Y’know, G, she would have never mixed my white laundry with my colors,” Dean said, observing the disaster Garrett had created.
“You will never shut up about her, won’t you?” Garrett asked him, and Dean shook his head.
“How do we know she’s even real? You talk about her like she’s an angel who fell from the sky,” Logan added.
Beau was quick to offer a response. “Oh, she’s very real. If you met her, you would think the same thing. Except Dean’s reaction is exaggerated because he's whipped.”
“See, that’s funny, because she’s my best friend,” Dean said, denying the last thing Beau said.
“These things happen in Hannah’s romance books all the time, dude,” Garrett pointed out and all of the other boys started laughing at him.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
5 years ago
“My mom wants us to move to this really big but ugly house in Winchester, which is unfortunately very far away from where we live now, as you may have noticed,” you told Dean, turning around on the king bed to face him, the New York skyline illuminating your face.
“You don’t seem sad at all,” he mentioned, facing you as well.
“That’s because Winchester is way closer to the city, and closer to Connecticut, than where we are now. And that’s what matters,” you said.
“Does this mean we can make New York a monthly thing or?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“This means we can come every two weeks,” you said, a big grin plastered on your face.
Dean pulled you close to him on the king bed and, in an attempt to hug you, ended up rolling both of you off the bed.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Present day
Finals week had been eating you alive. It was always bad, but this semester had been especially tough, due to your classes being graduate-level electives.
You told Dean that you wouldn’t be able to attend the week’s game through FaceTime, and he wasn’t even mad. Dean could sometimes act very immature-like, but that never happened with you. He understood you needed to prioritize your studies. Plus, you’d been to every single game since Freshman year.
That particular game was against an especially aggressive team, but the Hawks knew what to do. They had practiced drills to evade certain attacks over and over again, and they were more than prepared. Or so they thought.
The opponents had turned out to be even worse than the team had expected, throwing illegal punches left and right, but Dean managed to stay away from the ones he deemed to be the most violent for the better part of the game.
But when he saw a clear goal opportunity, he took it. Because he was Dean goddamn Di Laurentis, and he wasn’t scared of a couple state university players who had to throw everyone on the floor just to gain control of the puck.
Skating quickly through the ice, Dean was too focused on what was ahead that he missed the player coming up behind him.
Suddenly, he was on the floor, his ears ringing and his eyes unable to open.
“Call her,” he said, unaware of the fact that nobody could hear his whispers.
When everything went to black, the only thing on his mind was you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
13 years ago
“Dean, you’re going to get yourself killed!” you yelled at him as he skated through Wollman rink with astounding speed.
“I got it, pretty girl!” he yelled back from the rink, grinning at you.
After being bribed with hot cocoa, you agreed to go with Dean to the ice rink so he could practice his skating. He’d become obsessed about hockey, and even though he’d always loved the sport, you’d never seen him this dedicated.
“If you’ve got it, push harder, come on! We don’t want you slacking, Di Laurentis,” you joked, moving your hand in circles.
“On it,” he echoed, speeding over to where you were from the other side.
“Y’know, it wouldn’t hurt you to try,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Just so you can check me into the boards and write it off as ‘practice’? No thank you, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“That was one time!”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!”
“I’ll convert you one day, you’ll see,” he determined, making you roll your eyes sarcastically.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Present day
The call came in at seven pm. You wondered why the local Boston hospital was calling you, but picked up nonetheless.
“Hello ma’am, this is Dr. Abbott, we have you listed as Dean Di Laurentis’ emergency contact. Is this information correct?” the doctor asked, and your heart sank.
Dean. The hospital. A game.
“Yes, that’s right,” you responded, standing up from your chair and going to fetch one of your coats.
“We regret to inform you that we have Dean over in our emergency department”
A pit formed in your stomach. The emergency department.
“He has been seriously injured and we request your assistance to the hospital to discuss things further”
“Is he awake?” you inquired, barely able to hold tears back.
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” said the doctor.
“’ll be there in thirty minutes”
After hanging up, you grabbed your keys and raced outside the house. The clothes you were wearing didn’t even cross your mind, for it was far too busy shifting through the possible injuries that could land Dean in the ER.
Running down the stairs of your apartment building, another name appeared on your screen, calling you.
Beau beep 🌾
You slid your finger through the cold screen, answering the call as fast as you could. Beau’s face popped up on the screen, and you felt a tiny sense of relief once you saw he was already in the hospital.
“I assume they’ve called you already,” he said when he noticed that the oversized hockey jersey you were wearing, which was obviously Dean’s, sat under a big coat.
“Yeah, they have. Who’s there already?” you wondered, finally reaching the lobby.
Beau answered, but all sound felt muffled as you ran towards your car, rushing to get inside and be on your way to the hospital.
Memories flooded your brain as you pressed your body to the car seat, which only made you want to get to Dean more.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
6 years ago
It was the last game of sophomore year, and you had taken a three and a half hour train to surprise Dean inside of the rink. Suited up in your Di Laurentis jersey, you waited for twenty more minutes until the players came into the ice.
As soon as he spotted you leaning next to the box, he dropped his stick and ran to hug you, ignoring the comments he got from his coach and teammates.
“What are you doing here, pretty girl?” he asked, a wide smile crowding his face.
“I wanted to surprise you today. You kept mentioning how excited you were for this game, and I decided to buy a train ticket over,” you replied, mirroring his own smile.
“Does your mom know you’re here?” his tone shifted, not concerned, just curious.
“We’ve been approved for a three day sleepover,” you reassured.
“Di Laurentis, get into the rink!” his coach yelled, beckoning him inside.
“Go get ‘em, Dean,” you told him, tapping the spot in his jersey that was over his heart.
The game was going very well, Dean’s team leading by five goals. The crowd was cheering like crazy, screams echoing throughout the rink. Then came gasps, followed by a thick wave of silence.
Dean had been knocked onto the floor with an insane amount of force, leaving him unresponsive.
You ran from your spot in the stands to where they were carrying him out of the rink faster than the speed of light, pushing people off your way if you needed to.
“Excuse me, young lady, you can’t be here. We’re escorting him to the hospital,” said the team medic.
“I’m family,” you stated, standing your ground.
After a moment of hesitation, the medic nodded and allowed you to go with the rest of the personnel. They placed Dean on a gurney inside an ambulance, and you interlocked your fingers with his during the journey to the hospital.
You were terrified.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Present day
The feeling of terror inside you wasn’t any different this time. A cloud of dread rested above you on your way to the hospital, during which you’d remained on call with Beau.
“What happened?” you asked him once your mind was as clear as it would get.
“He lost consciousness after getting checked into the boards. The doc said he had a pretty severe concussion and the usual hockey injuries, but they put him into observation because his breathing was odd” Beau replied, trying to keep his tone as steady as possible to alarm you as little as he could.
You didn’t know what to say. You just kept driving, your eyes on the road, your mind on Dean.
“You know he’ll go on and on about how you’re his lucky charm and that’s the reason why he got hurt, right?” Beau joked, getting a small laugh out of you.
“I can already hear him say it,” you said, the corners of your mouth turning up.
Parking in the hospital lot took less time than expected, so you headed out of the car with shaky hands and stood in front of the automated doors of the ER, which allowed you to enter.
Bright LED lights blazed into your eyes, and the sharp smell of sterile cleaning products, iodine and latex gloves penetrated your nostrils. Nurses rushed up and down the hallways, their hands busy at all times. The place was filled with despair and hope overlapping with one another, infinite possibilities streaming out of every patient.
The woman at reception shot you a pitiful look before setting the mug on her hand down and focusing her full attention onto you.
“Who are you here for, sweetheart?” she kindly asked, turning to type your response into the database.
“Di Laurentis, Dean,” you responded, fiddling with the charmed bracelet on your right hand.
“He’s in the observation unit at the end of the hall. There’s a crowd of people outside, so you’ll see it,” she remarked, making you huff.
Despite never having met them, you had a pretty good idea of who the people may be. Dean had told you all about his friends from Briar. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, Hannah and Allie.
So, you had a pretty good idea of which group they were when you spotted them. Beau was also there with them, and his expression fully shifted when he saw you. Relief spread through his features, and he came over to give you a hug.
“They wouldn’t let us see him because we’re too many and not his–”
“Emergency contacts,” you finished the sentence for him, hugging him back.
Handing your coat over to him, you looked for the nearest nurse to notify her of your appearance and ask her to let you into the room.
“Is that..?” Logan asked Beau, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, she is,” Beau responded, sitting down on a chair.
“That isn’t Dean’s Briar Hockey jersey,” Hannah pointed out, observing the details of the embroidered 66 on your back.
“It was his senior night jersey, Dean gave it to her so he could spot her at games in college,” Beau explained, mentally preparing himself to answer the flood of questions that he was sure would come.
Before any of them could ask anything else, you came back with a nurse, room keys in hand.
“Nice to meet you all, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ll be right back,” you stated in a poor attempt to hide the shaky tone in your voice.
All of the fear slowly melted away when you saw Dean laid down on the hospital bed, and you let out a breath you didn’t even realise you were holding.
You stepped into the room and immediately sat on the chair next to his bed, lacing his uninjured fingers with yours.
Suddenly, a rough, gravelly voice laced with painkillers spoke for the first time. “I know I’m handsome, but your gaze will burn through my face if you keep staring at me like that”
A bruise was starting to form on his jaw, and his hair was messy. His eyes, red from the painkillers the medical staff had given him, were entirely focused on you.
“You idiot. You absolute, utter, stubborn idiot!” you exclaimed, your voice catching in your throat as you heard his own. You knew you couldn’t stay mad at him for long, you’d never been able to.
Despite your tone, he simply smiled, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of your hand. The asshole was soothing you while he was getting lectured.
“Missed you in the stands today. I didn’t have anyone to look at after scoring, it was kind of pointless,” he said, the corners of his lip tugging at his stitches, and he winced slightly at the feeling.
“Do not joke right now, Di Laurentis. A doctor and Beau called me from the hospital–” your voice broke, tears threatening to spill from your eyes, “they said you got checked, hard, and you weren’t responding. They said your breathing was off.”
“Hey,” he squeezed your hand and pulled on your sleeve, waiting for you to get closer to him. “C’mere”
Once you moved the chair as close to the hospital bed as you could, Dean’s good hand came up to wipe one of the slow tears that had come out of your eyes.
“I’m okay, pretty girl,” he reassured, interlocking his fingers with yours again. His fingers grazed your knuckles, softer than usual. “I’m here, I’m okay”
Despite being in pain, Dean’s only preoccupation was to make the tears in your face disappear, because if he was asked to name the thing that he disliked most in the world, his answer would be seeing you hurt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
2 years ago
The doorbell in Dean’s New York apartment rang, and Dean raced downstairs, expecting to encounter one of the packages he’d ordered. However, when he opened the door, he saw you.
Clothes soaked, sobs shutting the sound of heavy rain out from the apartment. Without asking, he pulled you flush to him.
“You’re okay. You’re with me,” his voice and warmth grounded you, reminding you that you were safe because you were with him.
Dean ran his hands through your wet hair until your breathing evened out and you were ready to talk. “I trusted my mom when she said she’d changed, when she asked me to go down to their place for thanksgiving. But when I got there, she was only nice for twenty minutes. Then, she started screaming at me and telling me just how much of a failure I was and how she regretted me all together”
“She was drunk, wasn’t she?” he asked, looking down at you with eyes full of understanding.
You gave him a small nod, and he sighed in defeat. He’d known your mom as long as he’d known you, and there had always been a bottle of some sort alongside her, as a mandatory accessory. After your gesture, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you two stood enveloped in each other in silence for quite some time.
There was nothing he hated more than seeing you suffer, whether that may be physical or mental. A close second, though, was seeing you cry. The moment tears were involved, Dean just wanted to hold you and run his hands through your hair to soothe you and prove you were safe when he was alongside you. No matter what.
That night, Dean and you curled up on the couch to watch one of your comfort movies, a nightly ritual you both did before playing a couple of games of chess and then going to bed.
“What are we watching tonight, pretty girl?” he asked, arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him.
“Will you cry again if I put The Notebook on?” you questioned, scrunching your nose up at him.
“You know I will,” he affirmed, a raspy laugh coming out of his throat.
“That is not very d1 hockey player and fraternity brother of you, Di Laurentis,” you teased, poking his side to get control of the remote.
“There you are, thought you’d vanished on me”
“I could never vanish if you’re with me, you know that,” your voice grew quieter, more serious.
“And you know that I’m not the way you described while I’m with you,” his tone matched yours as his hand traced lazy patterns on your shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re yourself here,” you deadpanned, and Dean didn’t even dare deny it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
3 years ago
Nobody had warned you and Dean about how nostalgic you would feel right before going off to college on your own.
You and Dean had picked Harvard and Briar to be closer together than you’d ever been while not being in New York, but you couldn’t deny that you wished college wouldn’t stop you from driving out to the city every other week.
It was your last night in the city before officially becoming college students, and you were both more scared than you’d let on. So, logically, you’d decided to go out and get pizza at the 24-hour pizza joint you had next door.
“Should we dress up or just go like this?” you thought out loud, looking down at the oversized hoodie you were wearing, which you’d stolen from Dean.
“It’s 2 AM, no one will see us on the street,” he said, snorting at your comment.
The walk to the pizza place was filled with laughs and memories, recalling the times where you’d showed up to his school and he’d showed up to yours, sometimes unannounced but never less welcome.
Once you reached the joint, Dean went ahead and ordered both of your pizzas without asking. He knew your order off the top of his head.
Emilio, the man at the register, smiled at the sight of you and Dean, unable to contain his happiness. He’d seen you two grow up and change together, and the way you two enchanted him was visible in his face every time you stepped into his shop late at night.
“Don’t stop coming by during holidays, kids! I’ll be expecting you this Christmas,” Emilio said as he handed you two your pizzas.
“We’ll never stop coming here, Emilio,” You told the man and glanced at Dean, who was nodding.
“Not when you make the best pizzas in New York,” Dean said, his mouth beginning to water.
You and Dean ate your pizzas, sharing half of yours with the other person. The only thing left to do was walk back home.
Even if the joint was just a couple of blocks from your apartments, it was easy to get distracted while walking around the city, especially if you were with Dean. Walking backwards while eating a slice of pizza, you didn’t notice you were about to fall into a puddle.
Dean grabbed you by the collar of your hood and pulled you flush to him, preventing your fall. Suddenly, the air felt like it had thickened up, partially because of how Dean was looking at you. He was studying your face like it was his favorite subject and he never wanted to stop learning.
Dean’s hand moved to the nape of your neck and he opened his mouth to say something, your heart racing. Just when he was about to say it, a speeding taxi passed by next to you, shutting Dean up.
“I’m gonna miss messing with you, pretty girl,” he said, moving you to his side by your waist and then letting you go.
The tone in his voice was filled with things unsaid, things you were too scared to put out into the air. Because once they were out there, they couldn’t be reeled back in.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Present day
“You scared the shit out of me, Dean,” you whispered, staring at the boy you had known forever, the one who had been with you through everything, who you knew would never let you go.
The knot in your throat did not seem to want to loosen unless you spoke and mentioned what was truly on your mind, what you’d longed to say to him ever since you saw the hospital was calling you.
“For a second, I wondered what would happen if you didn’t make it, what my life would look like without you in it. And I didn’t like it one bit. Because I don’t know who I am without you, Dean. Without you, I’m half of myself, you took the rest the moment we met, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, Dean. I think I always have”
Dean’s eyes were locked into yours, his breathing heavy and uneven. With your words, you’d completely shattered his facade, leaving him unfiltered.
