Attn: Alright y’all the time has come 😭 This is the final chapter. I’m feeling super emotional (also a little nervous tbh) about it because this fic has absolutely been my baby but I feel it’s run it’s course. I’m so glad you all have enjoyed it so much and I hope I you all enjoy this final installment!
Word Count: 4,009
Pairing: Carpenter Sy x Wife Reader
Summary: You and Sy bring Charlie home and start your new life as a family.
Warnings: 18+, postpartum things (nothing too graphic), Papa Bear Sy, insecurity/angst, oral (male and female receiving), smidge of lactation kink, fingering, sex (p in v), creampie
Previous Part:
Part Eighteen
“Alright there Peanut,” Sy said as he strapped Charlie into the car seat. You two were finally able to leave the hospital and take her home. He’d already loaded all the bags, and made sure you had everything. He threw her backpack style diaper on as a nurse helped you into a wheelchair. “You ready darlin’?,” he asked. “Yeah,” you smiled up at him. He cupped your face and kissed you sweetly before heading out in front of you.
The nurse wheeled you out to a car you didn’t recognize. It was a white, brand new GMC Acadia. “Baby, whose car is this?,” you asked. “Yours darlin’,” he replied with a sheepish grin. “What?,” you asked surprisedly. “Well everybody kept telling me I had to get you a “push present.” Talkin’ about some jewelry or somethin’, but you ain’t about to be worried about jewelry with a brand new baby. You needed a new car,” he said. “Sy,” you said as your lip quivered. “Don’t start crying baby. You deserve it,” he said as he cupped your face tenderly.
He put the car seat in before helping you into the passenger seat. “This is so nice Sy,” you said as you checked it out. “Yeah? You like it?,” he asked. “I love it, and I love you. You’re too good to me,” you told him. “No such thing baby,” he said before leaning across the console to give you a kiss. “Now, let’s go get your meds and head home,” he said. You sat in the car while he stopped at the pharmacy when Charlie started crying. You got out and into the back with her. “Aww what’s the matter?,” you said as you got her out of the seat. “Wet diaper huh baby girl?,” you questioned.
You changed her there in your lap but still she fussed. You figured she was hungry so you lifted your shirt a bit and undid the latch of your nursing tank top to feed her. “Alright,” Sy said as he got into the driver seat. Then looked around confusedly trying to figure out where you were. “Shit baby. I don’t know why I didn’t know where you were,” he laughed. “She needed a fresh diaper and was hungry,” you said softly as you rubbed her little cheek with your thumb. “I think this is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen you be sweetheart,” he breathed.
You looked up and snorted lightly. “What?,” he said as he scrunched his eyebrows together. “I am so tired and I’m positive I look it, I’m bloated, my skin is all pale and dry. I’ve got a diaper on Sy,” you chuckled. “I don’t see any of that,” he told you. “What do you see?,” you asked. “The most beautiful woman in the world. The mother of my child. The love of my life, and everything I’ll ever need,” he said as he looked at you. “You’re just determined to keep me crying today huh?,” you said as tears began falling.
“Baby…,” he said as he got out of the car. He came around and opened the door, taking the both of you in his arms. He tilted your head up so you’d meet his eye. “I wasn’t tryin’ to make you cry little darlin’. It’s just all true,” he said softly. He wiped away a tear before kissing you lovingly. “I love you,” you told him. “I love you too,” he breathed. When Charlie was done eating you put her back in her seat and the three of you headed home.
Sy went ahead of you to make sure Aika wasn’t too riled up before coming back and helping you in as you held Charlie in your arms. You were met by both her and Cookie when you came in the door. You made your way to Sy’s chair before sitting and letting them both sniff at her curiously. The two of them had hardly left your side during your pregnancy, now it would seem they were going to be the same now she was here.
“It’s so good to be home,” Sy said as he sat beside you and held you and Charlie close. “It is,” you agree. The next week the two of you spent time trying to figure things out with your new addition. You loved watching Sy be a dad. He was so sweet. Currently he was walking around shirtless doing a little skin to skin with Charlie while you pumped.
Tomorrow night both your parents were coming to visit. They were going to making dinner and bringing it to your house. Nick, Janie, and the kids were going to wait to visit the next week so things wouldn’t get too overwhelming. “You excited to meet your grandparents tonight Peanut?,” Sy asked her. “I’m going to have to actually put clothes on,” you chuckled. You’d taken to walking around in your nursing tank and mesh bottoms most days. Sy grinned sheepishly. “Yeah that’s the only downside,” he said.
“You find this sexy? The postpartum bod?,” you laughed. “Sexier than ever darlin’,” he said sincerely. You smiled softly as his eyes shone while he looked at you. You knew he meant it even though you felt the farthest thing from sexy right then. “I’ll be glad when I can show you,” he said barely above a whisper. You could feel heat rushing to your face and you suddenly becoming very shy. “Mama’s the prettiest mama in the world ain’t she Peanut?,” he then said to Charlie.
That evening both your parents and Sy’s showed up with so much food it was unreal but you weren’t complaining. They all doted upon Charlie all while making you feel cared for and loved. You were sitting there eating some of your mom’s lasagna while Mamaw held Charlie. “She’s just perfect baby girl,” she told you. “She really is,” you said as you looked at her sweet little face. “Yeah you two did real good,” Kerry Beth added sweetly.
Before leaving they insisted on doing all the cleaning and let you go about your nightly routine with Charlie. “That was fun but I am beat,” you yawned. “Yeah me too darlin’,” you ready to go to sleep?,” Sy asked. “Sure am,” you replied as he curled up behind you. “I love you,” he then told you. “I love you too,” you replied.
The next week Nick, Janie, and all the kids came. Livie was five now and so excited to finally meet “her baby.” They brought food as well all took turns checking on you and holding Charlie. “She’s my little best friend,” Livie said happily as she sat and held her. It was so sweet.
Before the two of you realized an entire month had passed. “I can’t believe she’s a month old now. Where did the time go?,” you said through the tears. “Aw now don’t cry darlin’,” Sy said as he comforted you. “It’s just going so fast already,” you sniffled. “I know baby,” he said softly. That evening you put Charlie to bed and decided you wanted to join Sy for his shower.
“Well this is a nice surprise,” he smiled as he held his arms open. You quickly put yourself between them and embraced him. “I miss…,” you began. “I know darlin’. Me too. You healin’ properly is more important to me, of course, but believe me I know,” he chuckled. “You do?,” you asked softly. Sy’s brows furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I darlin’?,” he asked confusedly. “Well I mean I’m… still a little squishy and I haven’t shaved in forever. Then I feel so tired all the time and feel like I’ve aged. And-,” you said before he cut you off with a kiss.
“Baby I don’t got a clue what you’re talkin’ about. You look just the same as you did before. Hell, to me you don’t even look like you just had a baby. You look… so fuckin’ good,” he rasped as his hands ran down to cup your ass. “Yeah?,” you questioned. “Hell yes,” he reiterated. He kissed you again before spinning you around and putting your back to his chest. “This body…,” he said as he ran his hands all over you, “is perfect. It’s beautiful, strong, capable, and absolutely perfect.” You shuddered as he gently rubbed your clit. You leaned back into him as he continued. He kissed your neck, never stopping his rubbing your sensitive pearl. “You’re gonna come for me ain’t you darlin’? I know it’s been a long time but I’ve gotcha. Just let go when you’re ready,” he said soothingly.
You let it wash over you, trembling there in his arms. It felt a little different being it was your first after giving birth but still felt good all the same. You turned around and kissed Sy hungrily before kissing his neck and chest. You moved to go lower when Sy took your face in his hands. “You ain’t got to baby,” Sy told you. “Please let me. You’ve been so good Sy. Taking care of me and Charlie and everything around this house. Being such a good husband and father,” you said between wet kisses around his nipples. “I’m just doin’ what I’m supposed to darlin’,” he said shakily as you kissed down his stomach. “I know and I really appreciate it,” you said as you stroked him a few times.
You greedily sucked him into your mouth, moaning softly at the taste of him. “Fuck…,” he whined. His hips rocked forward gently, unable to help himself with the way you were taking him. It wasn’t long before you had him crumbling above you. “Just like that baby. Oooh… I’m gonna come. Gonna be so much,” he huffed out. You sucked down harder and reached between his legs to fondle his balls. His fingers dug hard into the flesh of his thighs as he strained to be quiet. You could see actual tears in the corners of his eyes as he came down your throat. He was right too, it was a lot but you graciously swallowed down every last bit.
He slid down the wall of the shower in a crumpled, panting mess as you sat across from him. “Come here,” he managed. You crawled into his lap and let him hold you until he calmed down. “That was so good baby, thank you,” he said as your head rested on his chest. “Anytime,” you smiled softly.
The next week Sy had to go into work a bit and while you knew it was coming sometime, it didn’t mean you had to like it. “Do you really have to go,” you said near tears. “I thought I did but you’re really making me second guess it baby,” he said softly. “I’m sorry,” you pouted. “You ain’t gotta be sorry sweetheart. Believe me I don’t want to go. Leavin’ you two…,” he trailed off as he looked down at Charlie. He took the both of you in his arms and brought you closer. He swapped between kissing your lips and her little head over and over. “I just need to go in and check on things. Make sure the guys are doin’ alright. Hopefully I won’t be gone too long,” he said as he looked down at you.
Finally you two were able to let go of one another and let Sy out the door. “So what are we going to do today huh? Daddy already cleaned everything. I guess just chillin’. What you think little lady?,” you asked Charlie. She smacked her lips softly while she slept. You smiled to yourself as you took in her features. She really did look like Sy. From her little nose to her blue eyes and soft chocolate curls. You decided to lay her down in her bassinet in the living room and watch a little tv.
You nursed her periodically as she was hungry and around ten you got a snack then decided to spread out on the couch. You didn’t realize you’d dozed off until Sy came in a shook you gently. “Darlin’,” he said softly. You smiled up at him sleepily. “Hey. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?,” you asked. “It’s twelve. Baby you’re leakin’,” he said as he pointed at your boobs. That’s when you noticed he had the pump in his hands. “Oh crap,” you said noticing your soaked nursing tank. He set up the pump up for you as you removed your shirt.
“I didn’t think to put pads on, which I didn’t plan on falling asleep either,” you said as you began pumping. “Shit happens baby plus you needed that rest. I’ll go grab you another top,” he said before giving you a kiss. “Thanks,” you said when he returned. He sat beside you and held you close while you let the pump run. “I missed you so much today,” he told you. “I missed so much too Sy. You have no idea,” you said as he cupped your face. He began to kiss you softly when Charlie stirred. “Well look who’s awake,” he smiled as he scooped her up. He kissed her cheeks and rocked her a bit when you two heard something unmistakable.
“I see how you feel little girl. Poop on Daddy, huh? Well I missed you so I’ll take the poop and all,” he chuckled as he left went to her room to change her. When he returned you were done pumping and had put your top on along with a sweater on the back of the couch. “You cold baby?,” he asked. “Just got a little chilly being topless,” you replied. “I think she’s hungry now. You want me to feed her or you alright to nurse her since you just pumped?,” he asked. “I’m good baby. Would you mind putting those bags in the freezer for now?,” you asked. “Of course,” he replied.
So far your supply had been doing well but you tried to pump a few times a day just to have a stash just in case. “I got us some food from Rusty’s on the way in,” he said as he brought you a plate. “Oh thank you,” you said as your stomach growled loudly. You situated Charlie on the nursing pillow so she’d be able to continue nursing while you ate as well. “Mmm,” you said as you bit into your sandwich. “Good?,” he asked as he ate his burger. “Yes. I haven’t ate much today since I slept. I’m starving,” you told him. “Well I’m glad I got this then,” he smiled.
“Yeah me too because I didn’t think to tell you, we need groceries,” you said. “That’s alright. I can go after we eat,” Sy said. “Well… I was wondering if we could all go. I haven’t been outside the house in so long,” you replied. “If you think you’re ready baby, I’m totally fine with that,” he said. “I am,” you told him. “Alright then. We gotta make a list,” he said.
You two got a list together before getting everything ready to go. When you arrived at the store you opted for baby wearing so you could keep Charlie close. “This is so cute. Next time can I wear the carrier?,” Sy asked. “Of course,” you smiled. You two were in the produce just minding your business. Sy was over by the potatoes while you picked a few bell peppers when you got the crap scared out of you. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doin’?,” Sy barked. You turned to see him holding this middle aged woman by the wrist.
“I was just going to touch the baby’s little head,” she said. You hadn’t even noticed her come up behind you. “You go up touching adult’s heads without their consent?,” he said as he let her go but still kept himself between you two and the woman. “Well… no, but I mean it’s a baby and she looks so cute,” she said. “She’s a human being, and you’ll do best to carry your ass on somewhere,” he said sternly. “Well I never,” she muttered as she walked away. Seeing Sy go all Papa Bear did something unexpected to you.
“That was hot as hell,” you breathed. “What?,” he chuckled. “I want to make out with you in this grocery store right now,” you said making him laugh uproariously. “Well, Mrs. Syverson, you’re makin’ me blush,” he said as he put his arms around you. You smiled up at him before giving him a kiss. “I’ll keep it PG for now Papa Bear,” you winked before going to bag up your bell peppers. The rest of the trip to the store was relatively uneventful thankfully and you were able to get everything you needed before heading back home.
The week came and went and the time for your six week checkup was upon you. You were so nervous which was silly. You wanted to get your birth control and be cleared for sex, but damn were you anxious. You wanted Sy so bad but what if things weren’t the same, didn’t feel the same. You waited anxiously in the exam room while Sy held Charlie. Your doctor came in a cooed over the baby and did your exam.
“Everything looks great. You want birth control?,” she asked. “Yes, I do,” you replied. “Okay while nursing you’ll have to take the mini pill. It’s important to take it the same time each day, alright? Seven days on then you’ll be protected from pregnancy. I’ll send that in right when I leave out of here,” she said. “Sounds good,” you replied. The next week you could really tell Sy was chomping at the bit. He could hardly keep his hands to himself and you yourself were becoming quite restless but still a bit nervous.
It was finally the big night and after Sy went to put Charlie to bed he came back and put himself between your legs and over top of you. He kissed you hungrily but seemed to notice your hesitance. “What’s wrong darlin?,” he asked concernedly. “W- what if it… what if I-,” you stammered. “Hey,” he said as he caressed your face. “Yeah?,” you said softly. “We ain’t in any hurry. Let me take care of you,” he whispered. He ran his hands under your shirt and went to push it up. “I’ll get milk on you,” you told him. “I don’t care. I’ll bathe in that shit baby. Please. I wanna see,” he begged.
You let him take your shirt off and run his hands over your breast. “Pretty titties,” he mumbled before bending down to kiss them. At first he steered clear of your nipples but couldn’t help himself. He sucked one into his mouth and hummed. “Sy,” you gasped. He then gave your other breast the same treatment. “You… you just…,” you said in shock. He shrugged with a smirk. “Tastes pretty good actually,” he said before kissing down your body.
He quickly put his mouth on your clit and groaned deeply. You mewled at the feeling of him absolutely slurping on you. “Sy… fuck,” you moaned softly before he slid his fingers inside you. You began grinding down on his face and fingers chasing release. You bit down on your lip to keep yourself quiet as you came. You sandwiched Sy’s head between your legs as you huffed through your nose and trembled while he worked you through your orgasm. “Fuck yes,” he rasped before kissing up your body. “That was beautiful baby. YOU are beautiful,” he said as he teased your entrance with the tip of his cock.
“I’m ready Sy. Give it to me,” you told him. “You can have whatever you want baby,” he said as he eased into you. He kissed you softly as he moved forward. “Oooh shit,” he shuddered once he was fully set. “Mmmm,” you whimpered. “You alright baby? Feel okay?, he asked. “Yeah it’s just…,” you trailed off. “Fucking tight,” he strained. “Yeah,” you whispered. He began moving his hips slowly and with time you started loosening up.
“Harder,” you said as you clung to him. “Baby I- I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said. “You won’t Sy. It feels so good I just need really need it. Please,” you begged. He kissed you fiercely as he moved his hips faster. “Mmhmm,” you whined against his lips. “Fuckin’ so good and tight.. not gonna last much longer baby,” he said huskily. “Don’t stop… I’m so close. Don’t-,” you gasped as your orgasm hit you full force. “Oh my God,” you groaned as your eyes rolled back. Your legs shook at the intensity of it, while Sy began unloading inside of you. A shiver overtook his body making him shake with his last thrust.
He took your face in his hands and kissed you lovingly. “Mmmm. You alright baby?,” he asked as brushed the hair away from your face. “I’m great,” you smiled. He had a goofy grin on his face as well before he kissed you again. “We better get cleaned up real quick in case Charlie wakes up,” he said as he carried you to the shower. You looked at him dreamily as he sat you on your feet. “What baby?,” he chuckled lightly. “I just love you,” you sighed. “I love you too,” he replied with a kiss.
2 Years Later
It was a warm summer day. You, Sy, Charlie, and Aika were out in the yard having a fun time playing in the sprinkler. For a moment you were sat back on your towel while Sy chased Charlie around. “I’m gonna get you,” he growled, making her squeal. “No Dada!,” she giggled. You watched them and felt so much love in your heart. You couldn’t believe this way your life, your family. You felt like your heart could just burst as Sy scooped Charlie up in his big arms.
He was grinning from ear to ear as he tickled her little tummy. “Mama! Help!,” she called out. “Mama’s coming!,” you said as you got up. She reached out to you as you came close and took her in your arms. “Haha Dada!,” she said. “Haha?,” he said as he arched an eyebrow before scooping the both of you up. “Sy,” you laughed. “Oh no!,” Charlie yelled.
“Now Daddy has both of us. What are we gonna do?,” you asked her. “I not know Mama!,” she laughed. He kissed you then her before sitting you on your feet. She wiggled until you put her down so she could go back to the sprinkler. Sy took you in his arms and gave you a kiss before you two watched her play. “Gah we made a cute baby,” he said. “Yeah. I think it’s about time to make another,” you said sheepishly. “Oh darlin. You’re serious?,” he asked. “Yeah of course, why?,” you asked. “Because I’ve been hopin’ you’d tell me that,” he smiled. “Yeah?,” you questioned. “Hell yeah,” he said as he picked you up and spun you around.
“I sure do love you,” he said with a kiss. “And I love you,” you replied. “Uh oh!,” Charlie said as she managed to turn the sprinkler over sideways. “Hold on baby, Daddy can fix that,” he said as he went over to her. She clapped her tiny hands happily as he set the sprinkler right for her to play. You looked at him and smiled. From the moment you two met he’d been fixing things, and now he was your forever. He’d always been there, just like he’d been from the moment you met, and definitely after you agreed to let him love you. You couldn’t believe how incredibly lucky you were to have him. Just the thought brought tears to your eyes.
“You comin’ back to play Mama?,” he asked with that lopsided grin you loved so much. “Comin’ Mama?,” Charlie asked as well. “Yeah my babies. Here I come,” you smiled.
Dean Di Laurentis x pop star!Reader x Garrett Graham
Summary: fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now
Warnings: 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage. You stand in the center of the soundstage, the heat from the overhead lights baking into your bare skin. You’re wearing something that barely qualifies as clothing — a web of rhinestones, leather straps, and sheer mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Cut!”
The music cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Shawn’s voice echoes over the PA system, sharp and irritated. A second later, he’s stepping out from behind the monitors and striding toward you.
Shawn. Your manager. The owner of your record label.
Your boyfriend.
The word feels like ash in your mouth. He’s forty-two. You just turned twenty-one. He’s been the center of your universe since you were fifteen, the man who “discovered” you, molded you, and eventually, when you turned eighteen, moved you into his bed. He tells you he loves you. He tells you nobody else understands you.
Right now, he looks pissed.
“You’re stiff,” Shawn says, stepping into your personal space. He doesn’t care about the dozens of crew members watching. His hands settle heavily on your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin. “You look like a mannequin out there. Loosen up.”
You swallow hard, wrapping your arms around your torso. The air conditioning in the studio is freezing, but you’re sweating under the lights. “I’m trying, Shawn. But this choreography … it’s a lot. It doesn’t feel like me.”
He sighs, a harsh, condescending sound. He reaches up and brushes a stray piece of hair out of your face, his touch lingering. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. ‘You’ is what I say it is. This is what sells. Do you want the new album to flop? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“No,” you whisper automatically. It’s the answer you always give. “But the floor work-”
“The floor work is the climax of the video,” he interrupts smoothly. “When the beat drops, I want you on your knees. Look up at the camera. Part your lips. Make them want you.”