“When everything went black, death didn’t scare me. The only thing on my mind was you. Because if I left it all behind then, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how I’ve felt all of these years,” he said, and your eyebrows furrowed out of instinct.
“You think I’ve been looking at you like this for fifteen years just because you’re my best friend? No, pretty girl, it’s because you’re my entire world. It’s always been you, ever since we played that damn chess game during Christmas break. I love you too”
The two of you let out a small laugh at the same time, one of the tiny habits you’d picked up from each other over the years.
“Now come closer, if the nurses see me leaning in to kiss you, I might not make it out of this hospital after all,” he joked, making your face shift into a grin.
Careful of the beeping monitor beside you, and the wires attached to him, you closed the remaining distance between the two of you. His good hand escaped your grasp to settle on your jaw, and your own hands moved to the nape of his neck, fiddling with the blond hair that was there.
The atmosphere didn’t completely change, it simply revealed what it had truly been all along. It was a reminder that all of the stolen glances, the gentle touches and the quiet nights filled with charged silence hadn’t been for nothing.
Dean’s breath caught in his throat the moment your lips grazed his, and he couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Tentatively, he pressed your lips to his, tangling you in a kiss. It was hesitant at first, as if he couldn’t believe this wasn’t just one of his dreams, as if he wasn’t sure if you were even real.
After letting out a sigh of relief, he kissed you like the world owed him something for keeping you away from him for so long, like it came as natural to him as breathing, like he never wanted to let your lips split from his ever again.
When you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his, you two kept your eyes closed for a few seconds. He opened his before you did, so you caught him looking at you like you’d just fulfilled his biggest dreams with a kiss.
“So, does this mean you’re officially my girl now?” he whispered, his signature grin finally appearing on his face.
“I’ve been your girl for a while, Di Laurentis”
By the time you’d finished that sentence, Dean was already tugging you closer to him with his good hand to kiss you again, which made you giggle. Both of you had been waiting for this moment for a long time, and you wanted to make the most of it.
Suddenly, there was a creak at the door.
“D, we come bearing gi– What the fuck!” yelled Logan, almost dropping the things he’d brought over from the vending machine.
Garret came into the room and just stared at you two, flushed faces and intertwined hands. His face was a completely blank look, jaw hung ajar.
You cleared your throat, running a hand through your messy hair and moving to stand next to Dean.
“What’s going on in there, G?” asked Beau from the door, making his way in. Once he saw your joined hands, messy hair, and the grin on Dean’s face, he quickly put the pieces together.
“Fuck yeah, D! Finally! Took you long enough, idiots,” Beau said, beginning to clap.
“The rest of you do not understand what a pain all of these years have been. I’ve had to wait since high school. This is such a big moment for me,” he continued, his face shifting onto a smirk.
Tucker, hearing the commotion that was coming from inside, also decided to step in. “So this is pretty girl, huh? Nice to meet you too”
The boys laughed, but the flush on your face only deepened.
“Guys, you’re ruining a moment!” yelled Hannah and Allie in unison from behind the boys.
“Okay, okay, we’ll leave the two lovebirds be,” Logan replied, shooting Dean a knowing smile before leaving the room.
The Hawks and Beau walked out, leaving you and Dean alone again. Beau’s cheers were audible, and he was telling every member of the group the story of your lives.
Dean pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, and then looked at you again. It was the same look he’d been giving you since you were kids, but you saw it under a different lens now.
His fingers, still interlocked with yours, traced patterns on the back of your hand. “Y’know, the second I get let out of here, we’re going straight to the city again”
“Are you feeling homesick, Di Laurentis?” you teased. The smile that cracked through your lips broke your act, though.
“If you’re with me, I’ll never feel homesick,” he retorted, leaving you puzzled.
“New York’s not my home, pretty girl. You are”
i'm making a dean taglist (finally) so lmk in my inbox (or in the comments) if u wanna be added!!
in which neither you or dean are brave enough to admit what you both feel... until everything boils over and it all comes out
PAIRINGS: dean heyward-di laurentis x fem!reader
WARNINGS: arguing, jealous!dean, rage-baiter!dean, miscommunication, found family trope to the max, chaos galore, angst but also fluff, banter galore, allusion to nsfw, they're idiots in love, your honor!!
WORD COUNT: 5.2k
🎶 : dear god - tate mcrae
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - oh dean, i love you so. they're both such cowards and it's so fun to write them dancing around their feelings. this fic can be read as a stand-alone BUT it is a part two to a drabble i recently wrote (click here to read it). PLEASE ENJOY!!
Spring 2024, Sig Tau House
You’d been playing eye tag all night.
With who? You didn’t even know. He was hot, blonde, tall, and exuded confidence. At first, you hadn’t thought he was making eyes at you, not when Allie was beside you the entire time. But then Allie wasn’t by your side, and he was still staring with that insanely intense look in his eye. You were hooked. He’d yet to come over, something that you’d been silently disappointed about the entire three hours you’d been there.
Allie nudged your side, clinging to Sean’s arm for stability. “What’s got your smile upside down, sweet cheeks?”
“Sweet cheeks?” You raised a brow.
“You have sweet cheeks.” She said it like it was a fact. “God forbid I love my friends.”
“Alright babe.” Sean muttered. “You’re really drunk right now. Maybe we should go home.”
“I’m fine.” Allie argued. “You always do this, you know. You act like I’m some inconvenience.”
“That’s not-”
You cut in, scared that he would start something he did not want to finish. And you wouldn’t stop Allie if she started cussing him out. In fact, you’d happily join in. They’d been on and off again for a year now, and you couldn’t form a solid opinion on him. (If you were being honest with yourself, it was leaning toward the negative side of things). “I love you too, pookums.”
“Am I interrupting?”
You looked over your shoulder, blood rushing to your cheeks. It was him, the tall hot blonde. “Not at all.”
“I have to tell you something.” He looked so handsome it made your heart hurt. “Something deadly serious.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Is this something top secret?”
He shook his head. “I feel like it’s a relatively well known fact.”
“Well then.” You laughed. “Please enlighten the class.”
“You’re beautiful.” You were right, he was confident. You choked on your drink, and Allie gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “That’s the something.”
You cough, placing a hand on your chest to calm yourself down. “You’re pretty forward.”
“Believe it or not,” He leaned forward like this was something he wanted only you to know. “I’ve been working up the courage to tell you all night.”
You raised a brow. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know.” Your stomach flipped as you looked at him, really looked at him. He had dimples, a scar under his left eyebrow, and the faintest freckles you’d ever seen. So faint, that they were almost invisible. “We just met. I don’t even know your name.”
“Let’s fix that.” He whispered in your ear. “I’m Dean.” He was trying to kill you. You gulped, whispering your name in return. He leaned back, eyes full of something dangerous that you didn’t really want to address right now. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Do you always flirt this much with strangers?”
“I do. But I wouldn’t call us strangers.”
Allie was now gawking. “Holy shit, he’s got game.”
Dean smirked, Allie’s comment going straight to his head. “Do you want to grab a drink?”
“Yes.” You nodded. “Yes I do.”
You never got that drink. Not that you were complaining. As soon as you entered the kitchen, Dean lifted you onto the counter and slammed his lips against yours.
Somehow, in all the chaos, he’d led you to his bedroom. “God, you’re perfect.”
“You’re a flatterer.” Your voice sounded breathless. (It was.) “Do you always talk this much when you’re making out with someone?”
“No.” He could honestly say that he wasn’t lying. Something about you made him deeply nervous. It must be the total sense of contentment you made him feel. For someone who needs to be constantly distracted, being so enamored to the point of stillness makes him almost uncomfortable. He decides he’s thinking way too much for a casual hookup, and deepens the kiss. “You’re different.”
“Oh?” God, your voice is addicting, and your touch even more so. Your hands are wrapped around his neck, your fingers tugging ever so slightly at the hairs laying on the nape of his neck. “How so?”
He shrugs, even though he knows exactly how so. Much too soon to say shit like that, he reminds himself. “I’ll find out soon enough.” His hands play with the hem of your shirt, and your at ease nature disappears. You immediately tense up, and he pulls back, eyes worriedly scanning your face. “Is everything okay, babydoll?”
“I-” You sit up, and he can’t help but follow you. “I don’t do this.”
“This?”
“I don’t do casual sex.” You say it like it’s embarrassing.
“Respect.” He replies like he doesn’t care.
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
“Don’t apologize for that.” Could he get any more perfect? “Seriously, I’m fine with what we’re doing right now.”
“Are you sure?” You look so guilty it pains him.
“Hey.” His hand holds your cheek, and his heart squeezes when you actually lean into his touch. “I’m not gonna pressure you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me.” He smiles, pulling his hand away.
“Your mother must be proud of you.” Your eyes widen. Why the hell did you just say that? “That sounded weird. I just mean-”
“I’d like to say that she is.” He smirked. “Her and my father. They did the best they could.”
You smiled. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Two. One older brother and one younger sister.”
“That’s awesome.” You leaned against his pillows. His smirk softened to something you couldn’t quite place. He laid beside you, tilting his head so that his eyes stayed locked with yours. “I have a little sister too.”
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen.”
“Mine’s eighteen.”
“Has she started looking at colleges?”
And that’s how the two of you stayed until you fell asleep. Talking about anything and everything. Family, school, special interests, sports. From the outside eye, it seemed like you’d known each other for years, the way the conversation flowed. When your eyes began to droop, Dean laughed, grabbing his biggest throw blanket to cover you. “Here.”
“Thank you.” You hummed, burrowing yourself into his bed.
He could get used to this, he thought.
You were dangerous, was his next before his own eyes drooped.
This was an interesting position to be in. To be honest, you didn’t hate it.
Somewhere between when you fell asleep and now, you and Dean had curled around each other like two codependent puppies. His right arm was wrapped around your waist, and his left was just above your head.
You were facing his chest, with your left leg swung over his waist.
You’d been awake for thirty minutes, trying not to wake him up as you theorized how to get out of this the easiest. You thought he was asleep. You swore he was. He hadn’t moved in ages.
That’s why you jumped when he spoke, his voice all deep and crackly. “You sleep like a koala.”
“I’m sorry.” You winced as you began to pull away.
“Wait a second-“ He urged, tightening his grip around your waist, prohibiting you from moving. In fact, he pulled you closer to his chest than you’d been before. “I didn’t say I hated it.”
“I had fun last night.” You murmured into his chest. “You’re sweet.” He laughed, and your head darted up, glaring. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just-” He really found this funny. “No girl has ever described me as ‘sweet’ before.”
“Glad I’m the first the-” A phone dinged. Then dinged again. Then dinged four more times. “I think that’s mine.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow. “Is someone missing you?”
“Are you implying something with that little comment?” You raised a brow back.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a whole roster of men begging to date you.”
“Thank you?” You laughed. “But it’s not a man. It’s definitely Allie.” You grabbed your phone, now determined to prove him wrong. “See?” You shoved the screen in his face. “Allie.”
“I stand corrected.” His eyes fell to your lips for a moment.
Your breath hitched as he leaned in, and then you placed a hand on his chest. “I should go. She- she needs me.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes falling to your lips once more. “If you want.”
“Thanks for-” You stood up, suddenly feeling extremely embarrassed about everything you’d done. “Everything.”
“I had fun.” He said it so earnestly that you almost considered jumping back into bed and abandoning Allie. Almost.
“Me too.” You smiled, nodding. “See you.”
“See you.”
Fall 2025, Briar Hockey House
“You’re gonna love them.” Hannah’s arm is hooked through yours and Allie’s as Garrett leads the way into the house. “They’re sweet, honestly. Like hyper puppies.”
“Aren’t puppies already hyper?” You whisper.
“They’re harmless.” Garrett defends, holding the door open. “Seriously. It’ll be fun.”
“I feel like my mom and dad are bringing me to the hospital to meet my siblings.” Allie laughed.
You laughed along with her, observing the inside of the house. “That’s an oddly specific situation, Allie-Cat.”
“Guys!” Garrett called out. “Come meet the girls!”
What happens next could only be described as a hurricane of chaos. Two boys race down the stairs. They’re both tall and handsome. Muscular, too. You reason with yourself that they are in fact professional athletes, so that makes sense.
“Hi.” He sticks his hand out, a charming smile donning his face. “I’m Tucker.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The other boy had a sort of grungy charm about him. “I’m John. John Logan.”
“Ah.” You smiled. “Garrett talks about you all the time.”
“Does he?” Logan smirks. “Awww, G. You love me.”
“Shut up.” Garrett glares, shoving Logan away when he tries to hug him. “Hey! Di Laurentis!”
“Coming!” The last to be revealed yells. “One second.”
“He was in the shower.” Logan remarks. “Another long one.”
“Oh my god.” Hannah groans. “He has a problem.”
“I’m sorry that I care about hygiene.” The third boy says as he descends the stairs. Your jaw immediately drops as the most chiseled abs you’ve ever seen in your life are shoved in your face. Your eyes drag up this man’s frame, and that’s when it happens. That’s when your heart drops, and his eyes glow with something dangerous.
“YOU?” It’s a question, but you practically screech it. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” Dean is obviously having too much fun with this. “The real question is, what are you doing here?”
“Wait a minute.” Tucker interrupts. “Are we missing something?”
Allie nods. “Yeah. What’s going on? Do you two know each other?” (For context, sweet, dear, Allie blacked out that night, and does not remember anything.)
“I-” You cross your arms, glaring at Dean. Why? You don’t really know, it just seemed like the go-to reaction in your arsenal. “Knowing someone is subjective.”
“Wait-” Hannah looks what could only be described as gleeful. “Did you two-”
“No!” You yell. “No we did not.”
“Why so defensive, babydoll?” Dean’s towel is hanging dangerously low, and you can’t help it that your eyes gravitate towards him. It’s almost natural. He’s still as handsome as you remember him, and it’s hard not to jump into his arms and pull his lips to yours.
“Care to share with the class how you two know each other then?” Garrett pushes.
“Not particularly.” You grumble.
“Oh boy.” Logan mumbled. “This is going to be fun.”
Present Day (Spring 2026, Malone’s Karaoke Night)
Dean has flirted with four girls in the span of thirty minutes. Not that you’re keeping track.
“If it makes you feel any better-” Logan is trying his best to comfort you, but to no avail. “He’s off his game. Normally he flirts with two times the-”
“It does not make me feel better.” You grumble. “Not at all.”
“Alright.” He raises his hands in defeat. “This is a lost cause. I’m gonna go get a drink.”
You’ve been holding your fork like a weapon for all thirty of those minutes. Tucker laughs. “If you grip that fork any harder, you’ll bend it in half.”
“Tucker!” You snap. “What are you trying to say right now?”
“I-” He looks positively shocked, and to be fair, so do you. “Sorry?”
Hannah whispers. “That was uncalled for, babe. He’s just trying to lighten the mood.”
Garrett says nothing, scared that he will be next in your murderous rampage.
“I’m-” You set the fork down, shaking your head like you’ve just been freed from a spell. “Tucker, I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch for no reason.”
“Well-” Beau mumbles. “I wouldn’t say no reason-”
You elbow the quarterback. “I’m really sorry.” You reach out, squeezing Tucker’s hand.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I feel betrayed honestly. Hurt too, if I’m allowed to say so.” He’s really milking it.
You laugh. “Why don’t I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
“It would be a nice start.” He pretends to wipe away a fake tear as you slide out of the booth. “I’ll take a Dirty Shirley.”
“Oh my god.” Garrett’s face is red. “That’s what you’re choosing?”
“I’m sorry that your taste buds are evolved enough to enjoy a drink such as the one I have chosen.”
“Dirty Shirley.” You nod. “Got it. Be right back.”
You walk up to the bar, smiling at Allie sweetly. “Hello dear friend of mine.”
“What would you like, sweet cheeks?” That nickname unfortunately stuck.
“Two Dirty Shirley’s please.”
“That’ll be twenty dollars.” Allie sets the tap-to-pay ipad in front of you. “I’ll be right back.”
You pulled your card out, before someone else’s card pressed against the screen. Your jaw went slack as you looked up, fully expecting to see Dean’s face.
“Hi.”
A smile grew on your lips. It wasn’t Dean, but Zach, the man that Dean was trying to drive away. What perfect timing. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugged. “Gotta show you I’m still interested.”
“Yeah?” You began to twirl your hair. Holy cliche.
“Yeah.” He nodded, moving closer to you. “I miss you.”
“Aw.” You giggle. “That’s sweet.”
“I was thinking of asking you out to dinner.”
“Oh?” You grin, blood rushing to your cheeks.
“So?” His leg bounced rather aggressively, but you didn’t mind. It was sweet, how nervous he was. “Dinner this week?”
“I don’t know.” Dean. You squeeze your eyes shut as your hands squeeze into fists. “I don’t really swing that way. Thanks for asking though.”
You whip around. “Dean, respectfully, fuck off. I don’t butt into your conversations, so don’t butt into mine.”
“Here are your Dirty Shirley’s.” Allie whispers. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Thank you, Allie.” You grab them, ignoring Dean’s obnoxious face. “And to answer your question, Zach, dinner sounds great.”
“Awesome.” Zach grins. “I’ll text you.”
“Perfect.” Your smile is tight as you elbow past Dean to get back to the booth.
“C’mon baby.” You can only imagine how ridiculous it looks that the 6’2” boy is following after you like a puppy dog.
“Don’t call me that.” You hiss, passing Tucker his drink. “Your Dirty Shirley, sir.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
Beau slides out of the booth so you can get back in. He looks up at his best friend with suspicion in his eyes. “What did you do, Dean?”
“All I did was interrupt a conversation.”
“He was asking me out, you asshole.” You feel red hot rage race through your veins. “I watched you flirt with about ten girls and didn’t say anything.”
“So you were watching me?”
“Kinda hard not to.” You mutter under your breath.
“It wasn’t ten girls.” Dean tries to defend himself, but he somehow makes it worse. “And that was different.”
“Why?” You raised a brow. “Because you didn’t ask any of them out?”
“No.” He leaned against the booth, the fabric of his sleeve stretching as he crossed his arms. You fought your inner demons, reminding yourself that he was pissing you off right now, and you would be betraying yourself by lusting after him. “Because they weren’t you.”
“Dean.” You let a deep breath out. “You are officially the world’s biggest hypocrite. What you have just said doesn’t even make any logical sense.”
“What-”
“You have this horrible habit of making my heart flip. And then in the same moment, you refuse to admit that we have something. You refuse to say anything that’s actually meaningful. And I-” Tears begin to form, and you force them back. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”
“I think it’s time to get some air.” Tucker whispers. “I’m just gonna-”
“No need.” You stop him. “I am leaving. Here.” You slide Dirty Shirley over to him. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” Tucker immediately puts his straw into the glass.
“Beau.” You whisper. “I’m sorry, can you possibly-”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, no worries.” He stands up, holding your hand as you get out. “Do you need a ride home?”
“I-” Your eyes naturally drifted to Dean’s for a moment. They always did. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Tucker was right.” You smile softly. “It’s time to get some air.”
“You shouldn’t walk alone.” Dean whispers.
“And you shouldn’t make me feel like this, so.” You shrug. “Guess we’re both at a loss. Have fun with all your admirers.”
Dean waited until you left Malone’s to follow after you. He never actually approached you, always staying ten paces behind, just to be sure that you stay safe. And when you walked into your apartment building, he stood by the corner streetlight, staring into your window like a lovestruck fool.
You don’t know how Allie had convinced you to go to the hockey game, but here you were. Normally, you were the one who had to beg her: you went all out. You put face paint on, the whole nine yards. A couple months ago, Dean had given you his jersey.
Today, you were not going all out.
You did have to thank Allie though, because this game was insanely entertaining, much better than endless episodes of The Office on repeat.
It was like the entire team was perfectly in sync. Garrett was controlling the ice and guiding the team with the precision of a seasoned pro, Logan was keeping it locked down in the defense department, and Tucker had scored two out of the three team’s goals.
And Dean, oh Dean. You could tell something was bothering him, because never before had he played so aggressively in his life. Or at least, at any game you’d ever seen. He’d already been put in the penalty box twice for minor penalties, one more, and he would be out of the game for five minutes.
There he went.
“What is up with him?” You whispered. Allie and Hannah stared at you like it was obvious. You raised a brow. “What?”
“You are what’s up with him. He’s pissed at himself for being an idiot, and he’s pissed that you’re going on that date with Zachary.”
“Zach, but yeah.” You nodded. “Maybe he should have behaved rationally for once. Maybe he should have said something meaningful instead of making the whole situation a joke.”
“Maybe.” Hannah smiled. “It doesn’t hurt to talk, though.”
“We haven’t talked in three days.”
“Just check in, make sure he’s doing well.” Allie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.
“No time like the present to fix this.” Hannah turned back towards the game, and you stuck your tongue out at her. You hated how right she was, how right both of them were.
You’d been waiting outside of the locker room for thirty minutes, pacing back and forth as you watched player after player leave, all of them shooting you pitiful looks. Maybe he left super early, and you were here looking stupidly hung up on someone that didn’t even care about you.
The door swung open once more, and your heart skipped.
Logan and Tucker walked out together, followed closely by Garrett. Your heart returned to its normal pace.
Garrett stayed behind as the other boys continued down the hall. “He’s still inside.”
You smiled thankfully. “Thank god. I’ve been waiting here for an embarrassing amount of time.”
“He really likes you.” Garrett continued. “He’s just scared.”
“And stupid.” You whisper.
“And stupid.” Garrett laughs. “But he means well. I’m not trying to excuse his actions, because a lot of the stuff he’s done is super hurtful. But I also wouldn’t be doing my job as his friend if I let you think he didn’t care.”
“Thank you, Garrett.” Hannah’s wise nature was rubbing off on him. Or maybe, Garrett was just naturally wise. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you.”
You eyed the locker room suspiciously, like you were waiting for a monster to jump out from behind it at any moment. Honestly, you would rather face Cereberus right now than face your fear of being vulnerable and confessing your feelings to Dean.
Before you could take the coward’s way out, you pushed through the door. You turned the corner, frowning when you saw Dean. He looked utterly dejected as you watched him. He was sitting on the benches still in uniform with his face in his hands. “Dean?”
He visibly tensed, his voice low as he spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“I just-” He was right, what were you doing here? “I wanted to check on you. It was a rough game.”
“Well,” He stood up, his face as emotionless as you’d ever seen it. “You did it. You checked on me. Feel free to leave now.”
You squeezed your fist, trying to control your anger from bubbling up. “You’re upset.”
“Yeah, I am.” He walked closer. “I’m upset that you’re here. I thought we weren’t talking.”
“I still care about you.” You scoffed. “Friends can check on-”
“Friends?” He looked disgusted at the thought, and your stomach clenched.
“I can’t believe I actually cared that you were upset. This was such a stupid idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You are a child, that’s what that means.”
“I’m a child?” He crossed his arms, walking towards you. “Please elaborate.”
“With pleasure.” You spat out, counting out the things he does on your fingers. “You have done nothing but poke and prod at me since Garrett introduced us, you get under my skin on purpose-”
“I-”
“You interrupt me.” You gave him a pointed look. “You deliberately do and say things that you know are going to hurt me. For example, I came in here out of the goodness of my heart, and you treated me like I was no better than a random puck bunny.”
“I have never tried to hurt you on purpose.” His eyes were dark.
“Well, you do.” Your voice broke. “You do it all the time. You look at me like I hung the moon and the stars. You remember something little that I told you eons ago, you memorize my coffee order, your eyes find mine at every party just to check in. And then, in that exact moment, you start sucking some girl’s face like you didn’t make my heart clench.”
“Oh yeah?” He looked highly offended. “If we’re getting to specifics, then you must know that you hurt me way before I hurt you.”
“I did not!”
“You did.” He seemed so small for someone so large. He was towering over you, literally, but physically, he seemed unsure, hesitant to even speak. “You were embarrassed of me.”
“What?” Your heart dropped. “What are you talking about?”
“When Garrett brought you to the hockey house for the first time.” His eyes bore into yours, practically begging for you to understand what he was getting at. “Do you not-” He frowned. “You acted like you didn’t know me.”
You scoffed, voice raising in annoyance. “That’s what started all of this?”
“You lied to them!” He retorted.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey guys, Dean and I made out once two years ago!”
“Exactly!” He yelled back. You stomped your feet against the floor, stalking out of the locker room. “That was exactly what you were supposed to say!”
He raced after you, his skates echoing against the floor. Your heart involuntarily skipped, as it always did when Dean was around. “Leave me alone.”
“No way.” His voice sounded nearer than you would have liked. “Why can’t you just say it?”
“I could ask you the same question.” You whipped around, colliding into his gear. His hands instinctively reached out, grabbing your waist firmly as he steadied you. “I-”
“I’m scared,” Dean whispered. “I’m scared that I’ll say I love you, and you’ll say it back, and eventually-” He gulped. “You’ll leave because you’ll realize that I’m not good enough. Hell. I’m not even good at-” He motioned between the two of you. “This. Whatever it is that we have.”
“I can’t even begin to describe what it is we have,” you whisper back. “But I can say that I will never leave you. Even if nothing ever became of us, I would never leave you. I care about you too much.”
“Babydoll…” His eyes drifted down to your lips, and your breath caught. “I’m a dick.”
You nodded. “You are.”
“I’m a hypocrite.”
“Big one.” You mumbled.
“I’m a jealous fool.”
Sometime in the middle of his speech, he’d begun walking you towards the wall. Your back collided against it, a gasp leaving your lips. “Defintely.”
“But I can promise you that I will work on all of that if you just-” He leaned down, his breath intertwining with yours. “If you agree to being my girlfriend.”
“Dean-” Your voice wavered. “Just kiss me.”
His pointer finger and thumb grabbed your chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. “You don’t do casual sex.”
“Why are you bringing this up right now?” Your heart was racing.
“Answer the question.”
“No, I don’t do casual sex.” You responded.
“And-” He leaned even closer, if that was somehow possible. “I’m assuming that this will be ending in-” he smirked. “So all I need you to do is agree to be my girlfriend, and then we can do whatever you wan-”
“Yes.” You nodded quickly. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“I can’t hear you.”
You glared. “Yes you can.”
“Say it louder, baby.”
“You’re so annoying.” You glared before grabbing his uniform in your clenched fist and pulling it to you. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
He lifted you up in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist as his lips crashed against yours. You would most definitely have bruises tomorrow morning, but you didn’t really care. “Dean, I’m sorry.”
“Do you always talk this much when you’re making out with someone?”
“No.” You gasped as he kissed down your throat. “But you’re different.”
“Different how?”
“Let me-” You pulled his lips back to yours. “Let me show you.”
“You’re dangerous.” He spoke between the kisses. “Let me change, and then I’m all yours.”
“I’m an idiot.” You mumbled under your breath.
“That makes two of us.” Dean whispered, pulling you closer. His arm was wrapped around your waist, as it had been for the past nine hours. Once you’d made it back to the hockey house, Dean had carried you up the stairs in bridal style, and thrown you onto the bed, slamming the door behind him. That’s where you’d been for nine hours, until you woke up like this, your arm across his chest, his arm around his waist, and your cheek pressed into his pecs. “We’re together now.”
You nodded, tracing shapes into his bare chest. “Good point.”
“Did you have fun last night?” He didn’t have the faintest trace of mischief in his tone. He was genuinely asking you, something that made you fall in love with him all over again.
“Yes, Dean.” You stretched your neck, kissing his jaw gently. “You could say I had fun.”
“Good.” He grinned, pulling your lips to his. You grinned, deepening the kiss. “I’m glad. I wanted you to-” He kissed you one more time. “To feel comfortable.”
“I always do with you.” You smiled, pushing a hand against his chest. “We need to get out of bed, Romeo.”
“Why?” He whined. “I’m having so much fun in here.”
“Shut up.” You shoved him away, laughing as he ‘fell’ out of bed. “You need to shower.”
He gasped. “Are you insinuating that I smell?”
You nodded. “Unfortunately.”
He threw you a shirt and some sweatpants. “For you.”
You pulled the covers up, catching the clothes with ease. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
“I’ll be back.” Dean winked. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.” You giggled, waiting until he shut the door to jump out of bed. You pulled the sweatpants and oversized shirt on, admiring yourself in the mirror. The shirt, you realized, was from high school, something about Connecticut.
“Dean, I need to borrow a-” You froze, turning around slowly. There, as frozen as an ice cube, stood Tucker, his eyes wide and his jaw wide open. “Holy shit.”
“Hi.” You smiled guiltily. “Good morning?”
“Guys!” Tucker grinned, jumping up and down. “Guys, come here!”
You buried your face in your hands, wishing that this was all a dream. “Tucker-”
“Oh my god.” Hannah was here too? You opened your eyes, blood rushing to your face. “It seems like my advice worked.”
“What’s going on?” Garrett’s voice, as groggy as you’d ever heard it, shot out from down the hall.
“You’re not gonna believe it, G.” Logan smirked. “I almost don’t.”
“You all are finding much too much joy from this situation.” You glared. “You wanted this.”
“Holy shit.” Garrett was grinning.
“That’s what I said!” Tucker smacked his friends chest. “It happened!”
“Finally!” Garrett responded.
“Hello?” Who else was here to bask in your horribly uncomfortable situation? “Guys?”
“Beau!” Garrett yelled. “Up here, dude.”
“Do you guys know where Dean is?” Beau responded. “He hasn’t been answering my texts, and we were supposed to go on a ru-” His eyes bulged out of their sockets as he stared at you. “Nevermind.”
“Beau.” You begged. “Can you get them out of here, please?”
He paused for a moment, before nodding. “Alright people, nothing to see here. We’ll reconvene when they’re ready.”
“What?” They all began to protest. “This is my house!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Beau pushed his way to the front, before shutting the door. “You’ll live.”
“So-” Allie smirked. “Start from the beginning.”
You groaned, shoving your face in Dean’s arm. “Kill me now.”
In the time that Dean had showered, changed, and listened to you tell him what he’d missed, Allie had been contacted and told to get to the hockey house, stat.
“You can’t get out of this, sweet cheeks.” Allie leaned forward. “We’ve been watching this soap opera for far too long not to know how it ended.”
“I have to object to you calling my girlfriend sweet cheeks.” Dean interrupted.
“Overruled.”
“Girlfriend?” Hannah gasped. “What?”
“We missed so much.” Tucker whined. “I knew we should have stayed behind.”
Dean smirked. “I don’t know if you would have wanted to have been around for long.”
Your head shot up, glaring. “Di Laurentis! Shut up!”
in which neither you or dean are brave enough to admit what you both feel... until everything boils over and it all comes out
PAIRINGS: dean heyward-di laurentis x fem!reader
WARNINGS: arguing, jealous!dean, rage-baiter!dean, miscommunication, found family trope to the max, chaos galore, angst but also fluff, banter galore, allusion to nsfw, they're idiots in love, your honor!!