You stare at him, a knot tightening in your throat. “Make them want me how?”
“Mime it,” he says, dropping his voice, though the mic pack on his hip is probably picking it up. “You know exactly what I mean. Down on your knees. Work the air like you’re taking it. It’s edgy. It’s what the fans want to see from you now.”
The studio spins.
You look past him, catching the eye of the cameraman, the lighting tech, the makeup artist hovering with a powder brush. They all look away. Nobody says a word. Nobody ever says a word.
“No,” you say.
The syllable slips out before you can stop it.
Shawn’s eyes narrow. The charming, paternal warmth he uses in interviews vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” Your voice shakes, but you force the words out. The knot in your chest is expanding, turning into a crushing weight. “I’m not doing that. I’m a singer, Shawn. I’m not doing softcore porn for a music video.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he snaps, stepping closer. “I made you. You would be singing in dive bars in the Midwest if it weren’t for me. You think you have a career without me? You think anyone gives a shit about your voice? They want to look at you.”
“Stop.” You take a step back, your heel catching on one of the leather straps of your thigh-high boots. You stumble, barely catching your balance.
“Get back on your mark,” Shawn orders, pointing at the tape on the floor. “Music!”
The bass blasts through the speakers again. The lights flash.
“Action!”
“No!” You scream it this time, covering your ears. The noise is too loud. The lights are too bright. The walls are closing in. You can’t breathe. You pull at the tight choker around your neck, ripping the rhinestones away.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Shawn yells over the track.
You don’t answer. You turn and run.
You push past the backup dancers, shove through the heavy soundproof doors of the studio, and burst out into the hallway. You’re hyperventilating, tears streaking your heavy stage makeup, ruining the perfect, doll-like face Shawn paid so much for. You just keep running.
***
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END?
TMZ Staff | May 29, 2026
Looks like the pressure of stardom has finally cracked another one, folks.
Sources exclusively tell TMZ that pop sensation and former teen sweetheart had a MASSIVE meltdown on the set of her highly anticipated new music video yesterday afternoon.
Insiders on the set report that the 21-year-old singer completely lost her grip on reality midway through the shoot. According to witnesses, she began screaming at the crew, violently ripping off her custom designer wardrobe, and behaving erratically before fleeing the soundstage in tears.
“It was full-on Britney 2007,” one crew member dishes to us. “She just snapped. She was yelling about the lights and the music, completely out of nowhere. Her boyfriend and manager, Shawn Nichols, was trying to calm her down, but she was completely hysterical.”
But wait, it gets worse.
Sources close to the singer’s camp confirm that following the bizarre outburst, she was transported to a private psychiatric facility in the Los Angeles area and placed on an involuntary 5150 psychiatric hold.
For those keeping track, a 5150 hold means the individual is considered a danger to themselves or others.
Shawn Nichols released a brief statement this morning: “We ask for privacy during this incredibly difficult time. She is receiving the best medical care possible, and we are focused entirely on her mental health and recovery.”
Is this the end of her career? Or just another Hollywood tragedy in the making? Stay tuned.
***
“Dude, this pizza is practically raw in the middle.”
“Then put it in the microwave, Logan. Or starve. I really don’t care.”
Garrett Graham doesn’t look up from his phone as he leans back against the worn fabric of the living room couch. His massive frame takes up entirely too much space, his legs stretched out over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a stack of empty red Solo cups.
“I’m not microwaving pizza, Garrett. What am I, a savage?” Logan complains, tossing the offending slice back into the cardboard box on the kitchen island.
“You literally ate cereal out of a saucepan this morning because you were too lazy to wash a bowl,” Tucker chimes in from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his textbook. “I’d say savage is an understatement.”
“It’s called efficiency, Tuck.”
In the kitchen, Dean is pouring himself a glass of water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his hair still wet from his post-workout shower. Dean is arguably the most objectively beautiful guy in the house — maybe on the entire Briar University campus. He knows it, too. With a trust fund that rivals the GDP of a small country, courtesy of his high-powered attorney parents and his mother’s luxury hotel empire, Dean’s life has always been a gilded ride.
But for all his wealth, Dean is annoyingly grounded. He’s charming, he’s lethal on the ice, and he rarely spends a night without a different girl in his bed. Usually two, if it’s a weekend.
“Speaking of efficiency,” Dean says, leaning against the counter and taking a long drink. “I need one of you to run interference for me tomorrow night. Jennifer wants to ‘talk about us’ after the party.”
Garrett snorts. “There is no ‘us’, man. You’ve hooked up with her twice.”
“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him. “Which is why I need Logan to spill a drink on me, or Tucker to fake a medical emergency. Something. I’m not doing the feelings talk. I don’t do feelings.”
“Handle your own women, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters, his eyes scanning the screen of his phone.
He frowns, his thumb freezing over the screen. He clicks a link on his Twitter feed, leaning forward slightly as the page loads.
“What?” Logan asks, catching the shift in Garrett’s demeanor.
“This article,” Garrett says, his deep voice dropping a fraction. “About that pop singer. The one with the new song that plays every five seconds at the gym.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, walking over and peering over Garrett’s shoulder. “The hot one. What about her?”
“Says she had a complete mental breakdown on set yesterday. TMZ is reporting she got institutionalized. Placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”
“That’s what it says.” Garrett scrolls down, his jaw tightening. “Says she started screaming, ripping off her clothes, and her manager had to step in. Now she’s locked up.”
Dean pulls a face, sinking onto the other end of the couch. “Man, Hollywood is toxic. But wait …” Dean furrows his brow, thinking. “Isn’t her manager also her boyfriend? The guy who runs her label?”
“Yeah. Shawn Nichols,” Logan says, grabbing a different, hopefully more cooked, slice of pizza. “The guy’s a billionaire.”
“He’s also like, fifty,” Dean says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Forty-two,” Garrett corrects, reading from the article.
“Whatever. She just turned twenty-one, right? I remember seeing pictures of her twenty-first birthday party a few weeks ago.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s fucking gross. He’s literally twice her age. And he’s her boss? How is nobody calling that out?”
“Because he has money,” Tucker says simply. “People with that kind of money control the narrative.”
Garrett stays quiet, staring at the screen. The glowing light reflects in his gray eyes. Something about the article is rubbing him the wrong way. It’s an itch right between his shoulder blades.
It’s too neat. Too perfectly packaged. Pop star goes crazy, heroic older boyfriend tries to save her, ultimately has to lock her up for her own good. Garrett knows a thing or two about controlling a narrative. He grew up in a house with a man who was revered by the public. A man who smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and signed autographs, playing the role of the perfect father and the perfect husband. And then the front door would close, and the monster would come out.
His father had beaten his mother for years. And after she died of lung cancer — after the one person who tried to shield Garrett was gone — the violence had turned entirely onto him.
Phil Graham had crafted a perfect public image while systematically destroying his son behind closed doors. So yeah, Garrett has a very finely tuned bullshit detector when it comes to official statements and perfect PR spins.
“It seems fishy,” Garrett says quietly.
“What does?” Dean asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.
“This whole thing.” Garrett tosses his phone onto the coffee table. “She’s twenty-one. She’s been with this guy since she was a teenager. Now suddenly she has a ‘breakdown’ on set, and within twenty-four hours she’s locked in a psych ward on a 5150 hold? That means someone signed off on it. Someone said she was a danger to herself. And I bet you anything it was him.”
Logan stops chewing. “You think he locked her up?”
“I think,” Garrett says, his voice hard, “that it’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do.”
The room goes quiet for a second. The boys know Garrett’s history — or at least, they know enough of it. They know not to push when he gets that dark, stormy look in his eyes.
Dean exhales slowly. “Well, if he is grooming her, that’s sick. I mean, my parents deal with high-profile divorces all the time. You wouldn’t believe the twisted shit rich guys pull to keep their wives or girlfriends in line. Locking her in a facility sounds exactly like something a controlling freak would do to keep her quiet.”
“It’s just another crazy Hollywood story,” Tucker says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing we can do about it from Massachusetts.”
Garrett nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s none of our business.”
He picks up his phone again, closing the browser tab. He forces the image of the girl out of his head. He doesn’t know her. She’s a celebrity, living a million miles away in a world that makes absolutely no sense. He has a hockey season to prepare for. He has a team to captain.
But as he pulls up the team schedule, he can’t quite shake the feeling of unease in his gut. He knows what it feels like to be trapped by someone who claims to love you.
“Anyway,” Dean says, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. “Back to my actual crisis. Jennifer. Tomorrow night. Who is taking the bullet for me?”
“I’ll do it,” Logan groans, tossing his crust back into the box. “But you’re buying the beer for the bender on Friday.”
“Done,” Dean grins, his easy charm returning in full force. “You’re a lifesaver, Logie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Logie.”
The banter flows back into its natural rhythm, loud and effortless. The Briar hockey house goes back to normal. But on the coffee table, Garrett’s phone screen lights up with another notification, another headline flashing across the lock screen.
He flips the phone over, face down.
***
The air in Hastings, Massachusetts, is nothing like Los Angeles. It’s early September, but there’s already a sharp, biting chill in the wind that cuts straight through your oversized flannel shirt. You pull the fabric tighter around your chest, burying your hands in the deep pockets.
“It’s a lot of walking,” David Prescott says, his voice a low, comforting rumble beside you.
David is the Dean of Briar University. He is also your mother’s older brother, the uncle you haven’t seen in almost seven years, not since Shawn systematically cut you off from everyone who wasn’t on his payroll. David is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and kind eyes that look a little too much like your mom’s.
“I don’t mind the walking,” you say quietly. Your voice is still raspy, a lingering side effect of the screaming, the crying, and the long stretches of absolute silence over the past four months. “It’s nice. The air is clean.”
David pauses on the red brick pathway, gesturing to the sprawling, ivy-covered buildings that surround the main quad. Students are milling everywhere — laughing, throwing frisbees, hurrying to class. They look so young. They are your age, but they feel like a different species.
“The Vocal Performance building is just past the library,” David tells you, pointing toward a grand, modern structure made of glass and dark stone. “It’s one of the best programs in the country. Your professors have been briefed. They know you’re transferring in, and they know you want zero special treatment.”
“And they won’t … ask questions?” You ask, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek.
“They are professionals,” David says firmly. He turns to you, his expression softening. He places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch — an involuntary reaction that you hate, a reflex deeply ingrained from hands that grabbed, hands that held you down, hands that forced you into a white room.
David immediately drops his hand, taking a respectful half-step back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you force yourself to say, offering a tight, fragile smile.
“Listen to me,” David says, holding your gaze. “You are safe here. Shawn Nichols cannot get onto this campus. He cannot call you, he cannot dictate your classes, and he absolutely cannot dictate your music. You are here to learn how to produce your own sound, write your own music, and take back your voice. You are just another student at Briar.”
You nod, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. Just another student. That’s all you want. You want to disappear into the crowd. You want to forget the sterile, blinding white lights of the psychiatric facility in Malibu. You want to forget the feeling of the sedatives hitting your bloodstream, making your limbs heavy and your mind thick with fog while Shawn stood in the doorway, watching you with that cold, dead expression, telling the doctors you were a danger to yourself.
You spent two months in that facility. Two months of mandated therapy, group circles, and trying to convince the doctors that you weren’t crazy — that your manager was a controlling, manipulative predator. It was only when David saw the news, hired his own high-powered legal team, and threatened Shawn with a very public, very ugly federal investigation for extortion and abuse that Shawn finally backed down and released his medical hold.
“Thank you, Uncle David,” you whisper. “For everything.”
He offers a gentle smile. “Go to class. Call me if you need anything. My office is always open.”
You take a deep breath, adjust the strap of your plain black backpack, and walk toward the music building.
The first hour actually goes well. Music Theory 301. You sit in the very back row, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your face and a pair of thick, non-prescription glasses. The professor talks about chord progressions and harmonic analysis, and for the first time in years, you feel a genuine spark of interest in music that doesn’t involve a marketing strategy. You take copious notes. You keep your head down.
When the lecture ends, you wait until the classroom is mostly empty before packing up your bag. You slip out into the busy hallway, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Excuse me?”
You freeze.
A girl with chunky highlights is standing in front of you, a smartphone clutched in her hand. She’s staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Um, yes?” You ask, keeping your voice low.
“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It is you. I thought—I saw the rumors on TikTok that you were in Massachusetts, but I didn’t believe it! Oh my god!”
Your heart stutters. “I think you have the wrong person.”
You try to step around her, but she moves to block your path. “No, no, I know it’s you! The voice, the eyes! Guys! Guys, look!” She yells to the crowded hallway.
It happens in a matter of seconds. The whisper network is instantaneous. Heads snap in your direction. The casual hum of the hallway completely vanishes, replaced by a rising, electric buzz of recognition.
“Is that her?” “Holy shit, the pop star?” “I thought she was locked up in a psych ward!” “Look at her, she looks awful.” “Get a picture, get a picture!”
Phones. Dozens of them, raised in the air, the camera lenses staring at you like unblinking eyes.
The air in your lungs vanishes.
You stumble backward, your shoulder slamming into a row of metal lockers. The sound is deafening. The crowd is surging forward, a wall of bodies pressing in from all sides.
“Can we get a picture?” “Where’s Shawn?” “Are you having another breakdown?”
The voices blur together into a terrifying, dissonant roar. The hallway lights seem to burn brighter, painfully searing your retinas. Suddenly, you aren’t in the music building at Briar University anymore. You are back on the soundstage. You are back in the hospital.
Hands reach out, grabbing at your flannel shirt, brushing against your arm.
“Don’t touch me!” You scream, slapping wildly at the air.
“Whoa, freak out,” someone laughs. The flash of a phone camera blinds you.
Your chest tightens like a vise. You can’t breathe. There is no oxygen in the room. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down. You slide down the metal lockers, your knees giving out, hitting the floor hard. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your head in your arms, gasping for air that isn’t there.
They’re going to take me back. They’re going to sedate me. They’re going to lock me up.
“Give me some space! Seriously, back the fuck up!”
The voice is a sudden, booming thunderclap. It cuts through the chatter and the camera shutters like a hot knife.
“Move! Put your damn phones away, what is wrong with you people?” Another voice adds, sharper and laced with disgust.
Footsteps pound against the linoleum. Someone is shoving people aside.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re hyperventilating, your vision swimming with black spots. You’re shaking so violently your teeth are chattering.
“Garrett, her lips are turning blue, man. She’s not breathing right,” the second voice says, sounding alarmed.
“I know. I got it.”
A large, incredibly warm hand hovers over your knee, not quite touching you, respecting your space. “Hey,” the deep voice says again. It’s calm. Incredibly, impossibly calm, anchoring you slightly to the ground. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack. You are safe. Nobody is going to touch you.”
“Dean, clear a path,” the voice commands.
“Way ahead of you. Back off, vultures! Show’s over!”
“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder now, okay?” The deep voice tells you. “I’m going to help you stand up, and we’re going to get out of this hallway.”
You manage a jerky nod. You can’t speak.
A large, firm hand grips your shoulder. The touch isn’t aggressive or grasping; it’s steady and supportive. He pulls you up with effortless strength. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, keeping your face hidden under the brim of your hat, trusting this stranger because the alternative is collapsing on the floor again.
“Keep your head down,” he murmurs, tucking you against his side, shielding you from the crowd with his massive frame. “Walk with me.”
You walk. The second guy — Dean — is walking backward in front of you, literally shoving people out of the way. “Move it, prep school. Put the phone down before I shove it down your throat. Yeah, that’s right, keep walking.”
You burst through a set of heavy double doors, and the shock of the cold September wind hits your face. It helps. It shocks your system just enough to force a ragged breath into your lungs.
They guide you down a side path, away from the quad, ducking behind the large stone architecture of the library until the noise of the crowd fades completely.
“In here,” the deep voice says.
A door opens, and you are ushered into what smells like an old, dusty study room. The door clicks shut behind you, instantly plunging the space into a quiet, comforting stillness.
You collapse into the nearest chair, leaning forward and putting your head between your knees. You focus on the scuffed toes of your boots.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Get her some water,” the deep voice says.
“Yeah, checking my pockets, Garrett, hold on — oh wait, I don’t carry water bottles in my sweatpants,” Dean snaps back, though there’s no real heat in it. “There’s a fountain in the hall. Give me ten seconds.”
The door opens and closes again.
You are alone with Garrett.
He doesn’t crowd you. He pulls up a chair a few feet away and sits down heavily.
“You’re doing good,” Garrett says quietly. His voice is a soothing rumble. “Four seconds in. Hold for four. Four seconds out. Try to match my counting, okay?”
He starts counting. His voice is rhythmic and steady. It takes a few minutes, but slowly, agonizingly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen. The black spots fade from your vision. The terror recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
You finally lift your head, pulling your glasses off your face and wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your flannel sleeve.
You look at him.
Garrett is sitting backward on a wooden chair, his arms crossed over the backrest. He is wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie, his broad shoulders filling out the thick material. He has dark, messy hair and striking gray eyes that are currently watching you with intense, quiet focus. He’s incredibly handsome, but it’s the lack of pity in his expression that catches you off guard. He isn’t looking at you like you’re broken. He’s looking at you like he understands exactly what just happened.
“Better?” He asks softly.
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse. “I’m … I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” Garrett says, his jaw tightening slightly. “People are animals. You got swarmed. Anyone would have panicked.”
The door clicks open, and Dean walks in, holding a paper cup of water. “They only had the tiny cups by the fountain, but-”
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
He stares at you. He looks at the paper cup in his hand, looks back at you, and then looks at Garrett.
Dean is equally as tall as Garrett, with perfectly styled dirty-blonde hair and the kind of sharp, devastatingly good looks that belong on a billboard. Right now, his mouth is slightly open.
“Here’s the water,” Dean says slowly, walking over and handing you the cup. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a small sip. The cool water helps soothe your raw throat.
Dean slowly backs up until he’s standing next to Garrett. He leans down, his eyes fixed on your face. “Garrett.”
“What, Dean?” Garrett asks, sounding slightly annoyed at his friend’s weird behavior.
“Garrett. Look at her.”
“I am looking at her,” Garrett says, though he turns his head to study you more closely.
You shrink back in the chair, pulling the baseball cap lower on your forehead. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold dread. They didn’t know. They helped you because they thought you were just a normal girl. Now they know. Now they’re going to look at you the same way everyone else does. Like a sideshow freak. Like the crazy pop star who got locked up.
Garrett’s brow furrows as he looks at you. His gray eyes trace the line of your jaw, the shape of your eyes, the pink flush still staining your pale cheeks. You can see the exact moment the realization hits him. His eyes widen slightly, his posture going completely rigid.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers into the silence of the room. “You’re … you’re the pop star. From the articles. From the TV.”
You stare down at the paper cup in your hands, your knuckles turning white. “Yes,” you whisper.
“You’re the singer,” Garrett says, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth.
You flinch at his tone. You knew it. The compassion is gone, replaced by whatever judgments he’s formed from reading the tabloids.
“Yes,” you say again, your voice shaking slightly. “I am. Please don’t … please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
Dean crosses his arms, looking completely bewildered. “What are you doing in Hastings? The last time you were on the news, you were being …” He trails off, wincing slightly. “Well, you were in Los Angeles.”
“I was institutionalized,” you say bluntly, finding a sudden, desperate spark of anger. You look up, meeting Dean’s eyes, then Garrett’s. “That’s what you want to say, right? The crazy pop star who had a mental breakdown and got locked in a psych ward. That’s what everyone out there was screaming about. That’s why they had their cameras out.”
Garrett’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it,” you snap, standing up. Your legs are shaky, but you refuse to sit there and be analyzed. “Thank you for getting me out of the hallway. I really appreciate it. But I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need you to gawk at me. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
You grab your backpack from the floor and turn toward the door.
“Hey. Wait.”
Garrett is out of his chair in a flash, stepping between you and the door. He doesn’t touch you — he’s careful to keep his hands down at his sides — but his sheer size makes it impossible to pass him.
“Move, please,” you say, staring fiercely at his chest.
“I wasn’t gawking,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, losing the edge it had a moment ago. “And I don’t think you’re crazy.”
You look up at him, startled.