WORD COUNT: 5.2k
🎶 : dear god - tate mcrae
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - oh dean, i love you so. they're both such cowards and it's so fun to write them dancing around their feelings. this fic can be read as a stand-alone BUT it is a part two to a drabble i recently wrote (click here to read it). PLEASE ENJOY!!
Spring 2024, Sig Tau House
You’d been playing eye tag all night.
With who? You didn’t even know. He was hot, blonde, tall, and exuded confidence. At first, you hadn’t thought he was making eyes at you, not when Allie was beside you the entire time. But then Allie wasn’t by your side, and he was still staring with that insanely intense look in his eye. You were hooked. He’d yet to come over, something that you’d been silently disappointed about the entire three hours you’d been there.
Allie nudged your side, clinging to Sean’s arm for stability. “What’s got your smile upside down, sweet cheeks?”
“Sweet cheeks?” You raised a brow.
“You have sweet cheeks.” She said it like it was a fact. “God forbid I love my friends.”
“Alright babe.” Sean muttered. “You’re really drunk right now. Maybe we should go home.”
“I’m fine.” Allie argued. “You always do this, you know. You act like I’m some inconvenience.”
“That’s not-”
You cut in, scared that he would start something he did not want to finish. And you wouldn’t stop Allie if she started cussing him out. In fact, you’d happily join in. They’d been on and off again for a year now, and you couldn’t form a solid opinion on him. (If you were being honest with yourself, it was leaning toward the negative side of things). “I love you too, pookums.”
“Am I interrupting?”
You looked over your shoulder, blood rushing to your cheeks. It was him, the tall hot blonde. “Not at all.”
“I have to tell you something.” He looked so handsome it made your heart hurt. “Something deadly serious.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Is this something top secret?”
He shook his head. “I feel like it’s a relatively well known fact.”
“Well then.” You laughed. “Please enlighten the class.”
“You’re beautiful.” You were right, he was confident. You choked on your drink, and Allie gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “That’s the something.”
You cough, placing a hand on your chest to calm yourself down. “You’re pretty forward.”
“Believe it or not,” He leaned forward like this was something he wanted only you to know. “I’ve been working up the courage to tell you all night.”
You raised a brow. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know.” Your stomach flipped as you looked at him, really looked at him. He had dimples, a scar under his left eyebrow, and the faintest freckles you’d ever seen. So faint, that they were almost invisible. “We just met. I don’t even know your name.”
“Let’s fix that.” He whispered in your ear. “I’m Dean.” He was trying to kill you. You gulped, whispering your name in return. He leaned back, eyes full of something dangerous that you didn’t really want to address right now. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Do you always flirt this much with strangers?”
“I do. But I wouldn’t call us strangers.”
Allie was now gawking. “Holy shit, he’s got game.”
Dean smirked, Allie’s comment going straight to his head. “Do you want to grab a drink?”
“Yes.” You nodded. “Yes I do.”
You never got that drink. Not that you were complaining. As soon as you entered the kitchen, Dean lifted you onto the counter and slammed his lips against yours.
Somehow, in all the chaos, he’d led you to his bedroom. “God, you’re perfect.”
“You’re a flatterer.” Your voice sounded breathless. (It was.) “Do you always talk this much when you’re making out with someone?”
“No.” He could honestly say that he wasn’t lying. Something about you made him deeply nervous. It must be the total sense of contentment you made him feel. For someone who needs to be constantly distracted, being so enamored to the point of stillness makes him almost uncomfortable. He decides he’s thinking way too much for a casual hookup, and deepens the kiss. “You’re different.”
“Oh?” God, your voice is addicting, and your touch even more so. Your hands are wrapped around his neck, your fingers tugging ever so slightly at the hairs laying on the nape of his neck. “How so?”
He shrugs, even though he knows exactly how so. Much too soon to say shit like that, he reminds himself. “I’ll find out soon enough.” His hands play with the hem of your shirt, and your at ease nature disappears. You immediately tense up, and he pulls back, eyes worriedly scanning your face. “Is everything okay, babydoll?”
“I-” You sit up, and he can’t help but follow you. “I don’t do this.”
“This?”
“I don’t do casual sex.” You say it like it’s embarrassing.
“Respect.” He replies like he doesn’t care.
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
“Don’t apologize for that.” Could he get any more perfect? “Seriously, I’m fine with what we’re doing right now.”
“Are you sure?” You look so guilty it pains him.
“Hey.” His hand holds your cheek, and his heart squeezes when you actually lean into his touch. “I’m not gonna pressure you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me.” He smiles, pulling his hand away.
“Your mother must be proud of you.” Your eyes widen. Why the hell did you just say that? “That sounded weird. I just mean-”
“I’d like to say that she is.” He smirked. “Her and my father. They did the best they could.”
You smiled. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Two. One older brother and one younger sister.”
“That’s awesome.” You leaned against his pillows. His smirk softened to something you couldn’t quite place. He laid beside you, tilting his head so that his eyes stayed locked with yours. “I have a little sister too.”
“How old is she?”
“Fifteen.”
“Mine’s eighteen.”
“Has she started looking at colleges?”
And that’s how the two of you stayed until you fell asleep. Talking about anything and everything. Family, school, special interests, sports. From the outside eye, it seemed like you’d known each other for years, the way the conversation flowed. When your eyes began to droop, Dean laughed, grabbing his biggest throw blanket to cover you. “Here.”
“Thank you.” You hummed, burrowing yourself into his bed.
He could get used to this, he thought.
You were dangerous, was his next before his own eyes drooped.
This was an interesting position to be in. To be honest, you didn’t hate it.
Somewhere between when you fell asleep and now, you and Dean had curled around each other like two codependent puppies. His right arm was wrapped around your waist, and his left was just above your head.
You were facing his chest, with your left leg swung over his waist.
You’d been awake for thirty minutes, trying not to wake him up as you theorized how to get out of this the easiest. You thought he was asleep. You swore he was. He hadn’t moved in ages.
That’s why you jumped when he spoke, his voice all deep and crackly. “You sleep like a koala.”
“I’m sorry.” You winced as you began to pull away.
“Wait a second-“ He urged, tightening his grip around your waist, prohibiting you from moving. In fact, he pulled you closer to his chest than you’d been before. “I didn’t say I hated it.”
“I had fun last night.” You murmured into his chest. “You’re sweet.” He laughed, and your head darted up, glaring. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just-” He really found this funny. “No girl has ever described me as ‘sweet’ before.”
“Glad I’m the first the-” A phone dinged. Then dinged again. Then dinged four more times. “I think that’s mine.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow. “Is someone missing you?”
“Are you implying something with that little comment?” You raised a brow back.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a whole roster of men begging to date you.”
“Thank you?” You laughed. “But it’s not a man. It’s definitely Allie.” You grabbed your phone, now determined to prove him wrong. “See?” You shoved the screen in his face. “Allie.”
“I stand corrected.” His eyes fell to your lips for a moment.
Your breath hitched as he leaned in, and then you placed a hand on his chest. “I should go. She- she needs me.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes falling to your lips once more. “If you want.”
“Thanks for-” You stood up, suddenly feeling extremely embarrassed about everything you’d done. “Everything.”
“I had fun.” He said it so earnestly that you almost considered jumping back into bed and abandoning Allie. Almost.
“Me too.” You smiled, nodding. “See you.”
“See you.”
Fall 2025, Briar Hockey House
“You’re gonna love them.” Hannah’s arm is hooked through yours and Allie’s as Garrett leads the way into the house. “They’re sweet, honestly. Like hyper puppies.”
“Aren’t puppies already hyper?” You whisper.
“They’re harmless.” Garrett defends, holding the door open. “Seriously. It’ll be fun.”
“I feel like my mom and dad are bringing me to the hospital to meet my siblings.” Allie laughed.
You laughed along with her, observing the inside of the house. “That’s an oddly specific situation, Allie-Cat.”
“Guys!” Garrett called out. “Come meet the girls!”
What happens next could only be described as a hurricane of chaos. Two boys race down the stairs. They’re both tall and handsome. Muscular, too. You reason with yourself that they are in fact professional athletes, so that makes sense.
“Hi.” He sticks his hand out, a charming smile donning his face. “I’m Tucker.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The other boy had a sort of grungy charm about him. “I’m John. John Logan.”
“Ah.” You smiled. “Garrett talks about you all the time.”
“Does he?” Logan smirks. “Awww, G. You love me.”
“Shut up.” Garrett glares, shoving Logan away when he tries to hug him. “Hey! Di Laurentis!”
“Coming!” The last to be revealed yells. “One second.”
“He was in the shower.” Logan remarks. “Another long one.”
“Oh my god.” Hannah groans. “He has a problem.”
“I’m sorry that I care about hygiene.” The third boy says as he descends the stairs. Your jaw immediately drops as the most chiseled abs you’ve ever seen in your life are shoved in your face. Your eyes drag up this man’s frame, and that’s when it happens. That’s when your heart drops, and his eyes glow with something dangerous.
“YOU?” It’s a question, but you practically screech it. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” Dean is obviously having too much fun with this. “The real question is, what are you doing here?”
“Wait a minute.” Tucker interrupts. “Are we missing something?”
Allie nods. “Yeah. What’s going on? Do you two know each other?” (For context, sweet, dear, Allie blacked out that night, and does not remember anything.)
“I-” You cross your arms, glaring at Dean. Why? You don’t really know, it just seemed like the go-to reaction in your arsenal. “Knowing someone is subjective.”
“Wait-” Hannah looks what could only be described as gleeful. “Did you two-”
“No!” You yell. “No we did not.”
“Why so defensive, babydoll?” Dean’s towel is hanging dangerously low, and you can’t help it that your eyes gravitate towards him. It’s almost natural. He’s still as handsome as you remember him, and it’s hard not to jump into his arms and pull his lips to yours.
“Care to share with the class how you two know each other then?” Garrett pushes.
“Not particularly.” You grumble.
“Oh boy.” Logan mumbled. “This is going to be fun.”
Present Day (Spring 2026, Malone’s Karaoke Night)
Dean has flirted with four girls in the span of thirty minutes. Not that you’re keeping track.
“If it makes you feel any better-” Logan is trying his best to comfort you, but to no avail. “He’s off his game. Normally he flirts with two times the-”
“It does not make me feel better.” You grumble. “Not at all.”
“Alright.” He raises his hands in defeat. “This is a lost cause. I’m gonna go get a drink.”
You’ve been holding your fork like a weapon for all thirty of those minutes. Tucker laughs. “If you grip that fork any harder, you’ll bend it in half.”
“Tucker!” You snap. “What are you trying to say right now?”
“I-” He looks positively shocked, and to be fair, so do you. “Sorry?”
Hannah whispers. “That was uncalled for, babe. He’s just trying to lighten the mood.”
Garrett says nothing, scared that he will be next in your murderous rampage.
“I’m-” You set the fork down, shaking your head like you’ve just been freed from a spell. “Tucker, I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch for no reason.”
“Well-” Beau mumbles. “I wouldn’t say no reason-”
You elbow the quarterback. “I’m really sorry.” You reach out, squeezing Tucker’s hand.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I feel betrayed honestly. Hurt too, if I’m allowed to say so.” He’s really milking it.
You laugh. “Why don’t I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
“It would be a nice start.” He pretends to wipe away a fake tear as you slide out of the booth. “I’ll take a Dirty Shirley.”
“Oh my god.” Garrett’s face is red. “That’s what you’re choosing?”
“I’m sorry that your taste buds are evolved enough to enjoy a drink such as the one I have chosen.”
“Dirty Shirley.” You nod. “Got it. Be right back.”
You walk up to the bar, smiling at Allie sweetly. “Hello dear friend of mine.”
“What would you like, sweet cheeks?” That nickname unfortunately stuck.
“Two Dirty Shirley’s please.”
“That’ll be twenty dollars.” Allie sets the tap-to-pay ipad in front of you. “I’ll be right back.”
You pulled your card out, before someone else’s card pressed against the screen. Your jaw went slack as you looked up, fully expecting to see Dean’s face.
“Hi.”
A smile grew on your lips. It wasn’t Dean, but Zach, the man that Dean was trying to drive away. What perfect timing. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugged. “Gotta show you I’m still interested.”
“Yeah?” You began to twirl your hair. Holy cliche.
“Yeah.” He nodded, moving closer to you. “I miss you.”
“Aw.” You giggle. “That’s sweet.”
“I was thinking of asking you out to dinner.”
“Oh?” You grin, blood rushing to your cheeks.
“So?” His leg bounced rather aggressively, but you didn’t mind. It was sweet, how nervous he was. “Dinner this week?”
“I don’t know.” Dean. You squeeze your eyes shut as your hands squeeze into fists. “I don’t really swing that way. Thanks for asking though.”
You whip around. “Dean, respectfully, fuck off. I don’t butt into your conversations, so don’t butt into mine.”
“Here are your Dirty Shirley’s.” Allie whispers. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“Thank you, Allie.” You grab them, ignoring Dean’s obnoxious face. “And to answer your question, Zach, dinner sounds great.”
“Awesome.” Zach grins. “I’ll text you.”
“Perfect.” Your smile is tight as you elbow past Dean to get back to the booth.
“C’mon baby.” You can only imagine how ridiculous it looks that the 6’2” boy is following after you like a puppy dog.
“Don’t call me that.” You hiss, passing Tucker his drink. “Your Dirty Shirley, sir.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
Beau slides out of the booth so you can get back in. He looks up at his best friend with suspicion in his eyes. “What did you do, Dean?”
“All I did was interrupt a conversation.”
“He was asking me out, you asshole.” You feel red hot rage race through your veins. “I watched you flirt with about ten girls and didn’t say anything.”
“So you were watching me?”
“Kinda hard not to.” You mutter under your breath.
“It wasn’t ten girls.” Dean tries to defend himself, but he somehow makes it worse. “And that was different.”
“Why?” You raised a brow. “Because you didn’t ask any of them out?”
“No.” He leaned against the booth, the fabric of his sleeve stretching as he crossed his arms. You fought your inner demons, reminding yourself that he was pissing you off right now, and you would be betraying yourself by lusting after him. “Because they weren’t you.”
“Dean.” You let a deep breath out. “You are officially the world’s biggest hypocrite. What you have just said doesn’t even make any logical sense.”
“What-”
“You have this horrible habit of making my heart flip. And then in the same moment, you refuse to admit that we have something. You refuse to say anything that’s actually meaningful. And I-” Tears begin to form, and you force them back. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”
“I think it’s time to get some air.” Tucker whispers. “I’m just gonna-”
“No need.” You stop him. “I am leaving. Here.” You slide Dirty Shirley over to him. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks.” Tucker immediately puts his straw into the glass.
“Beau.” You whisper. “I’m sorry, can you possibly-”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, no worries.” He stands up, holding your hand as you get out. “Do you need a ride home?”
“I-” Your eyes naturally drifted to Dean’s for a moment. They always did. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Tucker was right.” You smile softly. “It’s time to get some air.”
“You shouldn’t walk alone.” Dean whispers.
“And you shouldn’t make me feel like this, so.” You shrug. “Guess we’re both at a loss. Have fun with all your admirers.”
Dean waited until you left Malone’s to follow after you. He never actually approached you, always staying ten paces behind, just to be sure that you stay safe. And when you walked into your apartment building, he stood by the corner streetlight, staring into your window like a lovestruck fool.
You don’t know how Allie had convinced you to go to the hockey game, but here you were. Normally, you were the one who had to beg her: you went all out. You put face paint on, the whole nine yards. A couple months ago, Dean had given you his jersey.
Today, you were not going all out.
You did have to thank Allie though, because this game was insanely entertaining, much better than endless episodes of The Office on repeat.
It was like the entire team was perfectly in sync. Garrett was controlling the ice and guiding the team with the precision of a seasoned pro, Logan was keeping it locked down in the defense department, and Tucker had scored two out of the three team’s goals.
And Dean, oh Dean. You could tell something was bothering him, because never before had he played so aggressively in his life. Or at least, at any game you’d ever seen. He’d already been put in the penalty box twice for minor penalties, one more, and he would be out of the game for five minutes.
There he went.
“What is up with him?” You whispered. Allie and Hannah stared at you like it was obvious. You raised a brow. “What?”
“You are what’s up with him. He’s pissed at himself for being an idiot, and he’s pissed that you’re going on that date with Zachary.”
“Zach, but yeah.” You nodded. “Maybe he should have behaved rationally for once. Maybe he should have said something meaningful instead of making the whole situation a joke.”
“Maybe.” Hannah smiled. “It doesn’t hurt to talk, though.”
“We haven’t talked in three days.”
“Just check in, make sure he’s doing well.” Allie placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.
“No time like the present to fix this.” Hannah turned back towards the game, and you stuck your tongue out at her. You hated how right she was, how right both of them were.
You’d been waiting outside of the locker room for thirty minutes, pacing back and forth as you watched player after player leave, all of them shooting you pitiful looks. Maybe he left super early, and you were here looking stupidly hung up on someone that didn’t even care about you.
The door swung open once more, and your heart skipped.
Logan and Tucker walked out together, followed closely by Garrett. Your heart returned to its normal pace.
Garrett stayed behind as the other boys continued down the hall. “He’s still inside.”
You smiled thankfully. “Thank god. I’ve been waiting here for an embarrassing amount of time.”
“He really likes you.” Garrett continued. “He’s just scared.”
“And stupid.” You whisper.
“And stupid.” Garrett laughs. “But he means well. I’m not trying to excuse his actions, because a lot of the stuff he’s done is super hurtful. But I also wouldn’t be doing my job as his friend if I let you think he didn’t care.”
“Thank you, Garrett.” Hannah’s wise nature was rubbing off on him. Or maybe, Garrett was just naturally wise. “I’ll see you later.”
“See you.”
You eyed the locker room suspiciously, like you were waiting for a monster to jump out from behind it at any moment. Honestly, you would rather face Cereberus right now than face your fear of being vulnerable and confessing your feelings to Dean.
Before you could take the coward’s way out, you pushed through the door. You turned the corner, frowning when you saw Dean. He looked utterly dejected as you watched him. He was sitting on the benches still in uniform with his face in his hands. “Dean?”
He visibly tensed, his voice low as he spoke. “What are you doing here?”
“I just-” He was right, what were you doing here? “I wanted to check on you. It was a rough game.”
“Well,” He stood up, his face as emotionless as you’d ever seen it. “You did it. You checked on me. Feel free to leave now.”
You squeezed your fist, trying to control your anger from bubbling up. “You’re upset.”
“Yeah, I am.” He walked closer. “I’m upset that you’re here. I thought we weren’t talking.”
“I still care about you.” You scoffed. “Friends can check on-”
“Friends?” He looked disgusted at the thought, and your stomach clenched.
“I can’t believe I actually cared that you were upset. This was such a stupid idea.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You are a child, that’s what that means.”
“I’m a child?” He crossed his arms, walking towards you. “Please elaborate.”
“With pleasure.” You spat out, counting out the things he does on your fingers. “You have done nothing but poke and prod at me since Garrett introduced us, you get under my skin on purpose-”
“I-”
“You interrupt me.” You gave him a pointed look. “You deliberately do and say things that you know are going to hurt me. For example, I came in here out of the goodness of my heart, and you treated me like I was no better than a random puck bunny.”
“I have never tried to hurt you on purpose.” His eyes were dark.
“Well, you do.” Your voice broke. “You do it all the time. You look at me like I hung the moon and the stars. You remember something little that I told you eons ago, you memorize my coffee order, your eyes find mine at every party just to check in. And then, in that exact moment, you start sucking some girl’s face like you didn’t make my heart clench.”
“Oh yeah?” He looked highly offended. “If we’re getting to specifics, then you must know that you hurt me way before I hurt you.”
“I did not!”
“You did.” He seemed so small for someone so large. He was towering over you, literally, but physically, he seemed unsure, hesitant to even speak. “You were embarrassed of me.”
“What?” Your heart dropped. “What are you talking about?”
“When Garrett brought you to the hockey house for the first time.” His eyes bore into yours, practically begging for you to understand what he was getting at. “Do you not-” He frowned. “You acted like you didn’t know me.”
You scoffed, voice raising in annoyance. “That’s what started all of this?”
“You lied to them!” He retorted.
“What was I supposed to say? Hey guys, Dean and I made out once two years ago!”
“Exactly!” He yelled back. You stomped your feet against the floor, stalking out of the locker room. “That was exactly what you were supposed to say!”
He raced after you, his skates echoing against the floor. Your heart involuntarily skipped, as it always did when Dean was around. “Leave me alone.”
“No way.” His voice sounded nearer than you would have liked. “Why can’t you just say it?”
“I could ask you the same question.” You whipped around, colliding into his gear. His hands instinctively reached out, grabbing your waist firmly as he steadied you. “I-”
“I’m scared,” Dean whispered. “I’m scared that I’ll say I love you, and you’ll say it back, and eventually-” He gulped. “You’ll leave because you’ll realize that I’m not good enough. Hell. I’m not even good at-” He motioned between the two of you. “This. Whatever it is that we have.”
“I can’t even begin to describe what it is we have,” you whisper back. “But I can say that I will never leave you. Even if nothing ever became of us, I would never leave you. I care about you too much.”
“Babydoll…” His eyes drifted down to your lips, and your breath caught. “I’m a dick.”
You nodded. “You are.”
“I’m a hypocrite.”
“Big one.” You mumbled.
“I’m a jealous fool.”
Sometime in the middle of his speech, he’d begun walking you towards the wall. Your back collided against it, a gasp leaving your lips. “Defintely.”
“But I can promise you that I will work on all of that if you just-” He leaned down, his breath intertwining with yours. “If you agree to being my girlfriend.”
“Dean-” Your voice wavered. “Just kiss me.”
His pointer finger and thumb grabbed your chin, tilting it up ever so slightly. “You don’t do casual sex.”
“Why are you bringing this up right now?” Your heart was racing.
“Answer the question.”
“No, I don’t do casual sex.” You responded.
“And-” He leaned even closer, if that was somehow possible. “I’m assuming that this will be ending in-” he smirked. “So all I need you to do is agree to be my girlfriend, and then we can do whatever you wan-”
“Yes.” You nodded quickly. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“I can’t hear you.”
You glared. “Yes you can.”
“Say it louder, baby.”
“You’re so annoying.” You glared before grabbing his uniform in your clenched fist and pulling it to you. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
He lifted you up in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist as his lips crashed against yours. You would most definitely have bruises tomorrow morning, but you didn’t really care. “Dean, I’m sorry.”
“Do you always talk this much when you’re making out with someone?”
“No.” You gasped as he kissed down your throat. “But you’re different.”
“Different how?”
“Let me-” You pulled his lips back to yours. “Let me show you.”
“You’re dangerous.” He spoke between the kisses. “Let me change, and then I’m all yours.”
“I’m an idiot.” You mumbled under your breath.
“That makes two of us.” Dean whispered, pulling you closer. His arm was wrapped around your waist, as it had been for the past nine hours. Once you’d made it back to the hockey house, Dean had carried you up the stairs in bridal style, and thrown you onto the bed, slamming the door behind him. That’s where you’d been for nine hours, until you woke up like this, your arm across his chest, his arm around his waist, and your cheek pressed into his pecs. “We’re together now.”
You nodded, tracing shapes into his bare chest. “Good point.”
“Did you have fun last night?” He didn’t have the faintest trace of mischief in his tone. He was genuinely asking you, something that made you fall in love with him all over again.
“Yes, Dean.” You stretched your neck, kissing his jaw gently. “You could say I had fun.”
“Good.” He grinned, pulling your lips to his. You grinned, deepening the kiss. “I’m glad. I wanted you to-” He kissed you one more time. “To feel comfortable.”
“I always do with you.” You smiled, pushing a hand against his chest. “We need to get out of bed, Romeo.”
“Why?” He whined. “I’m having so much fun in here.”
“Shut up.” You shoved him away, laughing as he ‘fell’ out of bed. “You need to shower.”
He gasped. “Are you insinuating that I smell?”
You nodded. “Unfortunately.”
He threw you a shirt and some sweatpants. “For you.”
You pulled the covers up, catching the clothes with ease. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
“I’ll be back.” Dean winked. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.” You giggled, waiting until he shut the door to jump out of bed. You pulled the sweatpants and oversized shirt on, admiring yourself in the mirror. The shirt, you realized, was from high school, something about Connecticut.
“Dean, I need to borrow a-” You froze, turning around slowly. There, as frozen as an ice cube, stood Tucker, his eyes wide and his jaw wide open. “Holy shit.”
“Hi.” You smiled guiltily. “Good morning?”
“Guys!” Tucker grinned, jumping up and down. “Guys, come here!”
You buried your face in your hands, wishing that this was all a dream. “Tucker-”
“Oh my god.” Hannah was here too? You opened your eyes, blood rushing to your face. “It seems like my advice worked.”
“What’s going on?” Garrett’s voice, as groggy as you’d ever heard it, shot out from down the hall.
“You’re not gonna believe it, G.” Logan smirked. “I almost don’t.”
“You all are finding much too much joy from this situation.” You glared. “You wanted this.”
“Holy shit.” Garrett was grinning.
“That’s what I said!” Tucker smacked his friends chest. “It happened!”
“Finally!” Garrett responded.
“Hello?” Who else was here to bask in your horribly uncomfortable situation? “Guys?”
“Beau!” Garrett yelled. “Up here, dude.”
“Do you guys know where Dean is?” Beau responded. “He hasn’t been answering my texts, and we were supposed to go on a ru-” His eyes bulged out of their sockets as he stared at you. “Nevermind.”
“Beau.” You begged. “Can you get them out of here, please?”
He paused for a moment, before nodding. “Alright people, nothing to see here. We’ll reconvene when they’re ready.”
“What?” They all began to protest. “This is my house!”
“Yeah, yeah.” Beau pushed his way to the front, before shutting the door. “You’ll live.”
“So-” Allie smirked. “Start from the beginning.”
You groaned, shoving your face in Dean’s arm. “Kill me now.”
In the time that Dean had showered, changed, and listened to you tell him what he’d missed, Allie had been contacted and told to get to the hockey house, stat.
“You can’t get out of this, sweet cheeks.” Allie leaned forward. “We’ve been watching this soap opera for far too long not to know how it ended.”
“I have to object to you calling my girlfriend sweet cheeks.” Dean interrupted.
“Overruled.”
“Girlfriend?” Hannah gasped. “What?”
“We missed so much.” Tucker whined. “I knew we should have stayed behind.”
Dean smirked. “I don’t know if you would have wanted to have been around for long.”
Your head shot up, glaring. “Di Laurentis! Shut up!”
pairing ; dean di laurentis x fem!reader
summary ; when no one listens, you can always count on the fact that dean will !
ft ; angst + feeling like you're a burden
notes ; woah ! look at me back to writing things. ofc my first blurb back had to be for him, i mean honestly...it just makes sense i fear. anywho, enjoy ! :)
To say that things had been going well for you these last few days would be a complete lie. Quite frankly, things had been shit. All you were trying to do was talk, tell someone something, or even just message someone—but of course people all week kept talking over you or showing no interest in what you had to say at all. And sure, this was such a small issue compared to so many other things, no one had even been mean, or even went on to say shut up. Though that didn’t change anything, because to you, it had still hurt.
This week, every time you had a talk with someone, it seemed like the conversation was instantly over because no one seemed to be listening, the subject was changed, or you were completely ignored altogether. Texts had been left on read, or a simple “mhm..” was given when speaking directly to someone. So by time the week was over, you found yourself to be talking less and less to people…because what was the point?
And sure, maybe others hadn’t noticed…but he did. He always did, when it came to you. At first, he noticed, because you seemed quiet when the two of you were with friends, then when he messaged you during the week, something seemed off—like you were trying to be yourself but you just…weren’t.
So, you ended up in Dean’s bed—he was at practice, like the rest of the guys were, but Dean never minded you being there when he was at practice, because it always meant he got to come back to you—so how could he deny that?
Though what you don’t notice is when everyone gets back, and Dean makes his way upstairs, and stands in the doorway, too busy scrolling mindlessly on TikTok.
“Princess?” He says, causing you to look up, slightly startled. “What happened?”
You shake your head, not wanting to burden him, feeling like you had already done that enough this week with everyone else. So you just give him a simple answer. “Nothing.” And of course, that draws an eyebrow raise from him.
“…Nothing?”
You just shrug, before you answer. This time, your voice getting a little quieter. “It’s stupid…” And immediately, he’s dropping his bag onto the floor, walking over and sitting down next to you, as you set down your phone. “Baby, nothing you tell me is stupid—especially if you’re upset…”
You sigh, starting to toy with your fingers, and Dean comfortingly laid his hand on your shoulder, comfortingly starting to rub it…and that’s all it took, before tears formed in your eyes and the words spilled out. From how people were interrupting you, to how nobody seemed interested in what you had to text them or say to them, and how you had been talked over.
And gosh, it felt stupid to even be upset about something so little, but to Dean? It wasn’t stupid. In fact, he listened to you the entire time, didn’t check his phone, space out, or interrupt you, or even try to solve things. No, he simply just listened to you, the entire time…Which was really all you needed.
And when you finally finished speaking, a small frown was on his lips—confused as to how you could think something like being unheard was a stupid thing?
“That’s not stupid…”
“Kind of is, D…”
Though he just shook his head, and you softly played with your fingers again, before continuing. “I dunno…guess it just feels like people don’t care what I have to say,” And oh, that hurts him, because he hates that anyone could ever make you feel this way.
“Oh, baby…” He softly says, before softly tugging you closer, so that your head was in his lap but facing him. “I care. I care about every little thing you tell me. If it’s about an earring, or the most bizarre thing in the world. M’always gonna care.” That gets a tiny smile from your lips. “Every little thing?” You softly ask, holding back a giggle.
“Every. Little. Thing.”
“What if it’s 2 am?” “I’ll listen”
“Even my love island rants?…” You trail off, a smiles still on your lips and he nods. “Even the love island rants, baby.” And now you can't help but let your smile grow, which makes his grow too.
“There she is…Missed your smile”
“Oh stop it…” You softly mumble, heat rising to your cheeks, but he just leans down and gives you a soft peck on the lips.
“Now...I’m free for the night, so I’m all yours.”
“Yeah?” You smile, sitting up, and he nods. “Yep—don’t care if you just want to cuddle, eat dinner together, watch a movie, or if you just want to ramble.” And with those words, the hell of the week faded away from you, and you knew that no matter what else happened, you would be okay, as long as you had him.
Dean noticed something was off the second you walked into his apartment.
You had texted him earlier that you were “fine,” which in Dean’s experience usually meant one of three things: you were actually fine, you were not fine and did not want to talk about it yet, or you were about to collapse the second you stopped moving.
Tonight, it looked a lot like option three.