Garrett holds your gaze, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. “I read the articles back in May. Me and my buddies, we talked about it. And honestly? The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit to me.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. “What?”
“Your manager,” Garrett says, his voice tight with an anger that surprises you. “The guy who signed off on your hold. He’s older, right? Much older.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“I know what it looks like when someone with a lot of power controls the narrative to cover up their own abuse,” Garrett says, his words deliberate and heavy. “It’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do. That’s what I said back then, and looking at you now? I know I was right.”
The breath catches in your throat. You stare at Garrett Graham, this massive, intimidating hockey player you met five minutes ago, and for the first time since you ran off that soundstage in Los Angeles, you feel seen. Truly, actually seen.
Dean exhales a long breath from across the room. “Damn, G. You called it.”
You look between the two of them, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “You … you don’t believe the tabloids?”
“I don’t believe anything TMZ prints,” Dean says, walking over to join Garrett. He shoots you a crooked, incredibly charming smile. “Besides, nobody is crazy enough to willingly move to New England in the winter unless they’re desperate for a fresh start. And lucky for you, you just ran into the two guys who basically run this campus.”
“Speak for yourself, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters.
“I speak for both of us, Graham.” Dean turns his attention back to you. “Look. You want to stay under the radar? It’s going to be tough now that people have seen you. But if you hang with us, people will eventually back off. We have a reputation to uphold. Nobody messes with our crew.”
You stare at them, bewildered. “You want me to … hang out with you?”
“We’re offering you protection, sweetheart,” Dean says, winking. “Consider us your unofficial bodyguards. For a very reasonable fee of … helping me pass Music Appreciation.”
Garrett rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at you, the intensity in his eyes softening into something protective and warm. “He’s an idiot, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be navigating this campus alone if people are going to act like that. If you need a buffer, we’ve got you.”
You clutch the straps of your backpack, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected kindness. You expected judgment. You expected them to pull out their phones or treat you like a fragile piece of glass. Instead, they are offering you a shield.
“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t even know your names.”
Garrett holds out a large, calloused hand. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. And the idiot is Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Pleasure,” Dean grins.
You look at Garrett’s extended hand. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to pull away still strong. But you look up at his face, at the quiet understanding in his eyes, and you reach out.
Your small hand disappears inside his. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding.
“Y/N,” you say softly.
Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile that makes your heart do a strange, unexpected flutter.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Garrett says. “Welcome to Briar.”
***
It takes two full weeks of relentless badgering before you finally cave.
You are sitting in the back booth of Malone’s, picking at a plate of cold fries, sandwiched between two human walls of muscle. Garrett is on your left, scrolling through hockey stats on his phone, while Dean is on your right, actively trying to wear down your defenses.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been here a month. You go to class, you go to the library, you come to the diner with us, and you go back to your dorm. You are living the life of an eighty-year-old nun.”
“I like my life,” you say, taking a sip of your milkshake. “Nuns are very peaceful.”
“Nuns are boring,” Dean counters, stealing one of your fries. “And you, Y/N, are not boring. You need to let loose. Just a little. Come to the house tonight.”
“Dean, I don’t do parties.”
“It’s not a party,” Garrett chimes in, not looking up from his screen. “It’s a small gathering.”
“There will be a keg,” you point out.
Garrett finally looks up, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. “There will be three kegs. But it’s still a gathering.”
You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. Since the day they rescued you in the hallway, Garrett and Dean have somehow seamlessly integrated themselves into your daily routine. They walk you to the music building. They eat lunch with you. They scowl at anyone who stares at you a second too long. They are a loud, chaotic, fiercely protective barrier between you and the rest of the world.
But a Briar hockey house party? That’s entirely different.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the anxiety suddenly flaring up in your chest. “The noise. The people. If someone recognizes me, or if the music gets too loud …”
Garrett’s smirk vanishes. He sets his phone face-down on the table and turns to fully face you. His massive frame blocks out the rest of the diner.
“Hey. Look at me,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that instantly calms your racing heart.
You lift your head, meeting his intense gray eyes.
“Dean and I have a game tomorrow afternoon,” Garrett says softly. “We aren’t drinking tonight. We’re strictly on water and Gatorade. That means we will be completely sober, and completely alert.”
“One hundred percent,” Dean adds, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something fierce and serious.
“We are going to be right by your side,” Garrett continues, holding your gaze. “Nobody is going to crowd you. Nobody is going to touch you. If the music is too loud, we go upstairs to my room. If you want to leave after five minutes, I will personally drive you back to your dorm and walk you to your door. But you are safe with us. I promise you that.”
You look between the two of them. You see the sincerity radiating off Garrett, the fierce loyalty etched into Dean’s sharp features. They aren’t trying to parade you around. They genuinely just want you to experience a normal college night.
You take a deep breath. “Five minutes. If I hate it, we leave.”
Dean’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. “Yes! You won’t regret it, sweetheart. I’m going to make sure you have the time of your life.”
***
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage.
For a split second, you freeze on the front porch of the off-campus house, the familiar vibration sending a cold spike of panic down your spine. It feels exactly like the soundstage in Los Angeles.
Then Garrett’s hand is on the small of your back — warm, massive, and incredibly steady.
“You good?” He murmurs, bending down so his mouth is close to your ear over the noise of the music.
You nod, forcing your shoulders to drop. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Dean pushes the front door open, and the three of you step inside. The house is packed. The air smells like cheap beer, sweet perfume, and sweat. Music blares from massive speakers in the corner, and red Solo cups are practically an accessory for everyone in the room.
It’s exactly the kind of environment you’ve avoided for years. But as you walk through the living room, flanked by the captain of the hockey team and his star winger, something incredible happens.
Nothing.
Nobody swarms you. Nobody shoves a camera in your face. A few people glance your way, eyes widening in recognition, but Garrett shoots them a dark, warning glare that has them instantly looking at the floor. Dean flashes his easy, charming smile, parting the crowd like the Red Sea as he leads you toward the kitchen.
“See? Easy,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen island. “Nobody is going to mess with you when you’re rolling with us.”
“You guys are terrifying,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping your lips.
“We’re cuddly teddy bears,” Garrett corrects, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and tossing one to Dean. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or whatever toxic sludge Logan is mixing in that cooler over there.”
You look at the cooler. You look at the red cups.
For the past seven years, your diet, your sleep schedule, and your alcohol intake were strictly monitored by Shawn and his team. You were never allowed to just have a drink. You were a product, and products don’t get hangovers.
“I want whatever is in the cooler,” you say, surprising yourself.
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say firmly. The word feels good. It feels entirely your own. “I want to have a drink.”
Dean grins, grabbing a red cup and dipping it into the cooler. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Cheers to autonomy.”
You take a sip. It tastes like cheap vodka and fruit punch, and it burns on the way down. It is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, loud laughter, and a profound, beautiful sense of normalcy. You drink. You actually drink, letting the alcohol warm your blood and loosen the tight, coiled anxiety that has lived in your chest for months.
Garrett and Dean never leave your side. They are true to their word, nursing their water bottles and acting as an invisible shield around you. When a drunk frat boy stumbles too close, Garrett simply steps in his path, folding his massive arms over his chest until the guy awkwardly apologizes and backs away. When a girl tries to sneak a photo of you, Dean gently but firmly blocks her camera, charming her into deleting it with a wink and a smile.
For the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t a pop star. You aren’t a headline. You’re just a girl at a party, laughing at Logan’s terrible dance moves and arguing with Tucker over which movie franchise is better.
By 2 AM, the house has mostly cleared out. The music has been turned down to a low, rhythmic hum.
You are sitting on the worn fabric of the living room couch, comfortably, beautifully drunk. The edges of the world are soft and fuzzy. You have your legs pulled up underneath you, a throw blanket draped over your lap.
Garrett is sitting on your left, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind your head. Dean is on your right, slouching lazily against the cushions. Logan and Tucker are sprawled out on the floor and the armchair, completely exhausted.
The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp.
“I can’t believe Coach has us on the ice at noon tomorrow,” Logan groans, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a crime against humanity.”
“You literally chose to play college hockey, you idiot,” Tucker says, throwing a crumpled-up napkin at Logan’s head.
You let out a soft, hazy giggle, leaning your head back against Garrett’s arm. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so you’re more comfortable, his large hand brushing the side of your shoulder. The touch sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“You doing okay, Y/N?” Garrett asks softly, his deep voice rumbling right next to your ear.
“I’m perfect,” you slur slightly, looking up at him with a wide smile. “I’m really, really good.”
“You’re really, really drunk,” Dean chuckles, reaching over to tug playfully at a strand of your hair. “But it’s cute. You’re a happy drunk.”
“I’ve never been drunk before,” you confess, staring at the ceiling. “Shawn never let me.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy and dark. The easy, comfortable silence in the room instantly shifts. Logan stops rubbing his eyes. Dean’s hand falls away from your hair.
Tucker sits up in the armchair, his brow furrowed. He looks at you, his eyes slightly glazed from the beer, lowering his filter.
“Hey, Y/N,” Tucker says slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tuck,” Garrett warns, his voice instantly dropping an octave, filled with a sharp, protective edge.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand vaguely in the air. The alcohol has numbed the sharpest edges of the panic. The memories don’t feel like they’re stabbing you tonight, they just feel like a movie you watched a long time ago. “You can ask.”
Tucker hesitates, but the question clearly burns in his throat. “Was it true? That TMZ article. I know you said the tabloids are bullshit, but … were you really involuntarily committed?”
A heavy sneaker flies across the room, nailing Tucker square in the chest.
“Ow! What the fuck, Logan?” Tucker yelps, rubbing his sternum.
“You don’t just ask someone that, you absolute moron!” Logan hisses, glaring at him.
“I was just asking! She said it was fine!”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Garrett snaps. The authority in his voice is absolute. The room goes dead silent.
Garrett looks down at you, his gray eyes dark with concern. His hand moves from the back of the couch to gently grip your shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word to him. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. You look down at your hands, tracing the lines of your palms. “It’s true.”
The confession drops into the quiet room, fragile and devastating.
Dean shifts closer to you on the couch, the space between you vanishing. “Y/N …”
“He groomed me,” you say, the words spilling out of your mouth. Now that the dam is cracked, you can’t stop the flood. “I was fifteen. He was thirty-six. He told my mom he was going to make me a star. He isolated me from everyone. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family I was allowed to talk to. It was just him. He told me that if I didn’t love him back, he would drop me from the label and ruin my life.”
Logan lets out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. Tucker looks like he wants to be sick.
Garrett’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek. His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, anchoring you to the couch.
“He controlled everything,” you continue, your voice detached, hollowed out by the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret for so long. “What I wore. What I ate. How much I weighed. And then the new music video …”
You swallow hard, the phantom heat of the stage lights prickling against your skin.
“He wanted me to … he wanted me to do a routine on the floor. It was basically thinly veiled porn. In front of fifty crew members. I told him no. I told him I was a singer, not a porn star. And he …”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“He lost it. He told me nobody cared about my voice. He told me they just wanted to look at my body. And I just … I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I ripped my costume off and I ran. I just kept running.”
Dean lets out a string of vicious, whispered curses. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, intertwining his long fingers with yours. His grip is grounding, anchoring you from the right side.
“The next day,” you whisper, tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes, “his private security came to my hotel room. They told me I was having a psychotic break. They drove me to a private facility in Malibu. Shawn had already signed the paperwork for a 5150 hold, claiming I was a danger to myself and others.”
Garrett shifts on the couch, his massive body turning fully toward you. He pulls you gently against his side. You go willingly, collapsing against his solid chest, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.
“It was so white,” you sob quietly into his shirt. “The walls, the floors, the lights. They didn’t listen to me. I told them he was lying, that he was abusing me, but Shawn had already paid them off. They pinned me down to the bed.”
Your breath hitches, the memory of the heavy hands grabbing your arms making your heart race.
Garrett’s arms wrap entirely around you, pulling you practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, but it’s exactly what you need. You need the pressure. You need to know you are solid.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I’ve got you, Y/N. Nobody is ever going to hold you down again. I swear to god, I will kill anyone who tries.”
“They sedated me,” you cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of Garrett’s hoodie. “They pumped me full of so many drugs I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. For weeks, I would just wake up and stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My body … it didn’t even feel like my own body anymore. It felt like I was trapped inside a corpse.”
Dean moves closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms coming around to wrap over Garrett’s. You are entirely surrounded by them, cocooned in their heat, their strength, and their furious, unyielding protection.
“It’s over,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressing gently against your temple. “You’re here now. You’re with us. Your body is yours, sweetheart. Nobody is ever taking it away from you again.”
You break down completely. You sob into Garrett’s chest, letting out all the grief, the terror, and the profound, agonizing violation of the past six years. You cry for the teenager who was manipulated, and for the woman who was locked in a white room and forced into silence.
And they hold you.
Garrett rocks you slightly, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. He murmurs quiet, fierce promises into the quiet room. Promises of safety. Promises of violence against the man who hurt you.
Dean holds your hand against his chest, right over his heart, so you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating against your palm. He presses his face into your shoulder, sharing the weight of your trauma without a second thought.
On the other side of the room, Logan and Tucker sit in devastated silence, standing guard over the quiet intimacy of the couch.
For the first time in a very long time, as the alcohol slowly burns out of your system and the tears run dry, you don’t feel entirely broken. You feel exhausted. You feel raw.
But surrounded by the fierce, protective embrace of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you finally feel safe.
***
The sanctuary lasts exactly eight days.
Eight days of quiet mornings, shared coffees, and walking to class flanked by two human mountains who have unofficially made your safety their full-time job. You’re currently sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Garrett’s massive gray Briar University hoodies. It swallows you whole, the fleece smelling faintly of his cedarwood body wash and ice rink chill.
You’re laughing at something Tucker just said about Logan’s disastrous attempt to cook eggs, a genuine, easy sound that you haven’t heard from yourself in years. Garrett is standing behind you, casually leaning against the counter, his large hand resting absentmindedly on the back of your stool. Dean is across the island, scrolling through his phone with a piece of burnt toast dangling from his mouth.
It is peaceful. It is normal.
And then, in the span of a single second, it shatters.
Dean stops chewing. The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, snapping completely rigid. He lowers his phone, his eyes widening as he reads whatever is on the screen.
“Dean?” Logan asks, catching the shift in the room’s energy. “What is it?”
Dean doesn’t answer. His face drains of color. He looks up from his screen, his gaze snapping directly to you. There is a terrifying, naked panic in his eyes that makes the breath lodge in your throat.
“Dean,” Garrett says, his voice low, warning. He pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. “What are you looking at?”
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He drops the toast onto a paper plate, his fingers gripping the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Talk to me,” Garrett barks.
“It’s TMZ,” Dean says, his voice sounding hollow. He looks at you, his expression agonizingly apologetic. “Sweetheart … I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t look. Just let me read it.”
The bottom drops out of your stomach. The world tilts on its axis, a loud, ringing sound starting up in your ears. “Read it,” you force out, your voice trembling. “Dean, read it right now.”
Dean swallows hard. He clears his throat, but his voice still shakes as he reads the headline aloud.
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS IN PERIL? SHAWN NICHOLS FILES FOR CONSERVATORSHIP.
TMZ Staff | October 14, 2026
The drama surrounding the sudden disappearance of the music industry’s brightest young star has just taken a massive, shocking legal turn.
TMZ has obtained exclusive court documents filed late last night in Los Angeles County Superior Court by billionaire music mogul Shawn Nichols. Nichols, the 42-year-old CEO of Supernova Records and the singer’s long-time manager/boyfriend, is petitioning the court for an emergency, full-scale conservatorship over the 21-year-old pop star.
For those who don’t speak legalese, a conservatorship is a legal concept where a guardian or a protector is appointed by a judge to manage the financial affairs and/or daily life of another person due to physical or mental limitations. Yes, folks. The Britney Spears treatment.
According to the explosive 40-page filing, Nichols claims that the singer’s “sudden, erratic relocation to a remote East Coast college” is proof of a “deepening psychotic break” and “severe bipolar disorder.” The documents allege that following her 5150 psychiatric hold earlier this year, the singer went off her prescribed medication and was manipulated by estranged family members into fleeing the state.
Nichols’s legal team argues that the singer is entirely incapable of managing her multi-million dollar estate, her music catalog, or even providing for her own basic food and shelter. He is asking a judge to grant him complete legal authority over her finances, medical decisions, career moves, and personal liberties.
Nichols’s camp released a statement this morning: “Shawn loves her deeply and is heartbroken by her current, rapid mental decline. He is taking these extreme legal measures solely out of fear for her safety and well-being. He hopes to get her the intensive psychiatric help she desperately needs.”
If the judge signs off, the pop star could be legally forced to return to Los Angeles under Nichols’s direct supervision. Will her mysterious East Coast hideaway be enough to keep her out of his clutches? We’re hearing a judge is reviewing the emergency petition as we speak.
The kitchen goes dead silent.
The air is sucked out of the room. You sit frozen on the barstool, staring blankly at the marble countertop.
Conservatorship.
The word echoes in your skull, heavy and suffocating like a wet blanket. It’s a word that Shawn used to throw around in the dark, whispered into your ear when you fought back about a lyric or a photo shoot. I’ll declare you incompetent. I’ll take it all away. You won’t even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee without my permission.
“He’s going to take me back,” you whisper. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet kitchen, it rings like a gunshot.
You can’t. Your lungs are locked tight. A conservatorship. It means the end of everything. It means the end of Briar, the end of your vocal performance classes, the end of the quiet mornings in this kitchen. It means a judge signing a piece of paper that turns you back into Shawn Nichols’s property. It means forced sedatives, locked doors, and a lifetime of being entirely trapped in your own body.
“No,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip your hair. “No, no, no, he can’t. He can’t do this. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine!”
“I know,” Garrett says. His large hands are suddenly on your shoulders, turning you around to face him. He steps between your knees, crowding you, his massive chest blocking out the rest of the room. “Y/N. Look at me.”
“He’s going to send them,” you sob, the panic clawing its way up your throat, raw and agonizing. “He’s going to send the security guards again. They’re going to drag me out of here. He’s going to lock me up, Garrett. He’s going to own me.”
“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a violence that is terrifyingly comforting. “Do you hear me? I will break the jaw of any man who steps onto this campus looking for you. I will literally tear them apart. He is not touching you.”
“You don’t understand,” you cry, gripping the front of his Briar hockey shirt, your knuckles white. “He’s a billionaire. He buys judges. He buys doctors. He has a whole team of lawyers who do nothing but destroy people for a living. If a judge signs that paper … I won’t have any rights. I won’t even be a person anymore.”
Garrett wraps his arms around you, pulling you off the stool and flush against his chest. He holds you with crushing, desperate strength, burying his face in your hair. “I don’t care how much money he has. I don’t care how many lawyers he has. We’re going to fight this. We’re not letting you go.”
Across the kitchen, Dean is pacing.
He’s pacing so fast his bare feet squeak against the hardwood floor. His phone is pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is jumping visibly beneath his skin.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, ruining it. “Come on, Mom. You never go to court on a Monday morning …”
“Dean,” Tucker says quietly. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the cavalry,” Dean snaps. “This guy wants to play dirty with lawyers? Fine. We’ll play with the biggest sharks in the fucking ocean.”
The phone clicks.
“Dean, honey, I’m literally stepping into a deposition,” a sharp, elegant woman’s voice rings out over the speaker. “This better be an emergency.”
“It’s a massive emergency, Mom. Put Dad on speaker too if he’s in the office. Right now.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, a sigh of exasperation, and then the sound of a heavy wooden door clicking shut.
“You’re on speaker,” a deep, commanding voice says. Dean’s father. “Dean, what did you do? Did you get arrested? Did you wreck the car again?”
“I didn’t wreck anything, Dad. Shut up and listen to me,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes fixed on you. “I need legal advice. And I need it thirty seconds ago.”
“We practice corporate and high-asset divorce, Dean, we aren’t-”
“Mom. Listen.” Dean holds up a hand, pacing again. “I have a hypothetical question.”
“A hypothetical question,” his father repeats dryly. “For a thousand dollars an hour.”
“Just roll with it, okay?” Dean says, his voice tight. “Hypothetically. Let’s say I have a friend. A very close friend. And let’s say this friend is a twenty-one-year-old girl who is incredibly smart, completely sane, and currently attending college in Massachusetts.”
You sniffle against Garrett’s chest, turning your head just enough to watch Dean. Garrett’s hand is heavy and warm on the back of your neck, stroking your hair in a continuous, grounding rhythm.