You stood in the doorway for a second too long, one hand still curled around the strap of your bag, your shoulders slumped in a way Dean did not like at all. Your hair was a little messier than usual, your eyes looked tired, and your face had that drained, heavy look people got when they had been pushing through too much for too long.
Dean straightened from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter. “Hey.”
You tried for a smile. It came out weak. “Hey.”
He frowned immediately. “What happened?”
You took off your shoes with slow, tired movements. “Nothing.”
Dean gave you a look. “That’s the wrong answer.”
You glanced at him and made a tired face. “I had a bad day.”
That made his expression soften at once. Not much. Just enough.
“Yeah?” he asked, voice gentler now.
You nodded once and dropped your bag by the door. “A terrible one.”
Dean crossed the room in a few steps and stopped in front of you, studying your face like he was checking for injuries he couldn’t see. “Want to talk about it?”
You hesitated.
He saw that too.
So instead of pushing, he just reached out and touched the side of your arm lightly. “Okay,” he said. “Then don’t talk. But you are sitting down.”
You blinked at him. “That sounded suspiciously like an order.”
“It was.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but mostly exhaustion. “You are very bossy when you’re worried.”
“And you are very stubborn when you’re tired.”
“That is not true.”
Dean raised his eyebrows. “You just walked in looking like you were about to fight a ceiling.”
You stared at him for a second, then huffed a weak laugh. “That bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
You shook your head and let him guide you toward the couch. The second you sat down, your body seemed to realize how tired it actually was. Every muscle felt heavy. Your head felt full of static.
Dean noticed the way you sagged into the cushions, and his jaw tightened slightly.
“What do you need?” he asked.
You leaned your head back and closed your eyes. “Five years of sleep.”
He snorted softly. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
“Try again.”
You opened one eye and looked at him. “Water.”
Dean nodded immediately. “Okay.”
“Maybe tea.”
“Got it.”
“And maybe,” you added, voice going quieter, “for someone to tell me I am not actually going to explode because I missed one assignment and nearly cried in the campus library.”
Dean was still for half a second.
Then his expression changed in that way it did when you said something that made him want to be gentler than usual. “You cried in the library?”
“I nearly cried.”
“Because of one assignment?”
“It was not just one assignment,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “It was everything. The assignment was just the last stupid little thing that pushed me over.”
Dean stared at you for a moment, then sat down beside you and immediately drew you against his side without asking. You went with him automatically, your cheek landing against his shoulder.
“You should have called me,” he said quietly.
You gave a tired hum. “I didn’t want to be dramatic.”
Dean turned his head to look at you. “You? Dramatic?”
You groaned. “Do not start.”
“I’m serious,” he said, though his tone had softened. “You never have to pretend with me.”
That made something in your chest pinch.
You looked up at him. “I know.”
He studied you for a second, then reached for the water bottle on the coffee table and passed it to you. “Drink.”
You took it because arguing would have taken too much energy. “You’re taking this very seriously.”
“I am taking you very seriously.”
You glanced at him, and for a second your face must have shown too much, because Dean’s expression shifted again,warmer, less teasing, almost careful.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely not nothing.”
You sighed and took a sip of water. “You’re just… being nice.”
Dean looked offended. “I am always nice.”
You actually laughed at that, short and tired and a little disbelieving.
He smiled because he had clearly meant to get that reaction out of you.
“See?” he said. “Still alive.”
You shook your head, but the tiny smile stayed. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re exhausted.”
You leaned your head back against the couch and closed your eyes again. “Yes.”
Dean was quiet for a few seconds, and when you opened your eyes again, he was already standing.
“Where are you going?” you asked.
“To make you something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Dean gave you a look so flat and unimpressed that it made you want to smile again even though you were too tired for it. “You are in no condition to be trusted.”
“That is rude.”
“That is accurate.”
He walked into the kitchen before you could complain further, and you listened to the soft sounds of drawers opening, cabinets closing, and water running. Dean in the kitchen was always a little surprising, because he looked like the kind of guy who would order takeout and call it a personality. But he was actually good at small domestic things when he wanted to be. Better than he let people think.
You stayed curled on the couch, watching him move around the kitchen from the corner of your eye. He opened the fridge, muttered something under his breath, and then leaned against the counter for a second like he was thinking.
“What are you making?” you asked eventually.
He glanced back at you. “Soup.”
You blinked. “You have soup?”
“I can acquire soup.”
“Dean.”
He looked far too pleased with himself. “What?”
“You’re acting suspiciously competent.”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I am shocked.”
He smirked. “You should see me under pressure.”
That got a small laugh out of you, though you were still too tired to fully appreciate it. Dean smiled when he heard it, and that alone made the quiet in the apartment feel gentler.
A few minutes later, he brought you a mug of tea first, then a bowl of soup that smelled warm and comforting and exactly like something you needed.
He set both on the coffee table and crouched in front of you. “Eat.”
You looked at him. “That sounded a lot like another order.”
“It was.”
“You’re very controlling tonight.”
He arched a brow. “You’re welcome.”
You stared at him for a second, then looked down at the soup. “Did you actually make this?”
Dean sat back on his heels. “I heated it up, which is still cooking if you’re morally flexible.”
You snorted softly and wrapped your hands around the mug first. The warmth immediately helped. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet you still look at me like I hung the moon.”
That made you pause.
Dean, who had clearly intended the line as a joke, noticed the look on your face and frowned a little. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, but your voice had gone softer.
He shifted, suddenly more attentive. “No, tell me.”
You shook your head and took another sip of tea to buy yourself a second. “You just… really are being sweet.”
Dean looked at you for a beat, then huffed a small laugh and leaned back against the couch. “I’m not sweet.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You made me tea.”
“That is not sweetness. That is logistics.”
“You also made me soup.”
“That’s called survival.”
“You’re sitting here taking care of me.”
He pointed at you. “Because you look like hell.”
You laughed again, but it was softer this time, warmer somehow.
Dean watched you for a moment, then asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened, or do you want me to guess?”
“Guessing sounds dangerous.”
He gave you a sideways look. “I’m already doing the soup, so I think I’ve proven I can be trusted.”
You took a careful spoonful, then sighed. “It was just a lot.”
He waited.
You set the spoon down and stared into the bowl for a second. “I’ve been behind on everything. Classes, work, assignments. And today my professor basically implied I was slacking off, which is hilarious because I have barely slept, and then I got three emails from one class, and my phone kept buzzing, and I just felt like everything was happening at once.”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
You rushed on before he could say anything. “I know it sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.”
“It does a little.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It sounds like you’re overwhelmed.”
You looked at him.
His face was calm, but his voice had gone quieter, more serious. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
You swallowed. “I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
“I feel like I should be handling it better.”
Dean shifted closer on the couch, one hand settling against your knee. “That’s nonsense.”
You gave him a tired look. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“I say that because it’s true.”
You stared down at the soup again, trying not to let the relief show too much on your face.
Dean noticed anyway.
He always noticed.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lighter again, “you could have told me you were having a bad day sooner.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
That made him look at you like you’d said something ridiculous. “That is literally my job.”
You blinked. “Your job?”
“Yes.”
You gave him a small, incredulous smile. “Since when?”
“Since I started dating you.”
That made the ache in your chest go quiet and soft in a way that was almost worse than the stress had been.
Dean saw the change in your expression and immediately softened too, his thumb moving once over your knee in an absent little comfort gesture.
“You really thought I’d want you to deal with all of this alone?” he asked.
You shrugged weakly. “I don’t know.”
Dean shook his head. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
You let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like the start of a laugh. “You are impossible.”
“And you’re still not eating.”
You rolled your eyes, but you picked up the spoon again and took another bite.
Dean nodded like he had won a war.
“There you go,” he said, way too satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
Your face warmed instantly.
Of course it did. Because Dean could say something like that in the middle of a soup bowl and make it feel like a very dangerous compliment.
He saw the reaction and smiled.
You glared at him weakly. “You did that on purpose.”
“What?”
“That thing where you say something nice and then watch me fall apart.”
Dean’s smile went slow. “Maybe I like taking care of you.”
That made you go quiet.
He seemed to realize the impact of the sentence a second later, because the teasing faded off his face and he looked at you with open, soft sincerity.
“I do,” he said more quietly. “I like it.”
Your throat tightened. “Why?”
Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Because you do everything yourself until you’re about to collapse, and then you still act like you’re fine.” His hand stayed steady on your knee. “And because when I get to take care of you for once, you stop looking so tense.”
That was enough to make your eyes sting, which was deeply unfair.
You looked down fast, blinking it away.
Dean caught the movement and immediately moved closer. “Hey. No.”
You looked at him, a little startled.
His tone was gentle now. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Try to hold it all in here.” He touched your chest lightly with two fingers, then brought his hand back to your knee. “You don’t have to perform being okay with me.”
You swallowed hard. “I’m trying not to be a mess.”
Dean’s mouth twitched a little. “You are a mess.”
You gave him a tired glare.
He smiled, then kissed your forehead before you could complain. “But you’re my mess.”
That did it.
You laughed once, soft and shaky, and then leaned into him without really thinking about it. Dean’s arm came around you immediately, pulling you closer, and he held you like he had no intention of letting the world get at you for a while.
“Better?” he asked into your hair.
You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
You sat like that for a while, your bowl of soup slowly cooling on the table while Dean stayed beside you, one hand rubbing slow, absent circles against your back. He didn’t push you to talk again. Didn’t try to fix everything. He just stayed close and steady and quietly warm.
Eventually you pulled back enough to look at him. “You know you’re really cute when you get all soft.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smiled. “Too late.”
He huffed a laugh and reached for your soup bowl again. “Finish eating.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re bossy.”
“And you’re still tired.”
You took another spoonful, then muttered, “I like you better like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like you actually let me see you care.”
Dean looked at you for a beat, then leaned over and kissed your temple. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Well. I like taking care of you.”
And this time, when he said it, you let yourself believe him completely.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader
WC: ~ 7.5k
A/N: never done a concept like this before, so let me know if you liked it!
off campus masterlist
UNKNOWN NUMBER
3:47 PM
Unknown: If you tell Coach I missed practice, I'll deny everything.
***
You stared at your phone, eyebrows furrowed as you reread the message. The number wasn't saved in your contacts, and you definitely didn't know anyone on a sports team, at least not well enough to be covering for their missed practices.
You: Who is this?
The response came almost immediately.
Unknown: Very funny, Tucker. I'm serious. I overslept and if Coach finds out I missed another conditioning session, he'll bench me for the next game.
You: I think you have the wrong number. I'm not Tucker.
There was a longer pause this time. You watched the three dots appear and disappear twice before the next message came through.
Unknown: Shit. Sorry. Wrong number.
You should have left it there. A simple "no problem" and moved on with your day. But something about the panic in those first messages made you smile, and before you could think better of it, your fingers were typing.
You: So did Tucker tell Coach?
Unknown: What?
You: About you missing practice. Did he snitch?
Unknown: I don't know. I haven't actually texted him yet. I texted you instead, apparently.
You: Sounds like you're having a great day.
Unknown: The best. Overslept, missed practice, texted a complete stranger my problems. Really killing it today.
You: At least you're honest about it. Most people would've just stopped responding after realizing their mistake.
Unknown: Yeah, well. I'm full of surprises.
You: Clearly. So are you going to text the real Tucker now, or are you just going to let fate decide your athletic future?
Unknown: I like how you assume I'm athletic. What if I'm on the chess team?
You: Are you on the chess team?
Unknown: No. Hockey. But I could've been a chess prodigy for all you know.
You: A chess prodigy who oversleeps and panics about missed practice. Sure.
Unknown: You're kind of a smartass, you know that?
You: I've been told. So, hockey player whose name I don't know, are you going to fix your Tucker situation or not?
Unknown: Dean. My name's Dean. And yeah, I probably should. Thanks for... I don't know, entertaining my wrong number panic?
You: Anytime, Dean. Good luck with your coach.
Dean: Thanks, mystery person.
You smiled at your phone, expecting that to be the end of it. A weird, random interaction that you'd maybe tell your roommate about later as a funny story. You set your phone down and went back to your laptop, trying to refocus on the essay that was due in two days.
Your phone buzzed five minutes later.
Dean: So I texted Tucker. He said he won't tell, but now I owe him my notes from History.
You bit your lip, fighting back a grin.
You: Sounds like a fair trade. Your athletic career for some history notes.
Dean: When you put it like that, it sounds dramatic.
You: It IS dramatic. This is your whole future we're talking about.
Dean: You're right. I should probably be more grateful. Tucker is a real one.
You: Unlike you, who texts random people in a panic.
Dean: In my defense, his number and yours are really similar. Just one digit off.
You: That's actually kind of crazy. What are the odds?
Dean: I don't know, but apparently high enough for me to bother you twice in one day.
You: I don't mind. My essay is boring anyway.
Dean: What's it about?
And just like that, you were talking. Really talking. He told you about his hockey team, how he'd been playing since he was a kid, how the pressure from his coach sometimes made him want to quit but the game itself never did. You told him about your major, your roommate who never cleaned her dishes, the coffee shop on campus that made the best iced matcha.
The conversation flowed easily, naturally, like you'd known each other for years instead of hours. When you finally looked up from your phone, it was dark outside and your essay remained exactly as unfinished as it had been before Dean's first text.
You: I should probably actually work on this essay.
Dean: Yeah, I should probably do something productive too. Like sleep, since that's apparently a problem for me.
You: Revolutionary concept.
Dean: I'm full of them. Hey, is it weird if I text you again? Like, not by accident this time?
Your heart did a small, unexpected flip.
You: Not weird. I'd like that.
Dean: Cool. Night, mystery person.
You: Night, Dean.
You saved his number in your phone, hesitating over what name to put. Finally, you just typed "Dean (wrong number)" and smiled at how ridiculous it looked.
***
Dean (wrong number)
12:23 AM
Dean: You still up?
It had been two days since the initial wrong number text, and you'd been exchanging messages on and off throughout. Nothing deep, just random observations, funny things that happened during the day, the occasional meme. But this was the first time he'd texted this late.
You: Yeah, can't sleep. You?
Dean: Same. Just got back from a party. It was loud and boring.
You: Sounds like a great combination.
Dean: The worst. I left early. Everyone was talking about people I don't care about.
You: Why'd you go then?
Dean: My friends dragged me. Said I've been "off" lately.
You: Have you been?
There was a pause. You watched the dots appear and disappear several times.
Dean: Maybe. I don't know. I've just been thinking about stuff.
You: Deep, philosophical stuff or regular stuff?
Dean: Regular stuff, I guess. Like what I'm doing with my life. Whether hockey is really what I want or just what everyone expects from me. Whether the people I hang out with actually know me or just know the version of me I show them.
You: That's actually pretty deep for 12 AM on a Friday.
Dean: Sorry. That was heavy. Forget I said anything.
You: No, don't apologize. I get it. I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Like they're performing a version of themselves.
Dean: Yeah?
You: Yeah. It's easier to show people what they expect than to risk showing them who you really are and having them not like it.
Dean: Exactly. Fuck, that's exactly it.
You: So who are you really, Dean?
Dean: I don't know if I know anymore. Who are you?
You: Also not sure. But I think I'm someone who's weirdly comfortable talking to a stranger at midnight about existential stuff.
Dean: Same. This is weird, right? That we're doing this?
You: Probably. But I like it.
Dean: Me too.
You talked until almost 2 AM that night. About everything and nothing. He told you about the pressure from his family to maintain his hockey scholarship, about how sometimes he felt like he was living someone else's life. You told him about your own fears: that you'd chosen the wrong major, that you were drifting through college without any real direction, that you felt like everyone else had it figured out except you.