“Okay. Go on,” his mother says, her tone shifting. The annoyance is gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge of a high-powered attorney.
“Hypothetically,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let’s say this friend used to be involved with a forty-two-year-old billionaire who controlled her entire life, her finances, and her career. And when she tried to leave him, he had her committed on a bullshit 5150 hold to silence her. Now, she’s escaped. She’s safe. But this billionaire just filed an emergency petition for a full conservatorship in Los Angeles County, claiming she’s psychotic. He’s trying to use her move to the East Coast as proof that she’s erratic.”
The line goes completely silent.
“Dean,” his mother says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a terrifying, lethal weight. “Is this ‘hypothetical’ friend currently sitting in your living room?”
Dean doesn’t blink. “Hypothetically? Yes. And she is terrified.”
A heavy sigh crackles over the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re talking about the pop star. The TMZ article just crossed my desk ten minutes ago.”
“I am talking about a hypothetical friend,” Dean insists stubbornly. “And I need to know how we stop it. Right now.”
“Alright,” his father says, his voice booming into the kitchen. The playful father is gone; this is the partner at a top-tier law firm speaking. “Listen closely. Conservatorships are extremely difficult to establish over a young, able-bodied adult unless there is overwhelming medical evidence of severe cognitive decline. A 5150 hold from months ago is not enough to grant a permanent conservatorship, but an emergency temporary one? If he bought the right judge, it’s possible.”
“So how do we stop the temporary one?” Dean demands.
“You establish jurisdiction in Massachusetts,” his mother answers instantly. “He filed in California. He’s banking on the fact that her primary residence is still listed in LA. If she’s enrolled at a university in Massachusetts, she needs to establish residency immediately. She needs a Massachusetts driver’s license, she needs a local bank account, and she needs to be evaluated by an independent, board-certified psychiatrist in the state of Massachusetts to prove she is of entirely sound mind.”
“Done,” Dean says, pulling a pen out of a drawer and uncapping it with his teeth, scribbling on a napkin. “What else?”
“She cannot go to California,” his father warns. “If she steps foot in that state, she falls under their jurisdiction, and if he gets a temporary order, the police can detain her. She stays on campus. Does she have any family?”
“My uncle,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy and weak.
Garrett turns slightly. “Her uncle is David Prescott. The Dean of Briar University.”
“Wait, David Prescott?” Dean’s mom asks, her voice rising in surprise. “I went to law school with David. He’s her uncle?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, his arm still locked around you like a vice.
“Okay, this just got a lot easier,” his mother says, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously in the background. “David is incredibly connected. Dean, you take her to David’s office the second you hang up this phone. Tell him to file a preemptive injunction in Massachusetts citing domestic abuse and coercive control. That blocks the California courts from enforcing anything out of state until a federal judge reviews it.”
“Coercive control,” Dean writes it down, underlining it twice.
“And Dean?” His father adds, his voice softening slightly. “This guy is a billionaire. He’s going to play dirty. He’s going to send private investigators. He’s going to leak more stories. Your friend needs to be prepared for this to get very public, and very ugly.”
“She’s not alone,” Dean says fiercely, staring right at you. “She’s got us.”
“Good,” his mother says. “I’m having my secretary clear my afternoon. I’m calling David Prescott myself. We don’t practice entertainment law, but I know the best sharks in the country who do. I’m going to send them an email right now. This Shawn guy thinks he can just buy a human being? He’s about to find out what happens when old money meets new trash.”
A tiny, breathless sob escapes your lips. It’s a sob of pure, overwhelming relief.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I owe you,” Dean says, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch.
“You owe us your attendance at Thanksgiving,” his dad replies dryly. “Keep her safe, Dean. Call us if anyone shows up at the house.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
Dean tosses the phone onto the counter and exhales a massive breath, running both hands through his hair. He looks at the napkin, then looks at you.
“You heard the lady,” Dean says, a slow, fiercely protective smile spreading across his face. “We are going to war.”
You pull back from Garrett’s chest, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Your hands are still shaking, but the suffocating, paralyzing terror is beginning to recede, replaced by a tiny, burning spark of defiance.
“He’s going to try to ruin me,” you say quietly, looking between Garrett and Dean. “If I fight this … if I don’t surrender, he’s going to release everything. Every bad photo, every secret. He’ll destroy my reputation.”
“Fuck your reputation,” Garrett says bluntly. He reaches out, cupping your face in both of his massive, warm hands. His thumbs gently wipe away the fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. “Your reputation isn’t your life. Your life is yours. He doesn’t get to own you just because he has a fat bank account and a big ego.”
“Garrett’s right,” Logan chimes in from the living room doorway, where he and Tucker have been standing guard. “We don’t care what TMZ says. We know who you are.”
“You want to sing, Y/N?” Dean asks, walking around the island and leaning against the counter right beside you. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand, squeezing it tight. “You want to write your own music? Then you fight him. You let my parents and your uncle drop a legal nuclear bomb on this guy. You let me and Garrett stand between you and any paparazzi who try to get close. But you do not give up.”
You look at Dean, at his bright, fierce eyes, and then up at Garrett, whose expression is locked into a mask of pure, unyielding devotion.
You spent years believing you were entirely alone. You spent years believing that if Shawn let go of you, you would simply cease to exist.
But sitting in the kitchen of a dilapidated college hockey house, surrounded by four guys who would literally take a bullet for you just because it’s the right thing to do, you realize Shawn was wrong. You aren’t weak. You just needed the right team to help you stand up.
You take a deep, shuddering breath. The air fills your lungs, crisp and clean.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice gaining a fraction of its strength back. “Okay. We fight.”
Garrett’s face breaks into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leans down and presses a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl.”
“Alright,” Dean claps his hands together, the energy in the room instantly shifting from terror to tactical execution. “Logan, Tucker. Perimeter check. Make sure nobody is lurking around the house. Garrett, get your keys. We’re going to the Dean’s office.”
“What about class?” Tucker asks, grabbing his jacket.
“Fuck class,” Dean says, grabbing his own keys from the bowl. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a thrilling, reckless loyalty. “We’ve got a predator to destroy.”
***
TRANSCRIPT: GOOD MORNING AMERICA
Air Date: October 18, 2026
MICHAEL STRAHAN: We are following breaking news this morning in the legal battle that has completely captivated the entertainment world. The fight for control over the life and multi-million dollar estate of pop music’s biggest young star.
ROBIN ROBERTS: That’s right, Michael. It has been four days since Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols filed an emergency petition for a conservatorship in Los Angeles, claiming his 21-year-old girlfriend and client had suffered a severe psychotic break and fled the state. But this morning, there is a massive roadblock for Nichols’s legal team.
MICHAEL STRAHAN: ABC News Chief Legal Correspondent Dan Abrams is here. Dan, what is happening with this case? Because it seems like the singer is not going down without a fight.
DAN ABRAMS: She absolutely isn’t, Michael. And she has some very heavy hitters in her corner. Late yesterday afternoon, a team of high-powered attorneys representing the singer filed an emergency injunction in a Massachusetts federal court. They are claiming that Shawn Nichols does not have jurisdiction because she is a legal resident of Massachusetts, currently enrolled at Briar University.
ROBIN ROBERTS: And they’re making some very serious allegations against Nichols, aren’t they?
DAN ABRAMS: Explosive allegations. The Massachusetts filing explicitly accuses Shawn Nichols of severe domestic abuse, coercive control, and using the initial 5150 psychiatric hold maliciously to silence her. They are asking the federal judge to not only deny the conservatorship but to issue a permanent restraining order against Nichols. It is officially a bi-coastal legal war, and it is going to get very messy.
***
The television clicks off, plunging the living room into heavy, suffocating silence.
You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed tightly against the front of the sofa, your knees pulled up to your chest. The remote slips from your fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Your chest tightens, the familiar, icy grip of panic wrapping around your lungs. You close your eyes, but all you see is Shawn’s face. You see the cold, dead look in his eyes when he told you that nobody would ever believe you. You see the flashing lights of the cameras. You feel the heavy, clinical weight of the sedatives pulling you under.
“Hey. Look at me.”
A large, warm hand cups your jaw.
You open your eyes. Garrett is kneeling on the floor right in front of you. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair sleep-mussed. It’s 6:30 in the morning. He hasn’t left your side in four days.
“Breathe, Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “In and out. Focus on me.”
“He’s going to destroy me,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The whole world is watching. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“The whole world thinks he’s a controlling piece of shit,” Dean corrects, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea. He sets them on the coffee table and drops onto the floor beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. “Did you hear what the guy on TV just said? We filed the injunction. He’s blocked. He can’t touch you.”
“But what if the judge in Massachusetts doesn’t believe me?” You ask, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. “What if they look at my medical records from the Malibu clinic? Shawn paid those doctors to say I was bipolar and severely unstable. It’s in black and white.”
Garrett shifts closer, his massive frame effectively shielding you from the rest of the room. He takes both of your shaking hands in his, his grip grounding and solid.
“Then we prove them wrong,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You have an evaluation with the state psychiatrist this afternoon. You go in there, you sit down, and you just be yourself. You tell them the truth.”
“I’m terrified,” you admit, the words tumbling out on a broken sob. “I’m so tired of fighting, Garrett. I just want to disappear.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. “I know you’re tired. But you don’t get to give up. We aren’t letting you.”
“If you need to fall apart, you fall apart right here,” Garrett adds, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “You let us carry the weight for a while. But when we walk into that doctor’s office today, you hold your head up. You show them exactly who you are. Do you understand?”
You look between them. Two gorgeous, massive hockey players who have completely upended their lives to build a fortress around yours.
You take a shaky breath, letting Garrett’s heat and Dean’s solid presence anchor you to the floor. “Okay. I can do it.”
***
THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: LEGAL BRIEFS
October 20, 2026 | By Priya Mehta
JURISDICTION DENIED: JUDGE BLOCKS SHAWN NICHOLS’S CONSERVATORSHIP BID IN CALIFORNIA
In a stunning defeat for Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols, a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge has officially denied his emergency petition for a temporary conservatorship over his former client and girlfriend.
The judge ruled that Nichols’s team failed to prove immediate, life-threatening peril, and more importantly, agreed with the singer’s legal team that California is no longer her state of legal residence.
Sources close to the singer’s legal team (which is being quietly spearheaded by high-powered East Coast firm Di Laurentis & Associates) confirm that she has successfully established residency in Massachusetts. Furthermore, a court-mandated, independent psychiatric evaluation conducted yesterday in Boston deemed her “entirely competent, lucid, and showing zero signs of cognitive decline or psychosis.”
The battle isn’t over, however. Nichols’s team is expected to appeal the jurisdiction ruling, moving the fight to federal court. But for now, the pop star remains free, and the music industry is left reeling from the allegations of coercive control and abuse that her team has placed on the public record.
***
The waiting room of the federal courthouse in Boston is sterile, freezing, and smells like lemon polish and anxiety.
You are sitting on a stiff wooden bench, wearing a conservative black blazer and slacks that Dean’s mother bought for you yesterday. Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your fingers are entirely numb.
The door to the judge’s chambers is closed. Inside, your uncle David, Dean’s mother, and a team of three terrifyingly sharp entertainment lawyers are currently arguing with Shawn’s legal team via video link.
You weren’t required to be in the room for the procedural arguments, which is a mercy, because just being in the same building as this legal battle is making your skin crawl.
“Drink this.”
Garrett appears in your line of sight, holding out a bottle of water. He is wearing a dark suit that stretches tight across his broad shoulders, making him look less like a college student and more like a lethal, high-end bodyguard. Dean is sitting on your other side, similarly dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, currently glaring at a paralegal who dared to look in your direction.
You take the water with a shaky hand, managing a tiny sip. “How long has it been?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Garrett says, sitting down heavily next to you. His thigh presses against yours, radiating a comforting heat. “My dad used to drag me to these things when I was a kid. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. It takes time.”
You flinch slightly at the mention of his father. You know the bare bones of Garrett’s history — the abuse, the pristine public image, the quiet nightmare behind closed doors. You know exactly why he hates Shawn Nichols with such a visceral, violent intensity.
“I feel sick,” you whisper, leaning your head against the hard cinderblock wall behind the bench.
“Do you want to walk?” Dean asks instantly, his attention snapping back to you. “We can walk the hallway. Stretch your legs.”
“No. I just want it to be over.”
Garrett shifts his arm, wrapping it around the back of the bench and letting his hand rest heavily on your far shoulder, pulling you slightly toward him. “It will be. My money is on Dean’s mom. The woman is terrifying.”
“She made a senior partner cry when I was in the fourth grade because he tried to overcharge a client,” Dean says proudly. “Shawn’s Hollywood lawyers don’t stand a chance against my mother. They’re used to bullying people. She’s used to destroying them.”
The heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers suddenly clicks open.
Your heart slams into your ribs. You shoot up from the bench, Garrett and Dean rising instantly beside you, flanking you like gargoyles.
Dean’s mother, Lori Heyward, steps out into the hallway. She looks impeccable. Not a single hair is out of place, and her tailored skirt suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She closes the door behind her and looks at the three of you.
Her face is completely unreadable.
“Mom?” Dean asks, the tension in his voice betraying his calm facade. “What happened?”
Lori lets out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, a sharp, predatory smile curves her lips.
“The California petition is officially dead,” Lori says, her voice crisp and echoing in the quiet hallway. “The judge threw it out with prejudice. Shawn Nichols has absolutely zero legal standing to petition for a conservatorship in this state or any other.”
The air leaves your lungs in a massive, dizzying rush.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your hands flying over your mouth.
“Furthermore,” Lori continues, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “The judge reviewed the independent psychiatric evaluation and the evidence of coercive control we submitted. He granted the permanent restraining order. Nichols cannot contact you, he cannot approach you, and he cannot dictate your finances.”
You break.
The dam that has been holding back years of terror, manipulation, and suffocating control finally snaps. You let out a loud, breathless sob and collapse forward.
Garrett catches you before you can even stumble.
His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you completely off the ground as he buries his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life, crying so hard your entire body shakes.
“You’re free,” Garrett whispers fiercely into your ear, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re free, Y/N. He’s gone.”
Dean wraps his arms around both of you, crushing you in a massive, three-person hug in the middle of the federal courthouse. “We got him, sweetheart,” Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “We totally destroyed him.”
You cry until you can’t breathe, but for the first time in six years, they are tears of absolute joy.
***
@PopCultureTea The Shawn Nichols-Y/N court documents just got unsealed and HOLY SHIT. He didn’t just control her money, he literally weighed her food and had trackers on her phone. #FreeYN is trending for a reason. He’s a monster.
@MusicIndustryInsider Several other female artists formerly signed to Supernova Records are preparing to come forward with similar allegations of coercive control and abuse by Shawn Nichols. The dam is breaking.
@BriarHawksSupportClub Anyone else notice that Y/N has two massive Briar hockey players acting as her personal security detail? Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis haven’t let her out of their sight in weeks. Alpha energy overload.
@TMZ BREAKING: Shawn Nichols steps down as CEO of Supernova Records amidst federal investigation into extortion and abuse allegations.
***
It is snowing in Hastings.
Big, thick flakes are drifting down past the living room window of the hockey house, blanketing the front lawn in pristine white. Inside, the house is aggressively warm, the radiator hissing gently in the corner.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a red pen in the other. Sheet music is scattered everywhere — pages upon pages of lyrics, chord progressions, and hastily scribbled notes.
“No, that bridge is too slow,” you mutter to yourself, chewing on the end of the pen. “It needs to build. It needs more …”
“More bass,” Tucker suggests from the armchair, where he is aggressively losing a game of Mario Kart to Logan.
“It’s an acoustic ballad, Tuck. It doesn’t need bass,” you laugh, crossing out a line of lyrics and rewriting it.
The front door bangs open, bringing in a rush of freezing air. Garrett and Dean stomp onto the welcome mat, shaking the snow off their heavy winter coats. They just got back from practice, their hair damp with sweat and melted snow, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“I am freezing my balls off,” Dean complains, kicking his boots off. “Whose bright idea was it to go to college in the frozen tundra?”
“Yours, you idiot,” Garrett says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the hook.
Garrett walks into the living room, his eyes immediately finding you on the floor. The hard, intense lines of his face instantly soften. He walks over, sidestepping the scattered sheet music, and drops down onto the rug right behind you.
He wraps his large arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his cold nose in the crook of your neck.
“Jesus, Garrett, you’re freezing!” You squeal, squirming slightly, though you make no actual effort to pull away.
“Warm me up, then,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver straight down your spine. “What are you working on?”
“The new song,” you say, leaning back into his solid heat. “For my final project in Vocal Performance. I’m going to produce it myself.”
Dean walks into the room, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch, casually resting his bare feet near your thigh. “Is it about how much you love your two incredibly handsome, heroic best friends?”
“It’s about how much I hate your ego,” you tease, looking up at him.
Dean winks, taking a massive bite of pizza. “Same thing.”
You look down at the sheet music. It’s been three weeks since the judge’s ruling. Three weeks since Shawn Nichols was legally barred from your life. Three weeks since the music industry completely turned its back on him, launching a massive investigation into his label.
He is gone. Really, truly gone.
And you are still here.
You trace the notes on the page, the melody humming in your mind. It’s a song about a cage. It’s a song about the cold, blinding lights of a soundstage, and the terrifying silence of a white room.
But the bridge … the bridge is about the warmth of a cracked leather couch. It’s about gray eyes and crooked smiles. It’s about the fierce, violent, beautiful protection of the people who saw you when you were completely invisible.
“Play it for me,” Garrett says softly, his arms tightening around your waist.
“It’s not done yet,” you say, sudden shyness gripping you. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since you ran off that set in Los Angeles.
“I don’t care,” Garrett says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Play what you have.”
Dean mutes the TV, completely ignoring Logan’s indignant protests. Tucker turns around in his chair. The room goes entirely quiet, filled only with the soft hiss of the radiator and the gentle sound of the snow hitting the window glass.
You look at the acoustic guitar resting against the sofa.
You reach out and pull it into your lap. Garrett shifts slightly, giving you enough room to hold the instrument, but he doesn’t let go of you. His solid presence at your back is a physical anchor.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a deep, clean breath of Massachusetts air.
And for the first time in your life, you sing a song that belongs entirely to you.
***
“I still think you should skip,” Dean says, leaning casually against the brick wall of the music building. He reaches out, tugging playfully at the zipper of your winter coat. “We could go back to the house. I could make you hot chocolate. Garrett could brood in the corner and look intimidating. It would be a great Tuesday.”
“I have a mid-term, Dean,” you say, laughing as you swat his hand away. You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. “And unlike you, I actually care about passing my classes.”
Garrett snorts, standing on your other side with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark denim jacket. The wind off the quad is biting, rustling through his dark hair, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze him. “She’s got a point, man. Your GPA is currently resting on a razor’s edge.”
“My GPA is a work of abstract art,” Dean corrects smoothly. He pushes off the wall, his bright eyes softening as he looks down at you. The teasing lilt leaves his voice, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth that you’ve come to rely on. “Text us the second you’re out, okay? We’ll be right here.”
“I know,” you smile, the familiar flutter of affection settling comfortably in your chest. “You guys are always right here.”
Garrett reaches out, his large hand gently catching your chin. He tilts your head up and presses a warm, firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a second, a silent, fierce reassurance. “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. We’ll see you in an hour.”
You wave at them as you pull the heavy glass doors of the music building open, stepping into the heated lobby.
Garrett and Dean wait on the concrete steps. They don’t move a muscle until they watch you safely scan your student ID and disappear down the main academic hallway. Only when you are completely out of sight do they finally turn away, falling into stride beside each other as they head back toward the main quad.
“I’ve got a seminar in twenty minutes,” Dean groans, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Ethics in Modern Law. It is aggressively boring.”
“It’s a pre-law requirement,” Garrett points out, his long legs eating up the pavement. “If you didn’t want to take it, you shouldn’t have let your parents bully you into the major.”
“They didn’t bully me. They heavily suggested it while holding my trust fund hostage,” Dean smirks. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’m good at arguing. I might as well get paid for it.”
They turn the corner, taking the shortcut behind the campus library. It’s a quiet, shaded walkway, lined with tall oak trees and thick brick archways that block out the wind and the noise of the main campus. Because of the cold, the path is completely empty.