It was the kind of conversation you'd never had with anyone, not even your closest friends. There was something about the anonymity of it, the fact that you'd probably never meet, that made it safe to be honest.
Dean: Can I ask you something?
You: Sure.
Dean: Why haven't you asked what I look like? Or for my Instagram or whatever?
You thought about it.
You: I don't know. I guess I like this. Just talking without all the other stuff getting in the way.
Dean: Yeah. Me too. It's nice not being judged on anything except what I say.
You: Exactly.
Dean: Okay, mystery person. I really should sleep now. Early practice tomorrow.
You: Try not to oversleep this time.
Dean: No promises. Night.
You: Night.
You fell asleep with your phone on your pillow, a smile on your face.
***
Three Weeks Later
Dean (wrong number)
2:34 PM
Dean: EMERGENCY
You: What happened??
Dean: I just realized I've been walking around campus for the last hour with my fly down.
You: Oh my god.
Dean: I had a presentation in my Business class. I stood in front of 30 people. My fly was down the ENTIRE TIME.
You: I'm so sorry but I'm laughing so hard right now.
Dean: I'm glad my humiliation amuses you.
You: Did anyone say anything?
Dean: No! That's the worst part! They all just let me stand there like an idiot!
You: Maybe they didn't notice?
Dean: My boxers are bright red. They noticed.
You actually laughed out loud in the middle of the library, earning annoyed looks from the people around you.
You: I'm never letting you live this down.
Dean: I expect nothing less from you.
You: How did you even realize?
Dean: I went to the bathroom and caught my reflection. Wanted to die immediately.
You: At least it's a good story?
Dean: I hate you.
You: No you don't.
Dean: No, I don't.
***
That night, he sent you a meme about embarrassing moments, and you sent him one back. It became a thing between you — trading memes, inside jokes building on inside jokes. He started sending you songs he thought you'd like, and you did the same. You learned he was obsessed with 90s hip-hop and had a secret love for sad indie music. He learned you had terrible taste in reality TV and an encyclopedic knowledge of true crime podcasts.
You: If you were a serial killer, what would your signature be?
Dean: What kind of question is that?
You: A valid one. Everyone should know their hypothetical serial killer signature.
Dean: I feel like this says something concerning about you.
You: You're avoiding the question.
Dean: Fine. I'd leave a hockey puck at every crime scene.
You: That's so boring! You'd get caught immediately!
Dean: Okay, what would yours be?
You: I'd leave a note with a terrible pun related to how they died.
Dean: That's actually psychotic.
You: Thank you.
Dean: That wasn't a compliment!
You: Agree to disagree.
The conversations came easier than breathing. You texted throughout the day: during boring classes, between activities, late at night when neither of you could sleep. Your friends started commenting on how much you were on your phone, but you brushed them off. How could you explain that you were falling for someone you'd never met? Someone whose face you'd never seen, whose voice you'd never heard?
Because that's what was happening. You were falling.
***
Dean's POV
"Dude, are you even listening?"
Dean looked up from his phone to find Garrett staring at him with an annoyed expression. They were at Malone's, their usual spot, surrounded by the rest of the guys — Tucker, Logan, and Beau — and Dean had completely zoned out of the conversation.
"Sorry, what?"
"I said, are you coming to the Sigma party this weekend?" Garrett repeated, exchanging a look with Tucker.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Dean's phone buzzed and he immediately looked down at it.
Mystery person: I just saw a dog wearing a sweater that said "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy" and I thought of you.
Dean: Why would that make you think of me??
Mystery person: Because you're both in denial about your true nature.
Dean: I'm not fluffy!
Mystery person: Sure, hockey player. Sure.
He was smiling at his phone like an idiot, completely forgetting where he was until Tucker snatched the phone out of his hands.
"Hey!"
"Who are you texting?" Tucker demanded, holding the phone out of Dean's reach. "You've been glued to that thing for weeks."
"None of your business. Give it back."
"Is it a girl?" Logan leaned in, interested now. "Are you seeing someone?"
"No. I'm not seeing anyone. Now give me my phone."
Tucker scrolled up, reading the messages, and his eyebrows shot up. "Dude, you have like hundreds of messages with this person. Who is 'mystery person'?"
Dean felt his face heat up as he grabbed his phone back. "Just someone I've been talking to. It's not a big deal."
"Not a big deal?" Garrett laughed. "Bro, you've turned down six different girls in the past two weeks. You never turn anyone down."
"Maybe I'm just not interested anymore."
"In anyone? Or just anyone who isn't ‘mystery person’?" Beau made air quotes around the name, grinning.
Dean shoved his phone in his pocket, trying to ignore the knowing looks his friends were giving him. "Can we drop this?"
"No way," Logan said. "This is too good. Dean Di Laurentis, campus heartbreaker, is hung up on someone. What does she look like? Do you have pictures?"
"I don't... we haven't exchanged pictures."
The table went silent. Then Garrett burst out laughing.
"You're kidding. You're falling for someone and you don't even know what they look like?"
"I'm not falling for anyone," Dean protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded.
"Dude," Tucker said, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "You're on your phone constantly. You smile at it like an idiot. You've stopped hooking up with random girls. You're literally exhibiting every sign of being whipped, and you've never even met this person?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" Logan challenged.
Dean didn't have an answer. What was it like? How could he explain that talking to you felt like coming home? That you were the first person he thought about when he woke up and the last person he talked to before bed? That he'd rather text you than do anything else, including things he used to love?
"It's just easy," he finally said. "Talking to them. I don't have to be anyone except myself."
His friends exchanged another look, this one softer.
"That's great, man," Tucker said. "Really. But don't you think you should, like, meet them? Figure out who they are?"
"We've talked about it. We both like it this way. No pressure, no expectations. Just... talking."
"But what if you're building up this person in your head and they're nothing like you imagine?" Garrett asked.
Dean had thought about that. Late at night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd wondered what you looked like. Whether you'd be disappointed if you met him. Whether the connection you had through text would translate to real life.
But then you'd send him a message — something funny or thoughtful or completely random — and none of that mattered. Because whoever you were, whatever you looked like, you got him in a way no one else did.
"Then I guess I'll deal with that if it happens," Dean said.
Logan shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're in deep, man."
Yeah. He really was.
***
Two Months Later
Dean (wrong number)
1:47 AM
Dean: You awake?
Mystery person: Yeah. Can't sleep. You okay?
Dean: Had a shit game tonight. Missed the game-winning shot. Cost us the championship.
Mystery person: I'm sorry. That sucks.
Dean: Everyone's pissed at me. Coach barely looked at me after. My dad called and I couldn't even answer because I knew he'd be disappointed.
Mystery person: Dean, it's one game. One shot. That doesn't define you.
Dean: Feels like it does. Hockey is supposed to be my thing, you know? The one thing I'm actually good at. And I fucked it up.
Mystery person: You're good at lots of things. You're smart, you're funny, you're kind even when you pretend not to be. Hockey is something you do, not who you are.
Dean: How do you always know what to say?
Mystery person: I don't. I just say what I think, and hope it helps.
Dean: It does. You have no idea how much it does.
Mystery person: For what it's worth, I think you're pretty amazing. Championship or not.
Dean stared at that message for a long time, something warm and terrifying spreading through his chest.
Dean: I really want to meet you.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Dean's heart was pounding.
Mystery person: I want to meet you too. But I'm scared.
Dean: Of what?
Mystery person: That it won't be the same in person. That we've built this up too much. That you'll be disappointed.
Dean: I could never be disappointed. Not in you.
Mystery person: You don't know that.
Dean: Yes, I do. I know you. Maybe not what you look like or what your real name is, but I know YOU. The important parts.
Mystery person: The important parts?
Dean: Yeah. I know you're the kind of person who sends me stupid memes when I'm having a bad day. Who listens to me complain about my dad without judging me. Who makes me think about things differently. Who makes me want to be better. That's what matters.
Mystery person: You're going to make me cry at 2 AM.
Dean: Sorry.
Mystery person: Don't be. They're good tears.
Dean: So... maybe someday? We could meet?
Mystery person: Maybe someday.
Dean: I can live with maybe.
Mystery person: Me too. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.
Dean: How do you know?
Mystery person: Because you'll wake up and I'll send you a good morning text with a terrible joke, and you'll groan but you'll smile. And then you'll go to practice and you'll nail every shot because you're talented and one bad game doesn't change that. And then you'll text me about your day and I'll tell you about mine and everything will be okay.
Dean: You really believe that?
Mystery person: I really do.
Dean: Okay. Goodnight, mystery person.
Mystery person: Goodnight, Dean.
He fell asleep with his phone in his hand, feeling lighter than he had in hours.
***
Y/n's POV - Three Months In
"Earth to Y/N!"
You jumped, nearly dropping your phone. Your roommate, Sophie, was standing in front of you with her hands on her hips.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to go to that party at the hockey house this weekend. But you were too busy smiling at your phone like a crazy person." Sophie sat down next to you on the couch. "Okay, spill. Who is he?"
"What makes you think it's a he?"
"Because you've been glued to your phone for months, you're always smiling, and you turned down that cute guy from your Psych class. So, who is he?"
You bit your lip. You hadn't told anyone about Dean. It felt too private, too special to share.
"Just someone I've been talking to."
"Talking to or talking to?" Sophie waggled her eyebrows.
"Just talking. We're friends."
"Friends who text 24/7 and make you smile like that? Sure."
You sighed. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"We've never met. We don't even know what each other looks like."
Sophie's eyes widened. "Wait, is this like a catfish situation? Y/N, please tell me you're being careful —"
"It's not like that," you interrupted. "It started as a wrong number thing and we just... kept talking. And now it's been months and I know it sounds crazy but I think I'm falling for him."
"You think or you know?"
"I know," you admitted quietly. "I'm falling for someone I've never met and it's terrifying."
Sophie was quiet for a moment, then she pulled you into a hug. "That's not crazy. It's actually kind of beautiful. But also yes, terrifying. Have you guys talked about meeting?"
"Sort of. We both want to but we're both scared."
"Of what?"
"That it won't be the same. That we've built each other up too much in our heads. That the real versions of us won't match the text versions."
"Or," Sophie said gently, "it could be even better. You won't know until you try."
"I know. I just... I don't want to lose this. What we have right now is perfect."
"Nothing stays perfect forever, babe. Things have to grow and change. That's not a bad thing."
You knew she was right. But knowing something and being ready to act on it were two different things.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean (wrong number): I just saw someone trip over literally nothing and I had to pretend I wasn't laughing. Thought you should know.
You smiled despite yourself.
You: That's amazing. Did they notice you laughing?
Dean: Oh, they definitely noticed. I'm a terrible person.
You: The worst.
Dean: Hey, are you doing anything this weekend?
Your heart skipped.
You: Not really. Why?
Dean: There's this party. At my place, actually. My friends are making me go. I was thinking... maybe you could come too? We don't have to meet or anything. But we'd be in the same place. I don't know, maybe that's weird.
You: Which party?
Dean: The one at the hockey house. Saturday night. You know where it is?
You froze. Sophie was literally just asking if you wanted to go to that exact party.
You: Yeah, I know where it is. My roommate was just asking if I wanted to go.
Dean: Is that a weird coincidence or fate?
You: I don't believe in fate.
Dean: Me neither. But I'm starting to reconsider.
You: So we'd both be there. At the same party. And we still wouldn't know who each other is.
Dean: Yeah. Crazy, right?
You: Completely insane.
Dean: So you'll come?
You looked at Sophie, who was watching you with curious eyes.
You: Yeah. I'll come.
Dean: Cool. Maybe we'll walk right past each other and never know.
You: Or maybe we'll figure it out.
Dean: Maybe. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?
You: I guess we'll find out.
***
The Party - Dean's POV
Dean had changed his shirt three times before Garrett physically dragged him out of his room.
"Dude, you look fine. Why are you so nervous? This is our house. You throw parties here all the time."
"I'm not nervous," Dean lied.
"Right. And I'm the Pope."
The truth was, Dean was terrified. You were going to be at this party. Somewhere in his own house, you'd be there, and he'd have no idea who you were. He'd spent the last three days trying to figure out if there was some way to identify you — some detail you'd mentioned that would give you away — but you'd both been so careful not to reveal too much.
He knew you were in college, probably at the same one as him based on the timing of your messages and the places you mentioned. He knew you liked iced matcha and true crime podcasts. He knew you had a roommate named Sophie who never did her dishes.
But he didn't know your name. Didn't know what you looked like. Didn't know if you'd be wearing red or blue or black.
The house was already packed when the party started. Music pounded through the walls, and people were everywhere: dancing, drinking, talking in clusters. Dean scanned the crowd automatically, even though he had no idea what he was looking for.
"You looking for someone?" Tucker asked, appearing at his elbow with a beer.
"No. Maybe. I don't know."
"Is mystery person here?"
Dean had eventually told his friends the full story, enduring endless teasing in the process. But they'd been surprisingly supportive, even if they thought he was crazy.
"Yeah. Somewhere."
"That's both romantic and completely insane," Logan said. "What's your plan? Just wander around hoping you magically recognize each other?"
"I don't have a plan."
"Clearly."
Dean pulled out his phone.
Dean: I'm here. You?
Mystery person: Yeah. This is surreal.
Dean: Tell me about it. I keep looking at everyone wondering if it's you.
Mystery person: Same. I've made eye contact with like five different people and panicked each time.
Dean: What if we walk right past each other?
Mystery person: What if we already have?
Dean looked around the room again, his heart racing. You could be anyone. The girl by the kitchen laughing with her friends. The one dancing in the living room. The one standing alone by the window, looking at her phone.
His phone buzzed.
Mystery person: I'm scared.
Dean: Me too.
Mystery person: What if this ruins everything?
Dean: What if it makes everything better?
Mystery person: Always the optimist.
Dean: One of us has to be.
"Dean! Come do a shot!" Beau called from the kitchen.
He ignored them, too focused on his phone.
Mystery person: Are you having fun at least?
Dean: Not really. I'm too busy trying to figure out which person you are.
Mystery person: Any guesses?
Dean: Everyone and no one.
Mystery person: Helpful.
Dean: You're not making this easier either.
Mystery person: I know. I'm sorry. I just... I don't want to lose you.
Dean's chest tightened.
Dean: You won't. No matter what happens tonight, you won't lose me.
Mystery person: Promise?
Dean: Promise.
***
Y/n's POV
You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.
Sophie had abandoned you twenty minutes ago to dance with some guy from her Chemistry class, leaving you standing awkwardly by the drinks table, clutching your phone like a lifeline.
Dean was here. Somewhere in this house, breathing the same air, drinking the same cheap beer, existing in the same physical space as you for the first time in three months.
And you had no idea who he was.
You'd been scanning the crowd constantly, trying to match faces to the person you'd built up in your mind. But it was impossible. Dean could be anyone. The tall guy with dark hair by the stairs. The one playing beer pong in the corner. The one who just walked past you to grab a drink.
Your phone was your anchor, the only thing keeping you from completely spiraling.
Dean: Still here?
You: Yeah. Still terrified.
Dean: Same. I've never been so nervous at a party in my life.
You: At least we're nervous together.
Dean: There's something poetic about that. Two people, same place, same fear, completely unaware of each other.
You: Or maybe we're totally aware and just don't realize it yet.
Dean: That's a nice thought.
You looked up from your phone and scanned the room again. A group of guys near the kitchen were laughing about something. One of them was on his phone, smiling at the screen.