“You think Coach is actually going to bag skate us this afternoon?” Dean asks, stepping over a patch of frozen leaves. “Because I swear, my hamstrings are still-”
Garrett stops walking.
He stops so abruptly his heavy boots scuff loudly against the pavement.
“G?” Dean asks, taking another step before pausing and turning back. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. His entire body has gone completely rigid. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He is staring straight ahead down the shaded walkway, his gray eyes dark and lethal.
Dean follows his line of sight.
Standing about fifty yards away, near the side entrance of the music annex, is a man.
He stands out instantly. He isn’t wearing a Briar hoodie or a North Face jacket. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat over a perfectly pressed suit. He has silver hair at his temples, combed back meticulously. He is leaning against the stone railing, casually checking a silver watch on his wrist, his posture oozing a slimy, arrogant confidence.
Dean’s blood goes ice cold in his veins.
“No fucking way,” Dean whispers, the words catching in his throat.
“It’s him,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound human. It is a low, guttural snarl, vibrating with a violence so raw and absolute it makes the air around them feel heavy.
Shawn Nichols.
Here. On their campus. Fifty yards away from the building where you are currently sitting in a classroom, completely unaware that the monster from her nightmares has found her.
“He’s violating the restraining order,” Dean says, his mind instantly racing through the legal parameters. “He has to stay five hundred feet away from her. The music annex is attached to her building. He’s trying to ambush her.”
Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
He stalks forward, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between them and Shawn. Dean is right on his heels, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The easygoing, charming Briar University playboy completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
Shawn doesn’t notice them until they are less than ten feet away. He looks up from his watch, his perfectly manicured eyebrows drawing together in irritation at the heavy sound of their footsteps.
“Excuse me,” Shawn says, his voice dripping with condescension. “The library entrance is on the other side. This path is-”
Shawn cuts off.
He looks at Garrett. He looks at Dean. Recognition flashes in his cold eyes. He’s seen their faces. He’s seen the paparazzi photos of the two massive hockey players flanking you at the diner, flanking you at the courthouse, standing between you and the rest of the world.
Shawn doesn’t look intimidated. If anything, a slick, mocking smile spreads across his face.
“Well. If it isn’t the campus security detail,” Shawn says smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. “I was wondering when I’d run into you boys.”
“You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk off this campus,” Garrett says, stopping three feet away from Shawn. Garrett’s chest is heaving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is visibly jumping. “Before I break both of your fucking legs.”
Shawn chuckles. It’s a dry, hollow sound. “Violent. She always did like the aggressive type. Although, I have to say, I’m surprised she downgraded to a pair of meathead college athletes. The money must be tight now that she doesn’t have my credit cards.”
Dean steps up beside Garrett, his eyes locking onto Shawn. “You are violating a federal restraining order, Nichols. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops, and my mother will personally see to it that you spend the next five years in a maximum-security cell.”
“Ah, yes. The Di Laurentis boy,” Shawn sneers, looking Dean up and down with absolute disdain. “Tell your mother her little legal stunt in Boston was cute. But temporary. You kids don’t seem to understand how the real world works. Restraining orders are just pieces of paper. And she …” Shawn’s eyes flick toward the music building, his smile darkening into something twisted and possessive. “ … she belongs to me.”
Garrett sees red.
“She doesn’t belong to anybody,” Garrett growls, taking a step forward, invading Shawn’s personal space. “You’re a sick, pathetic old man who preys on teenagers because you’re too weak to handle a real woman. You’re nothing without her.”
Shawn’s mocking smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, ugly anger bleeding through his polished exterior. But he recovers quickly, leaning closer to Garrett.
“You think you’re saving her?” Shawn whispers, his voice turning into a venomous hiss. “You think you’re her hero? You’re a temporary distraction. I made her. I built her from the ground up. I know every sound she makes, every secret she has. I know exactly how she likes to be touched.”
The air leaves the alleyway.
“When she’s done playing college dress-up with you boys,” Shawn continues, his eyes glittering with malice, “She’ll come crawling back to me. They always do. She needs the discipline. She likes the control. And when she comes back, I’m going to make sure she never forgets who owns her-”
Garrett snaps.
With a roar of pure fury, Garrett pulls his right arm back, his massive fist curling into a wrecking ball, ready to cave Shawn’s skull in.
“Garrett, wait!”
Dean moves faster than he ever has on the ice. He lunges forward, catching Garrett’s arm mid-swing. The impact of stopping Garrett’s momentum sends a shockwave up Dean’s shoulder, but he holds on with a desperate, iron grip.
“Let me go, Dean!” Garrett roars, his eyes wild, completely consumed by the rage. He tries to rip his arm away, his focus locked entirely on Shawn’s smug face. “I’m going to kill him! Let me go!”
“No! Garrett, stop!” Dean shoves his entire body weight against Garrett’s chest, forcing the bigger man back a step. “Look at me! G, look at me!”
Garrett blinks, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto Dean’s face.
“He wants you to hit him,” Dean says, his voice low and intense, his hands gripping the lapels of Garrett’s jacket. “Look at him. He’s smiling. He wants you to assault him so he can press charges.”
Shawn adjusts his cuffs, looking entirely unbothered. “Listen to your friend, Graham. A felony assault charge would look terrible for a college player waiting to be signed. What would the Bruins say?”
Dean doesn’t look at Shawn. He keeps his eyes locked on Garrett.
“Garrett, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice deadly calm. “You have the draft. You have an NHL contract waiting for you. You have a spotless record. If you hit him, he ruins your career. He takes everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid. You cannot get your hands dirty on a piece of shit like this.”
Garrett’s breathing is ragged. He looks at Shawn, then back at Dean. The violent rage is still there, burning just beneath his skin, but the logic penetrates the haze. Garrett knows what’s at stake. He knows Shawn is baiting him.
Slowly, agonizingly, Garrett lowers his fist. He steps back, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Shawn smirks, a triumphant, sickening look of victory washing over his face. “Smart boy. Stick to hockey. Leave the grown-up matters to the men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a conversation to have with my girlfriend.”
Shawn turns to walk toward the music building.
“Hey, Shawn.”
Shawn stops, turning back around with an annoyed sigh. “What now?”
Dean is shrugging out of his heavy winter coat. He tosses it onto the frozen grass. He reaches up, casually unbuttoning the cuffs of his expensive button-down shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He takes his silver watch off and hands it to Garrett without looking.
“See, Garrett has a career to protect,” Dean says, his voice smooth, conversational, and completely terrifying. “He has rules.”
Dean rolls his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet walkway.
“Me, on the other hand?” Dean continues, taking a slow, measured step toward Shawn. “I’m not going pro. I have a trust fund that could buy and sell your pathetic little record label ten times over. My parents are the most ruthless, highly connected defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard. I don’t give a single flying fuck about a clean record.”
Shawn’s smug smile finally vanishes. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the sides, suddenly realizing exactly how alone they are in the shaded alleyway. “If you touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’ll have my lawyers tie it up in court for the next thirty years,” Dean smiles, a cold, devastating slash of white teeth. “It’ll be a fun hobby.”
Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out.
Dean lunges.
It isn’t a hockey fight. There is no jersey grabbing, no wild swinging. Dean is precise, fast, and completely merciless.
His first punch connects squarely with Shawn’s jaw. The crack of bone is sickeningly loud. Shawn’s head snaps to the side, a spray of blood painting the brick wall beside him, and he crumbles to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.
“That,” Dean snarls, his voice echoing off the archways, “is for locking her in a hospital.”
Shawn groans, rolling onto his side and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. He tries to scramble backward, his expensive wool coat scraping against the concrete. “You … you’re dead. I’ll ruin you …”
Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat, dragging him effortlessly back to his feet. Shawn is taller than you, but against a 200-pound college athlete fueled by pure hatred, he is nothing.
Dean drives his knee directly into Shawn’s stomach. All the air leaves Shawn’s lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.
“That,” Dean says, his chest heaving, “is for the drugs.”
Shawn falls to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as he tries to shield his face. “Please … wait …”
“And this,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “This is for every time you ever laid your hands on her.”
Dean brings his elbow down hard on the back of Shawn’s neck, driving him face-first into the concrete. Shawn goes completely limp, a low, pathetic whimper escaping his bloody lips.
Dean stands over him. He doesn’t stop. He reaches down, grabs Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him up just enough to deliver another crushing right hook to his cheekbone. Shawn’s head snaps back, and he collapses back onto the ground, unmoving.
He’s conscious, but barely. He is a bloody, broken mess on the freezing pavement, his arrogant veneer entirely stripped away.
Dean stands up straight. His knuckles are split and bleeding, staining his white shirt cuffs red. He’s breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his veins. He looks down at the man who terrorized you for six years, the man who made you fear your own shadow, and Dean feels absolutely nothing but satisfaction.
Dean slowly turns around.
Garrett is standing exactly where Dean left him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gray eyes dark and incredibly proud.
Dean reaches up, casually running a hand through his hair to fix it. He wipes a drop of Shawn’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Graham,” Dean asks, his voice returning to its normal, casual drawl.
“Yeah, Di Laurentis?” Garrett replies.
“You see any cameras around this corner?”
Garrett takes a slow, theatrical look around the shaded brick alleyway. He looks up at the library roof, then over at the trees. He looks back at Dean, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face.
“Just brick and ivy, man,” Garrett says. “Total dead zone.”
“Perfect.”
Dean reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and dials 911, holding the phone to his ear.
He waits for the operator to answer. And then, in a masterclass of acting that would win an Oscar, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. His posture slumps, his voice becomes frantic, breathless, and laced with absolute panic.
“Hello? Yes, 911? I need police and an ambulance at Briar University immediately,” Dean gasps into the phone, sounding genuinely terrified. “I’m behind the campus library. I … I don’t know what happened. This guy just came out of nowhere and attacked me.”
Garrett leans against the wall, watching Dean work with absolute awe.
“Yes, I’m a student,” Dean cries into the receiver. “His name is Shawn Nichols. He’s my friend’s stalker. He has a federal restraining order against him and he showed up on campus looking for her. I told him to leave, and he just went crazy. He lunged at me. I … I had to defend myself. I think I hurt him. Please hurry, I’m so scared.”
Dean gives the operator the exact cross streets, his voice shaking perfectly, before hanging up the phone.
The fake panic instantly drops from his face. He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He looks down at Shawn, who is groaning pathetically on the concrete, blood pooling around his expensive shoes.
“They’re on their way,” Dean says coldly. He steps closer to Shawn, crouching down so he is eye-level with the beaten man.
Shawn looks up at him through a swollen, rapidly bruising eye.
“Listen to me very carefully, Shawn,” Dean whispers, his voice lethal. “When the cops get here, you are going to tell them that you violated the restraining order. You are going to tell them that you attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense. If you try to say anything else, my mother will rip your life apart in court. And when she’s done, Garrett and I will find you again. And next time, there won’t be an ambulance.”
Shawn swallows hard, coughing on his own blood. He gives a weak, terrified nod.
Dean stands back up. He turns to Garrett, casually rolling his bloody sleeves back down.
“You know,” Garrett says, walking over and handing Dean his watch and winter coat. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”
Dean flashes a bright, bloody grin, slipping his watch back onto his wrist. “I have layers, G. Like an onion.”
“Well,” Garrett claps Dean firmly on the shoulder, his expression hardening into pure brotherhood. “Remind me to never piss you off.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, looking toward the music building where you are safely sitting in class. “I only get violent for the people I love.”
They stand side by side in the freezing wind, waiting for the sirens to arrive.
***
The front door of the hockey house opens with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar sound of heavy boots kicking off onto the welcome mat.
You look up from the music theory textbook spread across the kitchen island. You’ve been home for an hour, the quiet of the house slowly settling your nerves after the exam.
“How was the ethics seminar?” You call out, sliding off the barstool and padding into the hallway in your socks. “Did you survive without falling asleep-”
You stop dead in your tracks.
Dean is shrugging off his heavy winter coat, tossing it carelessly onto the hook. His hair is a mess, his chest is heaving slightly, and his tailored white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. But that isn’t what stops your heart.
It’s his hands.
His right hand is completely wrecked. The skin across his knuckles is split, raw, and bleeding freely. There are dark, smeared streaks of blood running down his fingers and staining the pristine white cuffs of his shirt a stark, terrifying crimson.
A sharp gasp rips from your throat. “Dean!”
Dean looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes what you’re looking at. He immediately tries to tuck his hands behind his back, a sheepish, almost guilty look crossing his face. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”
“Oh my god, your hand!” You sprint down the hallway, grabbing his arm and pulling his right hand forward. Your heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. “What happened? Did you get into a car accident? Did you fall? Garrett, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
Garrett steps into the hallway, casually locking the front door behind him. He doesn’t look panicked at all. In fact, he looks incredibly calm. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and practically glowing with a fierce, protective pride.
“He doesn’t need a hospital, Y/N,” Garrett says, his deep voice a soothing rumble in the frantic hallway.
“Look at him!” You cry, your fingers hovering over Dean’s bleeding knuckles, terrified to cause him more pain. “He’s bleeding everywhere! We need to clean this out, you need stitches-”
“Sweetheart. Hey. Look at me,” Dean says softly.
He uses his clean left hand to gently cup your cheek, forcing your panicked gaze away from the blood and up to his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. His bright eyes are warm, grounding, and completely entirely void of pain.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean promises, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “It barely even hurts.”
“How can you say that?” You whisper, your voice shaking. “Your hand is destroyed.”
“That’s because he hit a brick wall,” Garrett says casually, leaning his massive frame against the hallway wall. “Or, more accurately, a brick wall dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat.”
You freeze.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. The blood roaring in your ears suddenly goes deadly quiet.
“What?” You breathe out.
Dean sighs, shooting Garrett a mild glare before turning his full attention back to you. “He was here, Y/N. On campus. He was waiting outside the music annex.”
The name isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air, a dark, suffocating cloud. Shawn.
Your knees instantly turn to water. You stumble back a step, a primal, deeply ingrained terror seizing your throat. “He was here? How close did he get? Did he see me? I didn’t see him-”
“Hey, hey, stop,” Garrett is there in an instant, his large hands gripping your shoulders, anchoring you to the floor. “He didn’t see you. You were safely inside taking your exam. He didn’t get anywhere near you.”
“Then how …” You look from Garrett to Dean’s bloody knuckles. The realization hits you like a freight train. “You fought him?”
“He didn’t fight him,” Garrett corrects, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his handsome face. “Dean beat him into the fucking pavement.”
You stare at Dean in absolute shock.
“He was waiting for you,” Dean says, his voice losing its playful edge, turning hard and lethal. “He was violating the restraining order, and he was planning on ambushing you when you walked out. Garrett was going to kill him, but … Garrett is going pro. He has an NHL career to protect. So, I stepped in.”
“You … you beat him up?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“Very thoroughly,” Dean nods, a flash of pure, unapologetic satisfaction in his eyes. “I broke his nose. I shattered his jaw. I’m pretty sure I fractured a couple of his ribs. He won’t be doing much besides drinking out of a straw for the considerable future.”
“But … the police!” The panic surges back, hotter and more desperate this time. “Dean, he’s going to press charges! He’s going to ruin your life! He’s going to send you to jail!”
“He’s not sending anyone anywhere,” Dean chuckles, stepping closer to you. “I called the cops myself. I told them this deranged stalker showed up on campus, violated a federal restraining order, and attacked me unprovoked. I acted entirely in self-defense.”
Garrett laughs, a low, booming sound. “It was a masterclass, Y/N. You should have seen it. The cops showed up, Shawn is choking on his own blood, and Dean is playing the traumatized victim. His parents are already handling the paperwork. Shawn is the one who left in handcuffs, straight to the hospital ward under police guard.”
You stand perfectly still in the hallway.
You look at Dean. You look at the blood on his hands — Shawn’s blood. The blood of the man who controlled your every waking breath, the man who locked you in a sterile white room, the man who convinced you that you were entirely alone in the world.
Dean Di Laurentis, the wealthy, charming, carefree playboy of Briar University, shattered his own hands to protect you. He risked assault charges, he risked his reputation, he risked everything, simply because he refuses to let anyone hurt you.
And Garrett. Garrett stood back to protect his future, but he was fully prepared to throw it all away for you.
The overwhelming, crushing weight of their devotion crashes over you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick your eyes, hot and fast. A choked, breathless sob escapes your lips.
“Hey, no, don’t cry,” Dean says instantly, his face falling into genuine distress. He reaches for you, careful not to touch you with his bloody hand. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s over. He’s never coming near you again, I swear on my life.”
You don’t say a word. You step forward, grab the lapels of Dean’s unbuttoned shirt, pull him down to your height, and crash your lips against his.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. And then, with a low groan that vibrates deep in his chest, he kisses you back. His clean left hand sweeps around your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard chest. The kiss is desperate, bruising, and tasted like salt and adrenaline. It is a profound, messy explosion of everything you have been holding back for months.
You kiss him like he is the only oxygen left in the room. You pour every ounce of your gratitude, your terror, and your overwhelming affection into his mouth. Dean’s lips part, his tongue sweeping inside, entirely commanding, entirely devoted.
When you finally pull back, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Christ, Y/N.”
You step out of his arms, your chest heaving, and turn to Garrett.
Garrett is staring at you, his jaw clenched, his gray eyes burning with a heat so intense it practically singes your skin. He doesn’t move. He waits, completely perfectly still, letting you dictate the terms.
You walk right up to him. You slide your hands up his broad chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. You wrap your arms around his thick neck, and you pull him down.
Garrett doesn’t hesitate. His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the floor as his mouth crashes down on yours.
If Dean’s kiss was desperate, Garrett’s is a claim. It is fierce, territorial, and completely consuming. He kisses you with the absolute, unyielding intensity of a man who would gladly burn the world to the ground to keep you warm. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, whimpering softly into his mouth as his tongue meets yours.
He slowly lowers you back down to the floor, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth hovering mere millimeters from yours. His breath is hot against your lips.
“Are you sure?” Garrett whispers, his voice thick, heavy with restraint. “You don’t have to do this just because you’re grateful.”
“It’s not gratitude,” you breathe, looking up into his intense gray eyes. You turn your head, catching Dean’s gaze over Garrett’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. I’m so tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me. I want … I want you. Both of you.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, stepping up directly behind you. His chest presses against your back. “You have us. Every single piece of us.”
“Make me forget him,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Please.”
Garrett’s eyes darken. “Done.”
Garrett leans down, scooping you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weigh absolutely nothing. Dean leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They don’t go to Garrett’s room at the end of the hall. They take the first door on the right — Dean’s room.
Dean kicks the door shut behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
Garrett sets you down gently on the edge of Dean’s massive, king-sized bed. The room smells like expensive cologne and clean laundry.
“Let me wash my hands,” Dean says, his voice raspy. He walks into the attached en-suite bathroom, turning on the faucet.
You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a spike of nerves. For six years, sex was a transaction. It was something Shawn demanded, something you endured by going entirely numb and detaching from your own skin. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to participate.
Garrett kneels on the floor between your knees. He sees the sudden panic flash in your eyes, the slight tremble in your hands.
“Hey,” Garrett murmurs, his massive hands coming to rest gently on your thighs. He doesn’t grip you. He just rests them there, a grounding, solid weight. “Look at me.”
You meet his eyes.
“We are not him,” Garrett says, his voice quiet, steady, and an absolute vow. “Nobody is taking anything from you today. Your body belongs to you. You are completely in control. If you want us to stop, you tell us, and we stop. Instantly. If you want something, you tell us. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“You don’t have to be good at anything,” Dean says, walking out of the bathroom. He has stripped off his ruined shirt, his sculpted chest completely bare. His knuckles are washed clean, covered in sterile bandages. He drops onto the bed behind you, pulling you back so your back rests against his chest. “You just have to let us worship you.”
Dean presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right below your ear. At the exact same moment, Garrett leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your wrist.
The dual sensation is a shock to your system. It isn’t demanding. It is absolute, pure reverence.
Garrett slowly unbuttons your shirt, his large, calloused fingers moving with agonizing, beautiful care. He pushes the fabric off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s hands slide around your waist, pulling you securely against his warmth.
They strip you slowly. Every time a piece of clothing is removed, a kiss replaces it.
Garrett kisses your collarbone. Dean kisses your shoulder. Garrett’s hot mouth trails down your stomach, making you gasp, while Dean’s hands trace the curve of your hips. You are completely surrounded, entirely enveloped in their heat, their strength, and their devastating tenderness.
For the first time in your life, you are not a doll to be posed. You are a goddess, and this bed is an altar.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett groans, looking up at you as he pulls your jeans down your legs. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed skin with naked, starving adoration.
Dean’s hands slide up your ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. “Perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”
They lay you back against the pillows. Dean moves to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, his bright eyes locked onto your face. Garrett remains positioned between your legs, his massive frame kneeling at the edge of the bed.
The heat in the room is suffocating.
Garrett leans down, his mouth replacing his hands. His tongue traces the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow precision.
A sharp, shocked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly up, completely instinctively, to grip the bedsheets.
“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with lust. He captures your hands, gently intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them loosely above your head. “Let him.”
Garrett’s mouth finds your center.
The pleasure hits you like a lightning strike. It is so intense, so entirely overwhelming, that your back physically arches off the mattress.
“Garrett-” you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation completely shorts out your brain.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs against your wet skin, his breath hot and devastating. His tongue works with absolute, devastating precision, learning exactly what makes you whimper, exactly what makes you shake.
Dean leans over, his mouth capturing yours. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the slow, rhythmic glide of Garrett’s mouth lower down.
You are a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, singing, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure they are pouring into you. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to perform. All you have to do is feel.
“Dean,” you whimper into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively into Garrett’s relentless, driving mouth. “Please … I can’t …”
“Yes, you can,” Dean soothes, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping lightly at your collarbone. He releases one of your hands, his fingers trailing down your torso, slipping between your legs to join Garrett.
Two of Dean’s fingers slide smoothly inside of you.
You scream into the empty room.
The combination of Dean’s fingers stretching you deep and Garrett’s mouth perfectly working your clit is entirely too much. The pleasure builds instantly, a massive, crushing wave that completely sweeps you away.
“That’s it, Y/N,” Garrett growls encouragingly, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place as you unravel. “Give it to us.”
You shatter.
Your entire body goes rigid, climaxing so hard your vision goes entirely white. You cry out, your nails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders as the waves of pleasure rock through your system, completely washing away years of trauma, leaving behind only the blazing, brilliant heat of the present.
You are gasping for air, trembling violently, a puddle of absolute, melted exhaustion on the sheets.
Garrett crawls up the bed, his massive body blanketing yours. He kisses you, tasting your release on his own lips. “You are incredible,” he whispers against your mouth.
“I want you,” you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. You look over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes are completely black with lust. “Both of you. Now.”
Garrett and Dean shed the rest of their clothes in a matter of seconds.
The sheer size of them is intimidating, but looking at them now, you feel no fear. You only feel a desperate, burning need.
Garrett positions himself between your thighs, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you. He looks down at you, checking your eyes one last time. You nod, a silent, desperate plea.
With a low groan, Garrett pushes slowly inside of you.
He is massive, thick and solid, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, but he stops immediately, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him.
“Okay?” Garrett asks, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Please, Garrett.”
Garrett groans, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt.
The rhythm starts, a slow, heavy, relentless pounding that steals the breath from your lungs. Garrett is entirely focused, his gray eyes locked onto yours, reading every twitch of your face, ensuring that every thrust brings you nothing but pleasure.
Dean shifts behind you. He kneels on the bed, pulling your torso up so your back rests securely against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.
“We’ve got you,” Dean whispers in your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
Garrett picks up the pace, his thrusts driving deeper, harder. The friction is incredible. Dean’s hands are everywhere, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, whispering filthy, gorgeous praises into your ear while Garrett completely commands your body.
You are entirely, thoroughly claimed. You are the center of their universe, caught between two massive forces of nature who exist entirely for your pleasure.
“Y/N,” Garrett growls, his control finally beginning to fracture. His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He grabs your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “I’m close.”
“Dean,” you gasp, reaching back blindly with one hand, your fingers curling around the thick, hot length of his erection.
Dean hisses a sharp breath as your hand wraps around him. You stroke him, matching the frantic rhythm of Garrett’s hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean groans, his hips stuttering forward into your hand.
The climax hits you a second time, entirely unannounced. It rips through you with the force of a hurricane, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around Garrett.
With a roaring shout, Garrett thrusts deep one final time, completely unraveling inside of you.
Above you, Dean shudders violently, his own release spilling hotly over your hand as he buries his face in your hair, completely spent.
The three of you collapse together in a tangled, breathless mess of limbs, sweat, and completely ruined sheets.
The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged sounds of three people trying to catch their breath.
Garrett rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping you securely tethered to him. He pulls you against his chest, his large arm wrapping entirely around you. Dean is on your other side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow next to yours.
You are exhausted. You are a puddle of goo. You have never felt more alive.
You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the dim light of the bedroom. Dean’s right hand is resting near your face, the white bandages stark against his skin.
You gently reach out, pulling his injured hand toward your mouth.
Dean cracks an eye open, watching you through half-lidded, exhausted eyes.
You press a soft, lingering kiss to the bandaged knuckles. You press another kiss to his palm, and another to his wrist.
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender smile that completely transforms his sharp features. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love you, you know,” Dean whispers into the quiet room.
Garrett tightens his grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest from behind. He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “We both do. Always have.”
You close your eyes, surrounded by their heat, completely safe, and completely loved.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
And for the first time in your life, you know exactly what that word is supposed to mean.
***
The Briar University Performing Arts Center smells like floor wax, nervous sweat, and heavily sprayed hairspray.
You are pacing the narrow stretch of the backstage green room, your black leather boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the linoleum. It is the end-of-year showcase for the Vocal Performance majors. Beyond the heavy velvet curtains, an auditorium packed with five hundred people is buzzing with anticipation.
And you are currently hyperventilating.
“I can’t,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of your oversized denim jacket. “I can’t do it. I’m going to throw up. I need to leave.”
“You are not going to throw up, and you are not leaving,” a calm, impossibly steady voice says.
Garrett m steps into your path, effectively blocking your pacing. He is wearing a dark, charcoal-gray button-down shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He reaches out, his massive hands catching your wrists and gently prying your fingers away from your jacket.
“My throat is closing up,” you whisper, panic lacing every syllable. You look up into his gray eyes, completely terrified. “Garrett, the lights. What if the lights turn on and I just … what if I’m back there? What if I freeze?”
“If you freeze,” Dean says, stepping up right behind Garrett, “then Garrett and I walk right up on that stage, scoop you up, and carry you out the back door. We go get milkshakes, and we try again next year.”
You look past Garrett’s shoulder. Dean is wearing a tailored black suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like a devastatingly handsome menace, entirely out of place among the jittery theater and music students warming up around you.
“You guys aren’t even supposed to be back here,” you say, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “The stage manager said only performers.”
“The stage manager is a sophomore named Kyle who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet,” Dean smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I looked at him, Garrett cracked his knuckles, and suddenly Kyle decided we were essential personnel.”
“We are essential personnel,” Garrett murmurs, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your shoulders. His heat seeps through the denim of your jacket, anchoring you to the floor. “Listen to me, Y/N. You are not on a soundstage in Los Angeles. You are not surrounded by a crew of people on Shawn Nichols’s payroll.”
You swallow hard, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the solid, unyielding pressure of Garrett’s hands.
“You are in Hastings, Massachusetts,” Garrett continues, his voice a low, grounding rumble. “You wrote the arrangement. You picked the song. Nobody is telling you what to wear, and nobody is telling you how to move. This is your voice. This is your stage.”
“And if anyone out there looks at you the wrong way,” Dean adds, his voice dropping its playful edge, turning fierce and protective, “I will personally throw them through the nearest stained-glass window.”
You open your eyes, looking between the two of them.
It has been six months since Dean left Shawn broken and bleeding on the campus pavement. Six months since the restraining order became permanent, and Shawn’s entire empire began crumbling under federal investigations.
Six months of waking up in a warm bed, flanked by two men who worship the absolute ground you walk on. They have piece by piece, day by day, helped you put yourself back together. They didn’t fix you — they gave you the safe space you needed to fix yourself.
“Okay,” you breathe out, the vise around your chest finally loosening. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” Dean smiles, stepping forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Y/N?”
A frazzled girl with a clipboard pokes her head into the green room. “You’re up next. Three minutes.”
Your heart does a complicated flip, but the paralyzing terror is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric shot of adrenaline.
“We’re going to head to our seats,” Garrett says, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Logan and Tuck are saving them. Front row, center.”
“Don’t look at the crowd,” Dean orders gently, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Just look at us.”
“I will,” you promise.
They both give you one last, lingering look before turning and pushing their way through the backstage doors.
You take a deep breath. You shed the oversized denim jacket, leaving you in a simple, flowing black slip dress. Your hair is loose and natural, cascading down your back. There are no rhinestones. There are no leather straps. There is no heavy, doll-like stage makeup. It is just you.
“Next up, performing an acoustic arrangement on the guitar … Y/N.”
The announcer’s voice echoes over the PA system. The crowd claps politely.
You pick up the acoustic guitar resting on the stand, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under your fingers. You push through the heavy velvet curtains and step out onto the stage.
The lights hit you instantly.
For a fraction of a second, the brightness is blinding. A ghost of the old panic flares in your chest, a phantom echo of a music video set and a screaming manager. But then your vision adjusts, and you look down into the audience.
Front row. Center.
Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis are sitting side-by-side, their long legs practically touching the edge of the stage. Logan and Tucker are sitting next to them, beaming proudly.
Garrett’s gray eyes are locked onto you, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. Dean shoots you a slow, breathtaking smile, tapping his chest right over his heart.
The ghost of Shawn Nichols instantly evaporates.
You pull the microphone stand a few inches closer, adjust the strap of your guitar, and look directly at Dean and Garrett.
“Hi,” you say into the microphone. Your voice is soft, a little raspy, but it doesn’t shake. “This song is a cover. But the words … the words mean a lot to me. I want to dedicate this to the two people who reminded me what it feels like to be seen. Really seen.”
A hush falls over the auditorium. You can see Garrett’s jaw tighten with emotion, his posture going completely rigid. Dean’s smile softens into something incredibly tender, his eyes shining under the ambient light.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a breath, close your eyes for just a second, and begin to play.
The acoustic chords ring out, stripped down, haunting, and beautiful. You lean into the microphone, and for the first time in over a year, you sing for an audience.
“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”
Your voice is completely different from the heavily produced, auto-tuned pop tracks Shawn forced you to record. It is raw. It is deeply soulful, carrying the weight of everything you have survived.
“‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow …”
You open your eyes, locking your gaze entirely on Garrett. He is staring at you like you are the only thing in the room. Like you are the only thing in the entire world.
“You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be. And I don’t want to go home right now …”
You shift your gaze to Dean. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looks entirely captivated, entirely yours.
As you hit the chorus, you strum the guitar a little harder, letting the emotion swell, letting the power of your own voice fill the massive auditorium.
“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand …”
You sing the words not to the crowd of five hundred people, but as a secret shared between the three of you. A confession of the months spent hiding, the months spent terrified of the tabloids, the cameras, and the judgments.
“When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.”
You pour every ounce of your trauma, your healing, and your profound, earth-shattering love for them into that single line. Because they do. They know the girl who cried on the floor of the hockey house, they know the girl who fought a billionaire in federal court, and they know the girl who is finally taking her life back.
The auditorium is dead silent, entirely spellbound by the raw, devastating honesty in your voice.
You finish the song, the final, haunting chord echoing softly through the speakers before fading into absolute silence.
For a heartbeat, nobody moves.
And then, Garrett is on his feet.
He stands up, his massive frame towering over the front row, clapping so hard it echoes like thunder. Dean is up a second later, completely ignoring protocol as he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a deafening, piercing whistle.
The rest of the auditorium erupts. Five hundred people stand up, the applause crashing over you in a massive, deafening wave.
You stand in the center of the stage, the guitar resting against your hip. The blinding lights don’t feel like a cage anymore. They feel like a sunrise. You look down at Garrett and Dean, a massive, tearful smile breaking across your face.
You did it. You took it back.
You offer a small bow, wave to the cheering crowd, and turn to walk off the stage.
The second the velvet curtains fall shut behind you, the adrenaline crashes out of your system, leaving your legs feeling like absolute jelly. You lean the guitar against a flight case, taking a deep, shaky breath, completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
The heavy stage door bursts open.
“Y/N!”
You turn around just in time to be completely engulfed.
Garrett hits you first, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor. He spins you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You were perfect,” he growls, his voice thick and entirely wrecked with emotion. “God, sweetheart, you were absolutely perfect.”
“Garrett, put her down, it’s my turn,” Dean demands, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate joy.
Garrett sets you down, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.
Dean steps right into your space. He is holding the most massive, stunning bouquet of flowers you have ever seen in your entire life. It isn’t a standard dozen red roses. It is an explosion of deep blue hydrangeas, pure white peonies, and trailing green ivy — a completely custom, wildly expensive arrangement.
“For you,” Dean breathes, his eyes blazing as he practically shoves the massive bouquet into your arms.
“Dean, these are beautiful,” you gasp, struggling to hold the sheer weight of the flowers.
“You’re beautiful,” Dean says fiercely.
He doesn’t give you a second to respond. Dean grabs the lapels of your slip dress, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth against yours.
He kisses you within an inch of your life.
It isn’t a sweet, congratulatory peck. It is a sweeping, desperate, completely devastating kiss. Dean’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting the adrenaline and the joy still humming under your skin. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to press himself so entirely into your bones that you never doubt how much he loves you ever again.
You melt against him, the bouquet crushed between your chests, your free hand tangling in his perfectly styled hair. You kiss him back with everything you have, a small, breathy moan escaping your throat.
“Hey,” Garrett growls, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Share.”
Dean reluctantly pulls back, his chest heaving, a dark, incredibly satisfied smirk on his swollen lips. “She’s all yours, G.”
Garrett wastes no time. He slides his hand from the back of your neck into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, and brings his mouth down on yours.
Garrett’s kiss is a force of nature. It is deep, territorial, and completely commanding. He kisses you with a heavy, unyielding pressure that makes your knees completely give out. If Dean wasn’t holding you up from the other side, you would have collapsed onto the linoleum floor. Garrett’s tongue tangles with yours, slow and purposeful, a filthy promise of what is going to happen the second he gets you back to the hockey house.
“Excuse me? Guys?”
The three of you freeze.
You pull back from Garrett, your lips bruised and swollen, your face flushed dark red.
Kyle, the skinny sophomore stage manager, is standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking completely mortified. He is staring at the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact.
“Um, congratulations on a great performance, Y/N,” Kyle squeaks out. “But we really need to clear the backstage wing for the chamber choir. You guys are kind of … in the way.”
Garrett shoots a terrifying, lethal glare over his shoulder. “Give us a minute, Kyle.”
“Sure thing! Take your time!” Kyle practically squeaks, turning around and sprinting back toward the other side of the stage.
You burst out laughing, burying your hot, flushed face in the cool petals of the hydrangeas.
“You guys are going to get me expelled,” you giggle, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest.
“Worth it,” Dean winks, stepping close and casually wiping a smudge of your lipstick off the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. “Come on, superstar. Logan and Tucker went ahead to start the car. We’re taking you home.”
“Are we having a party?” You ask, looking between them as Garrett places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.
Garrett looks at Dean over your head. A slow, incredibly dark, incredibly explicit look passes between the two men.
“No,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that instantly makes your pulse spike. “No party. Just the three of us.”
“We are going to celebrate you properly,” Dean adds, his bright eyes tracking the line of your slip dress with absolute, naked hunger. “Behind closed doors. For a very, very long time.”
A shiver of pure anticipation shoots down your spine.
You step out into the cool Massachusetts night air, the heavy bouquet in your arms, flanked by the two men who saved your life. You look up at the dark sky, the stars entirely hidden by the city lights, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t afraid of the dark.
You aren’t afraid of anything at all.
“Take me home, then,” you smile.
Garrett pulls you tight against his side, Dean wraps his hand firmly around yours, and together, you walk away from the stage.
***
THE BOSTON GLOBE | SPORTS SECTION
October 12, 2028 | By Andrew Rhodes
ROOKIE PHENOM GARRETT GRAHAM BRINGS MORE THAN JUST GOALS TO THE GARDEN
The Boston Bruins have a new golden boy, and he’s not just making headlines on the ice.
Garrett Graham, the undrafted free agent out of Briar University, has been tearing up the NHL in his rookie season, boasting a staggering point streak that has Boston fans roaring. But while Graham’s lethal slapshot and commanding presence as a center are the talk of the locker room, the cameras at TD Garden can’t seem to stay away from the VIP box.
For the past two months, the city’s favorite pop star has been a permanent fixture at home games.
Sporting an oversized, vintage Bruins jersey with GRAHAM and the number 44 stitched across the back, the singer has been spotted aggressively cheering on her man from the glass. It’s a remarkable public resurgence for the 23-year-old artist, who famously stepped away from the spotlight two years ago following a highly publicized, brutal legal battle with her former label head.
But Graham isn’t the only man she’s sharing her time with. The internet has been set completely ablaze by the triad’s unapologetic dynamic. Often flanked in the VIP box by Dean Di Laurentis — Graham’s former Briar teammate and currently one of Harvard Law School’s most ruthless top-tier students — the trio has become Boston’s most fascinating, fiercely protective, and deeply private phenomenon.
Whether Graham is tapping the glass with his stick right in front of her seat after a goal, or Di Laurentis is caught on the Jumbotron kissing her cheek, one thing is absolutely clear: the pop princess has found her permanent security detail, and Boston is entirely here for it.
***
TIKTOK TRANSCRIPT | @PopCultureTea
Uploaded: February 15, 2029
(Video shows a shaky, zoomed-in smartphone recording taken on a snowy college campus. The text overlay reads: “Harvard Law just got 100% hotter ☕️💅”)
VOICEOVER (Female, excited): Okay, so I am literally shaking right now. I’m at Langdell Hall at Harvard Law, right? I’m just trying to survive my torts reading, and guess who walks in?
(The video zooms in on a girl wearing a long camel coat, a thick scarf, and dark sunglasses, carrying a tray of three iced coffees. She walks confidently through the heavy wooden doors of the law library.)
VOICEOVER: Yes! It is exactly who you think it is. She is literally hand-delivering iced coffees to Dean Di Laurentis during finals week.
(The camera pans slightly, showing Dean sitting at a massive oak table covered in open textbooks. He is wearing a gray Harvard sweater, glasses perched on his nose, looking deeply stressed. The singer walks up to him, sets the coffees down, and gently pushes his laptop screen down. Dean looks up, his entire face immediately breaking into a massive, gorgeous smile. He pulls her down onto his lap right in the middle of the quiet library.)
VOICEOVER: Look at them! He just pulled her right onto his lap! And for those of you in the comments always asking “who is she actually dating, the hockey player or the law student?” — the answer is both, babes. They don’t hide it. I saw Garrett Graham pick them both up in a Range Rover ten minutes later. We love a thriving, polyamorous, educated, athletic, multi-million dollar throuple.
(The video ends with Dean pressing a long kiss to the singer’s lips before taking a sip of the coffee.)
***
ROLLING STONE | EXCLUSIVE COVER STORY
May Issue, 2029 | By Alexa Simmons
THE LIBERATION: HOW POP’S BRIGHTEST STAR BROKE HER CAGE AND FOUND HER SANCTUARY
She meets me in a quiet, sunlit coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is no publicist hovering over her shoulder. There is no bodyguard standing at the door. She is wearing a faded vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip, and she orders her own oat milk latte.
It is a stark, jarring contrast to the girl the world knew three years ago — the heavily styled, tightly controlled platinum-selling artist who was never allowed to speak for herself.
Today, she is completely, undeniably free.
Her highly anticipated new album, Sanctuary, drops at midnight tonight. It is her first release since the harrowing federal court case that sent her former manager, Shawn Nichols, to federal prison for extortion, fraud, and coercive control.
“This album is the first time I’ve ever actually introduced myself,” she tells me, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Everything before this was a character. It was a doll that was dressed up, handed a script, and pushed onto a stage. Sanctuary is just me.”
The album, which she wrote and produced entirely on her own in a small studio she built in her Boston penthouse, is a raw, acoustic-driven departure from her bubblegum-pop past. It is devastatingly honest. It deals with trauma, survival, and the profound, life-altering power of unconditional love.
When I ask about her old discography — specifically the six multi-platinum albums whose master recordings are currently tied up in the bankruptcy liquidation of Supernova Records — she doesn’t flinch.