Could that be him?
Your heart raced as you watched him type something. Your phone buzzed.
Dean: I wish I knew what you looked like. Just so I could stop wondering.
It wasn't him. The guy by the kitchen was still laughing with his friends, phone forgotten.
You: Would it change anything?
Dean: No. But it might make this easier.
You: Or harder.
Dean: How so?
You: Because then it becomes real. Right now, we exist in this bubble where nothing can touch us. The second we meet, that bubble pops.
Dean: Maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe bubbles are meant to pop.
You: When did you become so philosophical?
You:: When I started falling for someone I've never met.
You stopped breathing. He'd never said anything like that before. You'd danced around it, implied it, felt it, but never said it.
You: Dean...
Dean: Sorry. Too much?
You: No. Not too much. Just... unexpected.
Dean: I've been holding that in for weeks. Felt like the right time to say it.
You: At a party where we're both present but can't find each other?
Dean: Exactly. If I'm going to be vulnerable, might as well go all in.
You smiled despite your nerves.
You: For what it's worth, I'm falling too.
Dean: Yeah?
You: Yeah. Pretty hard, actually.
Dean: That's good. I'd hate to be falling alone.
You: You're not alone. You're never alone.
You looked up again, and this time your eyes landed on someone new. A guy standing with a group of friends, tall and athletic-looking, with blonde hair and a strong jaw. He was on his phone, and something about the way he smiled at the screen made your stomach flip.
He looked up, and for a second, your eyes met across the room. Then someone bumped into you, breaking the moment, and when you looked back, he was talking to his friends again.
Dean: I have a crazy idea.
You: I'm listening.
Dean: What if we give each other a hint? Something small. Just to narrow it down.
You: Like what?
Dean: I don't know. A piece of clothing we're wearing? Where we're standing?
Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it over the music.
You: That's terrifying.
Dean: I know. But I really want to meet you. And I think if we don't do it tonight, we might never do it.
He was right. You could feel it; this was the moment. The tipping point. You either took the leap or you stayed in the safety of your bubble forever.
You: Okay. One hint.
Dean: You go first.
You: Why me?
Dean: Because I'm nervous and I need a minute to work up the courage.
You laughed, the sound getting lost in the noise of the party.
You: Okay. I'm wearing a black top. Your turn.
Dean: That's like half the people here.
You: I know. Your turn.
There was a pause. You watched the three dots appear and disappear multiple times.
Dean: I'm wearing a white shirt. And I'm standing near the kitchen.
Your head snapped up. The kitchen. White shirt.
There were three guys near the kitchen. One in a grey shirt. One in black. And one in white.
The one you'd made eye contact with earlier.
He was looking at his phone again, and you watched as he typed something. Your phone buzzed.
Dean: This is insane.
You: Completely.
Dean: I think I might throw up.
You: Same.
You started walking toward the kitchen, your legs shaking. This was it. This was actually happening.
You were about ten feet away when someone grabbed your arm.
"Y/N! There you are!" Sophie appeared out of nowhere, slightly drunk and very enthusiastic. "You have to come meet this guy, he's so funny —"
"Sophie, not now —"
"It'll just take a second —"
She was dragging you away from the kitchen, away from the guy in the white shirt, and you wanted to scream. You looked back over your shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of him, but he'd turned away, talking to his friends.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean: Where are you? I'm by the kitchen but I don't see anyone in a black top looking for me.
You: I'm trying to get there but my roommate grabbed me. Give me a second.
Dean: No rush. I'm not going anywhere.
Sophie finally released you after introducing you to some guy whose name you immediately forgot. You made your excuses and headed back toward the kitchen, your heart in your throat.
But when you got there, the guy in the white shirt was gone.
You spun around, scanning the crowd, but you couldn't see him anywhere.
You: I'm by the kitchen but I don't see you.
Dean: I'm here. White shirt, blonde hair.
You: There's no one matching that description here right now.
Dean: What? I'm literally standing right here.
You looked around again, confused and frustrated. There were people everywhere, but no one in a white shirt near the kitchen.
You: I don't understand. Where are you exactly?
Dean: By the drinks table. Next to the fridge.
Your stomach dropped. The hockey house was huge. There were multiple areas that could be considered "the kitchen" — the main kitchen, the bar area, the back kitchen where they kept extra supplies.
You were in the wrong place.
You: Oh my god. There are multiple kitchen areas. Which one are you in?
Dean: The main one. First floor, front of the house.
You: I'm in the back kitchen. I'm coming to you.
You pushed through the crowd, your heart racing. This was it. You were about to meet him. After three months of texting, of falling for someone you'd never seen, you were about to put a face to the name.
You rounded the corner into the main kitchen and stopped dead.
There were at least fifteen people crammed into the space. And three of them were wearing white shirts.
You: Okay, I'm here. But there are multiple people in white shirts. I need another hint.
Dean: I'm holding a red cup. And I'm talking to three other guys.
You scanned the room. Two of the guys in white shirts were alone. But the third —
He was tall, with blonde hair that fell slightly into his eyes. Athletic build, broad shoulders, the kind of face that probably broke hearts without trying. He was holding a red cup and talking to three other guys — one brunet, one with a cap, one with a bright smile.
And then he looked down at his phone. You watched him type.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean: I'm the one who just checked his phone.
It was him.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Dean — your Dean, the person you'd been falling for through months of texts — was Dean Di Laurentis. Star hockey player. Campus heartthrob. The guy who had a different girl on his arm every week.
Or at least, he used to.
Your mind was reeling. All those conversations about feeling like he was living someone else's life, about the pressure from his family, about hockey being both his passion and his prison — that was Dean Di Laurentis.
And he'd been texting you. Falling for you.
You must have made a sound — a gasp or a laugh or something — because suddenly his head snapped up and his eyes locked on yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stared at each other across the crowded kitchen, recognition dawning on both your faces.
Then his eyes widened. His phone slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.
"No way," he said, loud enough for you to hear over the music.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only watch as he pushed through the crowd toward you, his friends calling after him in confusion.
He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, could smell his cologne, could feel the heat radiating off him.
"It's you," he said, his voice rough with disbelief. "You're — it's you."
"It's me," you managed to say.
"Y/N," he said, testing your name on his tongue. "Your name is Y/N."
"And you're Dean Di Laurentis."
"You know who I am?"
"Everyone knows who you are."
He laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "I can't believe this. All this time, I've been texting you. You've been right here, on campus, and I had no idea."
"I had no idea either."
"I've seen you before," he said suddenly. "In the library. You're always in the corner by the window. And in the coffee shop — you order iced matchas."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you. I just didn't know it was you I was noticing."
Your head was spinning. This was too much, too fast, too overwhelming.
"I need air," you said.
"Okay. Yeah. Let's go outside."
He grabbed your hand — actually grabbed your hand, his fingers lacing through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world — and led you through the crowd. People called out to him, tried to stop him, but he ignored them all, focused entirely on you.
The backyard was quieter, cooler. There were a few people scattered around, but Dean led you to a corner away from everyone else. He didn't let go of your hand.
"I can't believe this," he said again. "You're real. You're here. You're you."
"Did you think I wasn't real?"
"No, I just — I built you up so much in my head. I was terrified you'd be disappointed when we met."
"Disappointed? Dean, have you looked in a mirror?"
He laughed. "That's not what I meant. I meant disappointed in who I am. The real me, not the text version."
"The real you is the text version. That's the whole point."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the intensity in his gaze made your knees weak.
"You're beautiful," he said softly. "I mean, I knew you would be. But you're really beautiful."
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it's not fair. You're Dean Di Laurentis. You're —"
"I'm the guy who's been falling for you for three months," he interrupted. "That's who I am. Everything else is just noise."
"Dean —"
"I know this is crazy. I know we just met, technically. But I feel like I've known you forever. Like I've been waiting to find you."
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Yeah?" He stepped closer, and you could feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him. "Can I tell you something else?"
"Okay."
"I'm really glad I texted the wrong number that day."
You laughed, the sound breaking through your nerves. "Me too."
"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "I've been wanting to kiss you since the moment I realized it was you."
"We just met."
"We've known each other for three months."
"That's different."
"Is it?" He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Because it doesn't feel different. It feels like I've been waiting for this moment since that first text."
Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might explode. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"You can kiss me."
He smiled — that same smile you'd imagined a thousand times but never seen — and leaned in. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and then his lips were on yours.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid you might disappear. But then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, and something ignited between you. The kiss deepened, became more urgent, three months of tension and longing and falling pouring into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"Wow," he said.
"Yeah."
"That was —"
"I know."
He laughed, resting his forehead against yours. "I don't want this night to end."
"It doesn't have to."
"No?"
"We could stay out here. Actually talk face to face for once."
"I'd like that." He pulled back slightly, his hands still on your waist. "But first, I need to know something."
"What?"
"Remember that thing you said about the penguin who thought he was a flamingo? The one who kept trying to stand on one leg and kept falling over?"
You laughed. "Yeah, you said it reminded you of yourself at formal events."
"Exactly. And you said —"
"I said at least the penguin was trying, which is more than most people do."
His face broke into the biggest grin you'd ever seen. "That's our thing. That's how I know it's really you."
"We already know it's really us, Dean."
"I know. But it's nice to have proof." He pulled you closer. "The penguin who thought he was a flamingo. That's going to be our inside joke forever now."
"Forever?"
"Yeah. Forever. If you'll have me."
Your heart swelled. "I think I can manage that."
He kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't care. Anywhere. As long as it's with you."
You smiled, reaching up to touch his face. He was real. Solid. Here.
"Okay. Let's go."
He grabbed your hand and led you back through the house. His friends — Garrett, Tucker, Logan, and Beau — were standing in the kitchen, watching with knowing grins.
"Dean, who is that?" Garrett called out.
Dean looked at you, his eyes bright with happiness and something that looked a lot like love.
"Someone I've been waiting for," he said.
***
Later That Night
You ended up at a 24-hour diner on the edge of campus, sitting across from each other in a corner booth. It was nearly 2 AM, and the place was almost empty except for a few other late-night stragglers.
Dean had ordered pancakes. You'd gotten an iced matcha, which made him laugh.
"Of course you did."
"What? You knew I liked them."
"I know. It's just nice to actually see you drink one."
You talked for hours. About everything and nothing. All the things you'd already discussed over text, but better now because you could see his expressions, hear his laugh, watch the way his eyes lit up when he got excited about something.
"I still can't believe it was you," he said for the hundredth time. "All those times I saw you on campus and thought you were cute, and it was you."
"You thought I was cute?"
"Are you kidding? I almost talked to you like five different times. But I always chickened out."
"Why?"
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I don't know. You always seemed so focused, so in your own world. I didn't want to bother you. Plus, I had this reputation, you know? The guy who hooks up with everyone. I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me."
"I wouldn't have judged you."
"Yeah, well. I know that now." He reached across the table and took your hand. "I'm really glad we found each other. Even if it was by accident."
"Me too."
"So what happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we've been doing this backwards. We fell for each other first, and now we're meeting. So what's the next step?"
You thought about it. "I guess we just... keep doing what we've been doing. Talking. Getting to know each other. Except now we can do it in person."
"I like that plan." He paused. "Can I take you on a date? A real one?"
"This isn't a real date?"
"This is a 2 AM diner run after a party where we discovered we've been accidentally falling in love for three months. That's not a date, that's a rom-com plot."
You laughed. "Fair point. Yes, you can take me on a real date."
"Tomorrow?"
"Eager much?"
"I've been waiting three months. I'm done waiting."
"Tomorrow sounds perfect."
He smiled, that same smile that had been making your heart race all night, and squeezed your hand.
"I'm really glad I texted the wrong number," he said again.
"Me too, Dean. Me too."
***
Epilogue - Three Months Later
Dean ❤️
11:47 PM
Dean ❤️: You still awake?
You: Yeah. Missing you.
Dean ❤️: I literally just dropped you off.
You: I know. Still missing you.
Dean ❤️: You're ridiculous.
You: You love it.
Dean ❤️: I really do. I’m here.
You: I thought you left?
Dean ❤️: Didn’t want to leave you.
You: Sophie's at her boyfriend's. We're alone.
Dean ❤️: In that case...
Two seconds later, there was a knock on your door. You opened it to find Dean standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep, grinning at you.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi yourself."
He pulled you into his arms, kissing you softly. "This is better than texting."
"Agreed."
You pulled him inside, and he collapsed onto your bed, pulling you down next to him. You curled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I was thinking," he said, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.
"Dangerous."
"Shut up. I was thinking about that first text. The wrong number."
"What about it?"
"I don't think it was wrong. I think it was exactly right. Like the universe knew we needed to find each other."
"I thought you didn't believe in fate."
"I didn't. But then I met you."
You tilted your head up to look at him. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you."
"Good. I'd hate to share."
He laughed, pulling you closer. "Never. You're stuck with me now."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both."
You kissed him, slow and sweet, and thought about how crazy it was that a simple wrong number had led to this. To him. To the best thing that had ever happened to you.
"Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember the penguin who thought he was a flamingo?"
He smiled against your lips. "How could I forget? That's our thing."
"I think we're like that penguin. Trying to be something we're not, until we found each other and realized we were perfect just the way we are."
"That's really deep for midnight."
"I have my moments."
"You have a lot of moments. All of them perfect." He kissed your forehead. "I love you, you know that?"
Your heart skipped. He'd never said it before. Not like this. Not out loud.
"I love you too," you whispered.
"Good. Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
And somewhere in the universe, fate smiled, knowing it had gotten this one exactly right.
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
You could make a vent post about having no friends and it’ll blow up and people will start reblogging it just to say things in the tags like “#this would be me except I’m beloved in the community and every year all my awesome friends who would die for me come together and throw me a big surprise party because they adore me so deeply”
Based on this request: idk if you've ever seen this cute trend on tiktok, "seeing if my boyfriend melts if i kiss him"🥹 i feel like it's so evan because he DEFINITELY melts in the kiss, so much so that he ends up carrying the reader around just because it's clingy and he loves her so so much and he likes feeling her close; he would get inside her skin if he could.🥴🥴
"Can you hold your arms out to the side of you, please?" You ask Buck, two minutes after he comes back home from work.
Buck nods and automatically does what you ask him, slugging off his work bag in the process. The inherent trust that your boyfriend had in you was so endearing, but you didn't have time to dwell on that right now.
You saw the trend floating around social media; where girlfriends would see whether their significant other would melt into their kiss. You were pretty sure you knew Buck would - the two of you were still deep in the honeymoon phase of your relationship despite nearly a year together - but you wanted to do the experiment, regardless.
Buck's gaze roams your face, waiting for your next move as he holds his arms out.
You get close to him, chest to chest, before leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck. You lean in to press a kiss on his lips, firm and sweet, warmth and the feeling of home spreading through the two of you.
Buck immediately relaxes, body going slack with the simple touch. His arms come to wrap around your waist, picking you up to wrap your legs around his own waist. He walks the two of you towards the kitchen, never once breaking the kiss, before sitting you down gently onto the counter. Buck opens his eyes (when he even closed them, God only knows), slowly and reluctantly. He feels like he’s been injected with serotonin and energy with the simple press of your lips against yours. He is a little dazed, a lot turned on, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He leans back just a bit, before he asks: "What was that for?"
Your tone of voice - breathy and so full of love - isn't all that much better than his when you answer. "Was doing a little experiment."
"I fully support these types of experiments." Buck murmurs, before leaning in to connect his mouth with yours, once again.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
its a loser its a menace its buck buckley @buckthemenace - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