“The fans have been campaigning online for you to buy back your masters, or re-record them,” I point out. “Is that the plan?”
She shakes her head, offering a small, peaceful smile.
“No,” she says simply. “I’m not going to buy them, and I’m not going to re-record them.”
“Why not?”
She looks out the window for a moment, watching the busy Cambridge street. “Because those songs belong to a ghost. They were recorded under duress, by a teenager who was terrified of her own shadow. People keep asking me if I want to reclaim my masters so I can own my past. But the truth is … they were never truly mine anyway. Shawn Nichols built a cage, and he painted those songs on the walls to make it look pretty. I don’t want to buy the cage. I broke out of it. I’m leaving it exactly where it belongs: in the dust.”
It is a staggering statement of autonomy.
Before we finish the interview, her phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a picture of two men — Bruins star center Garrett Graham and soon-to-be lawyer Dean Di Laurentis, both wearing matching smirks.
She glances at the phone, and a soft, incredibly tender blush touches her cheeks.
“I have to ask,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “The world is entirely obsessed with the three of you. They are notoriously protective of you. How did that happen?”
“They saved my life,” she says, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unwavering devotion. “When the entire world thought I was crazy, when the media was tearing me apart … they just stood in front of me and refused to move. I wrote the title track of the album about them. They are my sanctuary. It’s really that simple.”
***
THE NEW YORK TIMES | ARTS & CULTURE
June 18, 2029
A TRIUMPHANT RETURN: BEACON THEATRE WITNESSES A REBIRTH
There are no pyrotechnics. There are no backup dancers in leather harnesses. There are no blinding lasers or heavy synthesized bass drops.
When she steps onto the legendary stage of Beacon Theatre for her first public concert in over three years, there is only a single spotlight, a vintage wooden stool, and an acoustic guitar.
The silence in the iconic, 2,800-seat venue was deafening as she walked to the microphone. Wearing a flowing, ethereal white gown, she looked less like the manufactured pop princess of the 2020s and more like a timeless, generational storyteller.
The two-hour, limited-engagement concert was a masterclass in vocal control and emotional vulnerability. Performing the entirety of her critically acclaimed new album, Sanctuary, she left the audience completely spellbound, and in many cases, openly weeping.
The emotional climax of the evening occurred during the encore. Before playing the final song, she stepped away from the microphone, looking up into the private VIP balcony on stage right. The spotlight didn’t follow her gaze, but everyone in the room knew who was sitting there.
“I spent a long time believing that my voice was a commodity,” she told the hushed crowd, her voice echoing perfectly in the legendary acoustics of the hall. “I believed that I was only worth what I could sell. But two people taught me that my voice is a weapon. And a shield. And a gift. This is for them.”
She played the final chord as a standing ovation shook the walls of Beacon Theatre. She has returned to the world, not as a product, but as a powerhouse.
***
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in your ears as the heavy stage door clicks shut, sealing you inside the hushed, carpeted hallway of Beacon Theatre’s backstage suites.
You lean back against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes, your chest heaving against the silk of your white gown.
You did it. Two hours. Just you and a guitar, in the most iconic venue in the world, and you didn’t panic once.
“There she is.”
You open your eyes.
Garrett and Dean are leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, waiting for you. They are both wearing impeccably tailored black tuxedos, the bow ties already undone and hanging loosely around their necks.
Garrett pushes off the wall first. He stalks down the hallway, his massive strides eating up the distance between you. He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches out, his large hands gripping your waist, and lifts you entirely off your feet, crushing his mouth against yours.
The kiss is devastatingly thorough. It tastes like expensive champagne, pure adrenaline, and overwhelming, fierce pride. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on tight as your feet dangle above the carpet.
“Incredible,” Garrett breathes out, tearing his mouth away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and completely entirely wrecked with emotion. “You were absolute magic up there, Y/N.”
“I second that,” Dean says, stepping up behind Garrett.
Garrett slowly lowers you back to the floor, keeping one heavy, grounding arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You turn to look at Dean.
Dean’s bright eyes are shining, a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on his lips. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I watched a lot of fancy people in expensive suits crying in the audience tonight. You broke their hearts and put them back together in two hours. You’re a literal superstar.”
“I was so nervous,” you admit, leaning into Dean’s touch, your hands coming up to rest flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Right before the curtain went up, my hands were shaking.”
“But you didn’t freeze,” Garrett says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “You walked out there and you owned the entire building.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, deeply affectionate kiss. “We’re taking you home to celebrate. The car is out back.”
The ride back to the penthouse suite they rented at The Plaza is a blur of flashing paparazzi bulbs, heavy velvet privacy curtains in the back of the town car, and the constant, grounding touch of their hands on yours. They don’t let go of you once.
By the time the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse click shut behind you, the exhaustion of the night is finally beginning to seep into your bones.
You kick off your heels, leaving them abandoned on the plush rug in the foyer. The suite is massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline of Central Park.
“Champagne?” Dean asks, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto a velvet armchair. He walks over to the wet bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Water, please,” you sigh, reaching behind your back to fumble with the invisible zipper of your gown.
“I got it,” Garrett murmurs.
He steps up directly behind you. His large, warm hands brush against your shoulder blades as he grips the tiny zipper, pulling it slowly down your spine. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver slightly, but Garrett’s chest presses warmly against your back, instantly combating the chill.
He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right between your shoulder blades.
You close your eyes, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I know you had to skip a team practice for this, Garrett.”
“I would have skipped the Stanley Cup finals for this,” Garrett says against your skin, his hands slipping around to your stomach, holding you securely. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”
Dean walks over, holding a crystal tumbler of ice water. He hands it to you, then simply stands in front of you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of you standing between them.
The white silk of your gown is pooled around your waist, held up only by Garrett’s arms.
“Did you mean what you said in that interview?” Dean asks quietly, his voice losing its usual playful banter. “About the masters. You really aren’t going to fight for them?”
You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat, before handing the glass back to Dean. He sets it on the side table without looking away from your face.
“I meant it,” you say, your voice completely steady. You look from Dean’s beautiful, sharp features back to Garrett’s intense gray eyes. “I spent my entire teenage life fighting for scraps of my own autonomy. Shawn made me believe that my worth was tied to those songs. That if I lost them, I lost myself.”
You reach out, taking Dean’s hand. You trace the faint, silvery scars across his knuckles — the permanent reminder of the day he shattered his own hands to protect your life.
“But I didn’t lose myself,” you whisper, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the scars. “I found myself. I found you two. Why would I want to go back and buy a cage when I have the entire sky right here?”
Dean exhales a shaky, ragged breath. He takes a step forward, completely closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around you, sandwiching you entirely between his chest and Garrett’s.
“I love you so damn much it actively hurts,” Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hot, damp kiss against your pulse point.
“We’re never letting you go,” Garrett adds, his deep voice vibrating right into your spine. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin silk of the gown, pulling a sharp, sudden gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? You’re stuck with us.”
“I’m counting on it,” you whimper, your head falling back onto Garrett’s shoulder as Dean’s hands slide down to grip your hips.
The emotional weight of the night — the triumph of the concert, the finality of letting go of your past, the profound safety of their arms — suddenly shifts, morphing into a heavy, burning heat that pools low in your stomach.
Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes entirely black with lust. “You were a goddess on that stage tonight. Do you have any idea what it does to us, sitting in the dark, watching five hundred people stare at you, knowing that you belong to us?”
“Tell me,” you challenge softly, a wicked, confident smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.
Garrett lets out a low, predatory growl. He spins you around in his arms, sweeping you completely off your feet. You shriek, a breathless sound of surprise and laughter, as he carries you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite.
He tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce slightly against the plush duvet, your silk dress riding dangerously high up your thighs.
Dean is right behind him. He kicks off his dress shoes and crawls onto the bed, hovering over you like a dark, magnificent shadow. Garrett follows, his knee sinking into the mattress on your other side.
You look up at them.
Three years ago, you were a ghost. You were a product, a prisoner, a girl who flinched at sudden movements and thought she had to earn the right to simply exist.
Now, you are lying on a bed in the penthouse of The Plaza, completely untouchable, utterly adored, and entirely in control.
“Take the dress off,” Garrett commands softly, his hands resting on your knees, gently pushing your legs apart to settle himself between them.
You smile, reaching for the fabric at your waist. “Help me.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss while his hands make quick work of the silk, pulling it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes sweeping over your bare skin with absolute worship.
“Perfect,” Dean whispers, his hands tracing the curve of your hips. “You are so incredibly perfect.”
“Mine,” Garrett growls, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his tongue swirling against your skin, sending a violent shiver crashing through your entire body.
“Ours,” Dean corrects, smirking as he unbuckles his belt.
“Ours,” Garrett agrees, his massive hands sliding up your ribs to pin your wrists loosely above your head.
You arch your back, completely surrendering to their heat, their strength, and their unyielding devotion.
The city of New York is alive and glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside this room, you are exactly where you belong. You are completely safe. You are thoroughly loved.
And for the rest of your life, you are finally truly free.
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything
Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.
For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.
But that was before you.
Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.
“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.
Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”
“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”
“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”
You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”
“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”
You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.
“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”
Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”
“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.
“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.
But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.
Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.
“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”
You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”
“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”
***
An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.
“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”
“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”
“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.
“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”
You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”
“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”
“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”
You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.
“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”
“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.
Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.
“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”
“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”
“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”
You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”
“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”
He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers
tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.
“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”
“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”
He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.
Stanford.
Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.
Stanford. Palo Alto. California.
He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.
“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.
You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”
“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”
“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”
“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”
“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”
You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.
“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.
***
It is 3 AM.
The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.
You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.
Dean is wide awake.
He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.
Three thousand miles.
The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.
He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.
When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.
He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.
How does this work? How do they survive this?
Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.
What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.
He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.
He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.
And now, he has to let you go.
He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.
Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end.
***
It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.
Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.
Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.
His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.
The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.
“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”
Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.
“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”
Dean freezes.
He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.
He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.
But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.
Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.
If you love something, set it free.
He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.
“You look like you’re planning a murder.”
Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.
“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.
Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”
“I’ve spoken.”
“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”
Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”
“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”
“Shut up, Logan.”
“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”
“So you’re just giving up?”
“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”
“But?”
“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”
Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”
“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.
“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”
“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”
“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”
Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.
He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.
He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.
Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.
But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.
***
“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.
You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.
“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”
Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.
“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”
“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”
“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.
“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”
You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.
“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.
The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.
“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”
You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”
“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”
“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”
“I have money.”
“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”
“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”
The room goes dead silent.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.
Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”
You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.
He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”
You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”
Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.
“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”
Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.
He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.
He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.
When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.
It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.
Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.
He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.
He stares down at the little pink pills.
The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.
He literally microwaves her birth control pills.
Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.
He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.
But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.
If you got pregnant.
The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.
If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.
He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.
He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.
And, most importantly, you would be his.
Forever.
Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …
His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.
He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.
He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.
“Dean?”
Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”
Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.
He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.
“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”
“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”
The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.
Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.
The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.
He slowly opens the compact again.
He stares at the foil backing.
He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.
***
The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.
It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?
The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.
And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.
He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.
Four weeks in, you miss your period.
Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.
“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”
Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.
But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.
Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.
It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.
“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”
Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”
“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”
Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.
Then comes the fatigue.
You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.
“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your
stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.
“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”
Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.
It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.
But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.
The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.
You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”
You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.
And then, you sprint for the bathroom.
Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”
You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.
“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”
“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”
“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.
“Dean, what’s today’s date?”
“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.
You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.
“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”
Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”
“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”
“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”
“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”
“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.
“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.
The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.
Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.
When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.
Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.
You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.
“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”
You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”
You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.
He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.
Five minutes pass.
The bathroom is dead silent.
“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Silence.
And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.
You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.
Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.
Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.
All three. Positive.
Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.
You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.
But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.
You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”
“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”
“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”
“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”
“But Stanford-”
“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”
You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”
Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.
“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”
Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.
“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”
You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.
Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.
You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.
“No,” you whisper.
Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”
You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.
“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”
“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.
“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”
Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”
“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”
“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”
“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”
“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”
You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”
“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”
“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.
“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”
He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.
But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.
He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.
Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.
And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.
***
The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.
You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.
“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”
“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”
A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”
“Barely,” Logan mutters.
“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”
“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”
The entire table goes dead silent.
Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.
“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”
“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.
“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”
You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.
“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”
“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”
“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”
You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.
Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.
“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.
Then, absolute chaos erupts.
“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”
Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”
“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.
Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”
“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.
“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”
The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.
“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”
Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”
“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”
“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”
The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.
You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.
“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.
***
Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.
“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.
In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.
“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”
“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”
“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”
“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.
The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.
Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.
“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”
You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.
You gasp.
It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.
It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.
“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”
“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.
“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”
“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”
You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”
“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”
He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.
“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”
He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.
You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.
“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”
“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”
“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”
Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.
He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.
You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.
“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”
***
The true test comes three days later.
Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.
You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.
“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.
“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”
“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”
Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”
Dean flinches.
The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.
“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”
You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.
“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”
Because I did, he adds silently in his head.
“But the timing-”
“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”
He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.
An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.
Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.
“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”
You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.
Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.
“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”
Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”
“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.
Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.
You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.
Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”
Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”
You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”
“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”
“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”
“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”
She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.
“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”
You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.
“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”
“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”
“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”
You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.
He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.
He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.
You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.
You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.
***
September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.
It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.
The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.
But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.
But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.
You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.
At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.
You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.
So, you find a new project.
“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.
He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.
You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.
“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”
“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.
“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”
“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.
His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”
“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”
Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.
He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.
“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”
“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.
“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”
“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.
He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.
But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.
Dean has a break at 1:00.
You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.
***
The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.
Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.
“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”
“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”
Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.
Dean’s head snaps up.
You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.
The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.
The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.
“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”
“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”
Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.
“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.
He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”
The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.
“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.
“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”
“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”
You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.
Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.
Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.
They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.
And Dean? Dean thrives on it.
He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.
It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.
You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.
“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.
Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.
“Professor,” Dean greets easily.
“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.
Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.
“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”
You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”
Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.
“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.
He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.
“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.
You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.
“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”
Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”
You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”
Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.
A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.
Dean stands up.
He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.
Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.
“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.
“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”
Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.
“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.
Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”
Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.
“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”
The courtyard seems to go completely silent.
Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.
“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”
Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.
As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.
“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”
Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.
“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”
You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.
“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”
“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”
“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.
He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.
He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.
But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.
He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.
The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.
But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.
He needs the lock.
He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.
Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.
He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.
Tomorrow.
He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.
Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.
***
December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.
The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.
You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.
But you are here for Dean.
Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.
He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.
But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.
You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.
“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.
You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.
But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.
Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.
Your parents.
You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.
You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.
They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.
Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.
She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.
George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.
Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.
Your parents begin to walk toward you.
They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.
“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”
“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”
The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”
“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.
“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”
“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”
“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”
“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”
The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.
“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”
“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”
The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.
You gasp, turning your head.
Dean is standing right behind you.
The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.
He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.
“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.
Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.
“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”
Dean lunges forward.
It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.
“Dean, no!”
You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.
“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”
Dean freezes.
The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.
He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.
He chooses a different weapon.
“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”
George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.
Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.
“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.
“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”
Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”
Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.
The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.
“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.
“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”
You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.
“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”
“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”
Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”
George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.
“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”
Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.
“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”
George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.
George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”
Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.
The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.
He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.
“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”
“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”
“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”
Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”
“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”
“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.
As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.
And Dean?
Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.
They accused you of trapping him.
Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.
You will never leave him. Not ever.
And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.
***
“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”
Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.
“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.
You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.
It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.
You have been in labor for nineteen hours.
“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”
“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”
“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”
Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.
As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.
It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’
“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”
You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.
“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”
“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.
But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.
Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.
Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.
But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.
“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”
The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”
“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”
You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.
“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”
“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.
“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.
You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.
And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.
It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.
“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”
You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.
Dean is frozen.
He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.
His son.
The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.
The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.
“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”
Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.
“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”
“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.
And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.
“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.
Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.
As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.
For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.
But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.
It is done.
The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.
You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.
An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.
“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”
“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.
***
Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.
You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.
But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.
Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.
He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.
You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.
“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.
Noah Di Laurentis.
Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.
“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”
“Of course,” Dean says immediately.
He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.
Dean’s breath hitches.
He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.
You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.
You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”
Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.
The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.
It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.
But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.
He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.
You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.
You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.
“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.
“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.
Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.
“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”
“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”
“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”
Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.
“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”
You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.
“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.
When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
***
The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.
It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.
“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.
“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.
“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”
“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.
“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.
You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.
“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”
You spin around.
Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.
Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.
He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.
“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”
“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”
Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”
“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”
“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”
You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”
“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”
You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.
“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”
***
The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.
The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.
“Excuse me, Y/N?”
You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.
“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”
“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”
Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”
“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”
You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.
You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.
“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”
Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”
“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”
“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”
“Dean.”
“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”
“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”
“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”
You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.
“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.
“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”
***
The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.
The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.
You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
You hear the booming voice before you see him.
Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.
“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”
“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”
“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”
“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”
“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”
“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”
“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”
As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.
It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.
And they are absolutely staring at you.
Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.
“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”
You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.
One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.
Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.
He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.
He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.
You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”
“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.
Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.
“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.
Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”
Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.
“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”
“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”
Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”
“I do,” Dean smirks.
“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”
“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.
He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.
“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”
Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”
He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.
“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.
“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”
“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”
“It is now,” he declares.
He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.
But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.
You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.
“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.
“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”
Dean’s breath catches.
His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.
Ten years.
It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.
He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.
And you never knew.
You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.
Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.
Does he feel guilty?
He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.
No.
He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.
He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.
“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”
“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”
You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”
Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.
“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”
Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”
“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”
“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”
“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.
“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.
He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.
Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.
He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.
He trapped you.
And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.
Summary: the one where the honeymoon phase becomes literal
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
The thing about honeymooning in the Seychelles is that everything is almost aggressively perfect.
The private villa is stunning — all white stone and warm wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a private beach. The bedroom has a king-size bed draped in white linens, the bathroom has an outdoor shower surrounded by tropical plants, and the infinity pool seems to spill directly into the ocean beyond.
Sidney had spared no expense. Private villa, private beach, private chef who comes twice a day to prepare meals and then disappears. Complete privacy, complete luxury, just him and you for two weeks.
His pregnant wife.
He’s still getting used to both of those facts. Wife. Pregnant. Both feel surreal, like a dream he’s afraid he’ll wake up from.
But you’re very real, currently lying on a lounger on the private beach in a white bikini that’s barely there, reading a book and looking like every fantasy he’s ever had.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book.
“I’m admiring,” Sidney corrects, taking a sip of his drink. He’s in the lounger next to you, supposedly reading, but he’s been on the same page for twenty minutes because he can’t stop looking at you.
“You’re staring,” you repeat, but you’re smiling. “You’ve been staring since we got here three days ago.”
“Can you blame me?” He asks. “My wife is gorgeous and barely wearing anything. I’m only human.”
You set your book down and turn to look at him. “Your wife is also getting hot. Want to go in the water?”
“Sure,” he says, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, letting him pull you up, and he can’t help but glance at your stomach. Still flat, no visible sign of the baby yet, but he knows it’s there. His child, growing inside you.
“Stop looking at my stomach,” you tease.
“Can’t help it,” he admits. “There’s a baby in there.”
“A very tiny baby,” you remind him. “Probably the size of a lentil right now.”
“Still a baby,” he insists. “My baby.”
You laugh, pulling him toward the water. It’s perfectly clear, perfectly warm, and you wade in up to your waist before diving under. Sidney follows, the salt water cool against his skin.
When you surface, you’re grinning, water streaming down your face. “This is paradise.”
“It really is,” Sidney agrees, pulling you close. The water makes you buoyant, and you wrap your legs around his waist easily.
“Best honeymoon ever,” you say, kissing him.
“We’ve only been here three days,” he points out. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Nothing could ruin this,” you insist. “Private beach, perfect weather, handsome husband. What more could I want?”
“Food?” Sidney suggests. “Georges is making dinner in a few hours.”
“Okay, food too,” you concede. “But mostly the handsome husband part.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and feels your body respond against him. Even in the water, even in broad daylight, his body responds immediately to having you this close.
“Careful,” you murmur against his lips. “Keep kissing me like that and I’m going to want you to fuck me right here.”
Sidney pulls back slightly. “In the water?”
“Why not?” You ask. “Private beach. No one around. When are we ever going to get this chance again?”
“Because sand and salt water are not ideal for that,” Sidney says practically. “And because I’m not risking anything that could hurt you or the baby.”
You sigh dramatically but unwrap your legs from his waist. “Fine. You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right,” he says, though he’s already regretting being practical because you look disappointed.
You swim for a while longer, splashing and playing like kids, before heading back to the loungers. Sidney towels off while you reapply sunscreen, and he tries very hard not to think about the way your hands move over your body.
“Can you do my back?” You ask, holding out the bottle.
“Trying to kill me,” he mutters, but he takes the sunscreen.
You lie face-down on your lounger and he straddles it behind you, smoothing sunscreen over your shoulders, your back, the curve of your waist. Your skin is warm from the sun and soft under his hands, and he’s very aware of how little clothing there is between you.
“Lower,” you instruct. “I don’t want to burn.”
He moves lower, to the small of your back, the curve of your ass. His hands are professional, medical almost, but his brain is decidedly not professional.
“Okay, done,” he says, pulling back.
“Thank you,” you say, rolling onto your back and adjusting your bikini top. “You’re very thorough.”
“I’m very careful with you,” he corrects.
“I know,” you say softly. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”
You pick up your book again, and Sidney picks up his, and you read in companionable silence for a while. Or rather, you read. Sidney continues to pretend to read while actually watching you.
He’s made it through maybe three actual pages when you speak again.
“Sidney?”
“Hmm?”
“What would you do if I took this off?” You gesture at your bikini top.
Sidney’s brain short-circuits. “What?”
“My top,” you clarify. “What would you do if I took it off? We’re on a private beach. No one’s around.”
“I would-” He clears his throat. “I would tell you to put it back on.”
“Would you?” You ask, and there’s a challenge in your voice now.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Because even though this is a private beach, someone could theoretically see. A boat could go by. Someone could be on the cliff with binoculars. And I’m not sharing that view with anyone.”
“Possessive,” you tease.
“Extremely,” he confirms. “You’re mine. All of you. I’m not risking anyone else seeing what’s mine.”
“What if I want to?” You challenge. “What if I want to feel the sun on my skin?”
“Then we’ll do it at night,” Sidney says. “When it’s dark and no one can see.”
“You’re no fun,” you complain, but you’re smiling.
“I’m plenty of fun,” he defends. “I’m just not interested in anyone else seeing my pregnant wife naked.”
“I’m barely pregnant,” you point out. “You can’t even tell.”
“I can tell,” he says. “Your breasts are already getting fuller. I notice.”
You look down at yourself. “Are they?”
“Yes,” he says definitively. “And they’re more sensitive. I noticed that too.”
“Very observant,” you say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you should fuck me on this beach.”
Sidney nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”
“You heard me,” you say, sitting up and swinging your legs off the lounger. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. On the beach. In the sun.”
“Absolutely not,” Sidney says immediately.
“Why not?” You ask. “It’s private. No one’s around. And I’m your wife. You can do whatever you want with me.”
“I can do whatever I want with you in the villa,” Sidney counters. “In the bedroom. Behind closed doors. Where no one can see.”
“But I want you here,” you say, standing and walking toward him. You straddle his lounger, one knee on either side of his hips, and lean down to kiss him. “I want you to take me right here on this beach. I want to feel the sand and the sun while you fuck me.”
“You’re being a brat,” he says, but his hands have already gone to your hips, holding you.
“Maybe,” you agree. “But you like it when I’m a brat.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to give you what you want,” he says, even though his body is very clearly interested in giving you exactly what you want.
“No?” You ask, rolling your hips against him. You can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks. “You sure about that?”
“Very sure,” he says, though his voice is strained. “I’m not fucking you where someone could see.”
“No one’s going to see,” you insist. “Look around. There’s no one. Just us and the ocean and the sun.”
“Someone could come by,” he argues. “A boat. A person walking. Someone on staff.”
“The staff knows not to come to the beach when we’re here,” you counter. “And boats stay outside the reef. And there’s no one for miles. We’re completely alone.”
“The answer is still no,” Sidney says, even though every part of him wants to say yes.
“Fine,” you say, and you slide off his lap and stand. “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”
“That’s not going to-” Sidney starts, but he stops because you’re reaching behind you and untying your bikini top.
“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice climbing.
“You said you didn’t want anyone else to see,” you say, letting the top fall away. “But there’s no one here to see. Just you. So I’m taking it off.”
Sidney’s mouth goes dry. You’re standing there, topless in the sun, and you’re right, there’s no one around. But the principle of the thing-
“Put it back on,” he says, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“Make me,” you challenge.
“You-”
“Or you could fuck me,” you suggest. “Right here. And then I’ll put it back on.”
“That’s blackmail,” he says.
“That’s negotiation,” you correct. You hook your thumbs in your bikini bottoms. “Should I take these off too?”
“Don’t you dare,” Sidney warns, standing.
“Why not?” You ask innocently. “You just said no one can see. So what does it matter?”
“It matters because-” Sidney stops, realizing he’s walked into your trap.
“Because?” You prompt.
“Because you’re mine,” he finally says. “And I don’t want to risk anyone seeing what’s mine. Even if the chances are basically zero.”
“Then claim me,” you say softly. “Right here. Show me I’m yours.”
Sidney looks around. The beach is completely empty. The villa behind them is closed up for privacy. There are no boats visible on the horizon. You’re completely alone.
“You’re really not going to let this go,” he says.
“Not a chance,” you confirm. “I want this, Sidney. I want you. Right here, right now.”
He looks at you — his wife, standing topless on a private beach, asking him to fuck you — and his resolve crumbles.
“If anyone sees,” he warns.
“They won’t,” you promise.
“If I see so much as a hint of another person-”
“Then we’ll stop,” you agree. “But we won’t. Because we’re alone.”
Sidney closes the distance between you, his hands going to your waist. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you counter.
“I do,” he admits, and then he’s kissing you, hard and possessive.
You melt against him, your bare breasts pressing against his chest, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down to your ass, cupping you through your bikini bottoms.
“Here,” you murmur against his lips. “Right here.”
He walks you backward toward one of the loungers, lowering you onto it. You lie back, looking up at him, and he takes a moment just to look at you. His wife. Pregnant with his child. Asking him to fuck you on a beach in paradise.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful.”
“Then touch me,” you say. “Stop staring and touch me.”
He does, his hands skating up your thighs, over your stomach, to your breasts. You arch into his touch, gasping, and he can feel how sensitive you are already.
“Sidney,” you moan. “Please.”
“Please what?” He asks, even though he knows.
“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Right here. Right now. I need you.”
He hooks his fingers in your bikini bottoms and pulls them down slowly. You lift your hips to help, and then you’re completely naked on the lounger, spread out for him like an offering.
“Anyone could see,” he says one more time, but it’s weak now.
“But they won’t,” you say. “It’s just us. Just you and me and the sun and the ocean. Please, daddy. Fuck your pregnant wife.”
The combination of words obliterates any remaining resistance. Sidney strips off his swim trunks and positions himself between your legs.
“You’re already so wet,” he observes, his fingers sliding through your folds.
“I’ve been wet since you put sunscreen on me,” you admit. “Been thinking about this for hours.”
“Thinking about me fucking you on the beach?” He asks, working you with his fingers.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Thinking about you inside me. Thinking about you claiming me out here where anyone could theoretically see. Thinking about how possessive you’d be.”
“I am possessive,” he confirms. “And if anyone did see, I’d have to kill them.”
“Good thing we’re alone then,” you say breathlessly.
He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Last chance to go inside.”
“Not a chance,” you say. “I want you here. Now.”
He pushes inside slowly, and the feeling of you, warm and wet and tight around him, makes him groan. The sun is hot on his back, the ocean breeze cool, and you’re underneath him, taking him, looking up at him with those eyes.
“God, you feel perfect,” he groans.
“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”
He starts to move, slow and controlled, acutely aware that you’re outside, exposed. Every sound seems louder — your moans, his breathing, the slap of skin against skin.
“Harder,” you demand. “Stop being gentle. Fuck me like you mean it.”
“Someone could hear,” he protests.
“So let them hear,” you counter. “Let them know how good you fuck your wife. Let them know I’m yours.”
Something primal takes over. Sidney braces one hand beside your head and hooks the other under your knee, opening you wider, and starts fucking you in earnest. Hard, deep, claiming.
“That’s it,” you moan. “Yes, just like that-”
“Mine,” he growls. “You’re mine. My wife. My pregnant wife. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to hear you moan like this.”
“Only you,” you agree breathlessly. “Only ever you-”
“Carrying my baby,” he continues, his hand sliding to your stomach even as he keeps thrusting. “Everyone’s going to know I knocked you up. Everyone’s going to see you pregnant and know I fucked you.”
“Yes,” you cry out. “Want everyone to know-”
He adjusts the angle and you arch off the lounger, gasping. “Right there?”
“Right there,” you confirm. “Don’t stop-”
He doesn’t. He fucks you hard and deep, the lounger creaking underneath you, and he keeps one eye on the horizon because he really will stop if anyone appears, but there’s no one. Just you and him and paradise.
“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you work yourself while he fucks you. The visual of it — you touching yourself while he’s inside you, out in the open air, the sun shining down — is almost too much.
“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”
“Look at me,” he demands. “I want to see your face when you come.”
You do, your eyes locking with his, and he can see the pleasure building in your expression.
“Come for me,” he says. “Come for your husband. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You fall apart with a scream that echoes across the empty beach, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.
“Mine,” he groans. “All mine.”
He collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on your stomach, and you wrap your arms around him.
“That was incredible,” you breathe.
“That was reckless,” he counters, but he’s smiling.
“That was perfect,” you correct. “Admit it. You loved it.”
“I loved it,” he admits. “But I’m never doing that again. My heart can’t take it.”
“Sure,” you say, clearly not believing him. “We’ll see.”
He pulls out carefully and reaches for your bikini, handing it to you. “Put this on. Before I have a heart attack worrying someone saw.”
“No one saw,” you assure him, but you start putting your bikini back on. “We were completely alone.”
“This time,” he mutters, pulling on his swim trunks. “Next time we’re staying in the villa.”
“Next time?” You tease. “I thought you were never doing that again.”
“Next time we have sex,” he clarifies. “Which will be in the villa. With walls and doors and privacy.”
“If you say so,” you say, but you’re grinning.
Once you’re both dressed again, Sidney pulls you into his lap on the lounger. “You’re a menace.”
“You married me anyway,” you point out.
“Best decision I ever made,” he says, kissing your temple.
“Even when I make you do reckless things like fuck me on a beach?”
“Especially then,” he says. “Keeps life interesting.”
You cuddle into his chest, content. The sun is starting to lower in the sky, casting everything in golden light, and Sidney holds you close.
“This really is paradise,” you murmur.
“It is,” he agrees. “But the paradise part isn’t the beach or the villa or the ocean.”
“No?”
“No,” he confirms. “The paradise part is you. Having you here. Knowing you’re my wife. Knowing you’re carrying my baby. That’s the paradise.”
You lift your head to kiss him. “You’re very sweet.”
“I’m very in love,” he corrects.
“That too,” you agree.
You sit like that for a while, watching the sun move across the sky, completely at peace.
“Sidney?” You say eventually.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for this. The honeymoon, the privacy, all of it. I know you had to work around your training schedule.”
“Worth it,” he says. “Every minute with you is worth it.”
“Even when I’m being a brat?”
“Especially when you’re being a brat,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”
You laugh, the sound happy and free, and Sidney thinks about how much has changed in three years. From arguing about hockey statistics at a charity gala to this — married, pregnant, on a honeymoon in the Seychelles.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask.
“How far we’ve come,” he admits. “How lucky I am.”
“We’re both lucky,” you correct. “I’m the one who got to marry Sidney Crosby.”
“You’re the one who got to marry Sidney,” he corrects. “Not Sidney Crosby the hockey player. Just Sidney.”
“Best Sidney there is,” you say. “My Sidney.”
“Your Sidney,” he agrees. “Always.”
The sun continues its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and Sidney holds his wife on a beach in paradise and thinks that this — this moment right here — is what happiness looks like.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what matters.
Not the trophies or the fame or the records.
This. You. Your baby. A lifetime of moments just like this one.
Three Stanley Cups. Two Olympic gold medals. Two Hart Trophies. A Conn Smythe. More awards and accolades than he can count.
But standing at the end of a flower-lined aisle on the waterfront in Cole Harbour, watching you walk toward him in a white dress with the ocean as your backdrop, he realizes that none of those achievements come close to this moment.
You’re beautiful. Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. Your dress is simple and elegant, flowing in the late summer breeze, and you’re carrying a bouquet of white roses and greenery. Your hair is half-up, half-down, with small flowers woven through it, and you’re smiling at him like he’s the only person in the world.
Your father is walking you down the aisle, and Sidney can see him blinking back tears. Hell, Sidney is blinking back tears. He’s pretty sure half the guests are crying already and you haven’t even reached him yet.
The chairs are set up on the lawn overlooking the water. The arch where Sidney is standing is covered in white flowers and greenery, and the whole scene is so perfect it doesn’t feel real.
But then you’re there, standing in front of him, and your father is placing your hand in his.
“Take care of her,” your father says quietly, his voice thick.
“Always,” Sidney promises.
Your father nods, kisses your cheek, and steps back. And then it’s just you and Sidney, standing together, facing the officiant as the ceremony begins.
Sidney barely hears the opening remarks. He’s too focused on you, on the way you’re looking at him, on the fact that in a few minutes you’re going to be his wife.
His wife.
Dr. Crosby.
The mother of his children — though only he knows that last part might already be true.
“Sidney and Y/N have chosen to write their own vows,” the officiant says, and Sidney’s attention snaps back to the moment. “Sidney, would you like to begin?”
He nods, pulling the folded paper from his pocket with shaking hands. He’d written and rewritten these vows a dozen times, trying to find the words to express what you mean to him.
“Y/N,” he starts, and his voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Y/N. I’m not great at speeches. You know this. You’ve sat through enough of my awkward press conferences to know that I’m better at doing things than talking about them.”
A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and you smile at him, your eyes shining.
“But I need to try to tell you what you mean to me,” he continues. “You came into my life at a charity gala two years ago and immediately challenged me on my hockey statistics. Most people don’t do that. Most people tell me I’m great and leave it at that. But you looked at my Corsi percentage and told me I was wrong about my defensive zone coverage.”
More laughter. You’re biting your lip, trying not to cry.
“And I fell in love with you right then,” Sidney admits. “Because you weren’t intimidated by me. You weren’t impressed by the trophies or the championships. You just saw me — Sidney, not Sidney Crosby the hockey player — and you treated me like a person worth arguing with.”
He pauses, looking down at his notes, then back up at you.
“You’re the smartest person I know. Watching you earn your PhD, watching you defend your dissertation, seeing how hard you work and how brilliant you are … it’s humbling. You could have anyone, and somehow you chose me.”
“Best decision I ever made,” you whisper, and he has to stop to compose himself.
“You make me better,” he says. “You keep me grounded when my head gets too big. You call me out when I’m being stubborn. You support my career but you also have your own career, your own goals, your own life. You’re my partner in every sense of the word.”
He folds the paper, deciding to speak from the heart for the rest.
“I promise to support your dreams the way you support mine. I promise to make you laugh, even when you’re frustrated with me. I promise to always be honest with you, even when it’s hard. I promise to be your teammate, your best friend, your safe place to land.”
He takes a breath.
“And I promise to love you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every moment. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health. You’re it for me. You’re everything. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life showing you that.”
You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face, and Sidney wants to wipe them away but the officiant is already turning to you.
“Y/N?” She prompts gently.
You take a shaky breath, reaching into your bouquet where you’ve apparently tucked your own notes.
“Sidney,” you start, your voice wavering. “When I met you two years ago, I thought you were cocky and arrogant and way too confident about your defensive zone coverage.”
Sidney laughs, and so does everyone else.
“I was fully prepared to dislike you,” you continue. “But then you actually listened to my arguments. You asked me questions about my research. You treated me like an equal, not like some fan trying to get your attention. And by the end of the night, I was completely gone for you.”
You wipe your eyes with one hand, still holding the bouquet with the other.
“You’ve supported me through four years of my PhD. You read every draft of my dissertation, even the boring parts about methodology. You came to every defense, every presentation, every milestone. You celebrated my successes like they were your own.”
Your voice breaks and you have to pause.
“You make me feel seen,” you say quietly. “You make me feel valued. Not despite my career, but because of it. You’re proud of me, and that means everything.”
Sidney squeezes your hands, his own eyes burning.
“I promise to be your biggest fan, just like you’re mine. I promise to keep calling you out when you’re being stubborn, because someone has to. I promise to make our house a home, wherever that is. I promise to be your partner, your equal, your teammate.”
You look directly into his eyes.
“And I promise to love you for the rest of my life. Through every season, every game, every challenge. You’re my person, Sidney. You’re my home. And I can’t wait to build a life with you.”
There’s not a dry eye in the crowd. Sidney can hear his mother sobbing, and he’s pretty sure Geno is crying too.
The officiant goes through the rest of the ceremony — the rings, the pronouncement, the “you may kiss the bride” — and then Sidney is kissing you, dipping you back dramatically while everyone cheers and applauds.
“Hi, wife,” he murmurs against your lips.
“Hi, husband,” you say back, and the words send a thrill through him.
The recessional is a blur of hugs and congratulations. Your mother is crying, his mother is crying, your father is shaking his hand and pulling him into a hug, Kris is making jokes about Sidney finally settling down.
Photos take forever — you and Sidney, the wedding party, family photos, candids on the beach. The photographer keeps making you pose and re-pose, but Sidney doesn’t care because he gets to keep holding you, keeps getting to call you his wife.
“Mrs. Crosby,” he says during a quiet moment while the photographer is adjusting equipment. “Dr. Crosby.”
“I like the sound of that,” you admit.
“Me too,” he says, kissing you again.
The reception is at a venue overlooking the water — a luxury glass structure that’s been filled with so many flowers it looks like a garden. White roses, peonies, hydrangeas, greenery cascading from the ceiling and wrapping around the columns. String lights everywhere, creating a warm glow as the sun starts to set.
“This is incredible,” you breathe as you enter.
“You’re incredible,” Sidney counters. “This is just decoration.”
Dinner is a blur of toasts and laughter. Your maid of honor tells embarrassing stories from grad school. Nate, as best man, tells stories about Sidney that make everyone laugh and Sidney groan. Geno gives a toast that’s mostly in Russian but still somehow makes everyone cry.
Sidney toasts you, keeping it short because he already said everything he needed to in his vows, but he can’t resist adding “To my wife, Dr. Crosby. The smartest, most beautiful, most patient woman I know. Thank you for putting up with me.”
The first dance is to a song you both chose together, something slow and romantic. Sidney holds you close, swaying gently, acutely aware that this is the first of many dances you’ll share as husband and wife.
“Happy?” He asks quietly.
“So happy,” you confirm. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”
“Not perfect,” he corrects. “But I’m yours.”
“Same thing,” you say, and kiss him.
The party continues late into the evening. Dancing, cake cutting, more toasts. Sidney dances with his mother, you dance with your father. There’s a moment where all of Sidney’s teammates lift him up and parade him around the dance floor while you laugh so hard you’re crying.
But eventually, late in the evening, you lean close to Sidney and whisper, “Can we go home?”
“Absolutely,” he says, because he’s been waiting all day to get you alone.
You make your excuses, say your goodbyes, and slip out to the car. The drive back to the house is quiet, your hand in his, both of you too content and overwhelmed to need words.
When you pull into the driveway, Sidney parks and comes around to open your door.
“What are you doing?” You ask, laughing.
“Carrying my wife over the threshold,” he says, scooping you up. “It’s tradition.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re smiling as you wrap your arms around his neck.
He carries you to the front door, managing to unlock it one-handed, and steps inside. But instead of putting you down, he just holds you, standing in the foyer of the house you’ve shared for over a year.
“We’re married,” he says, still processing it.
“We are,” you confirm. “I’m your wife.”
“My wife,” he repeats, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and thorough, and you’re laughing against his mouth.
“Put me down,” you say. “I have something for you.”
“What kind of something?” He asks, setting you on your feet.
“A wedding gift,” you say, and there’s something in your voice that makes his heart skip. “Wait here.”
You disappear upstairs, leaving Sidney standing in the foyer in his tuxedo, wondering what you’re up to. You’re gone for maybe two minutes before you come back down, holding something small in your hands.
“Close your eyes,” you instruct.
“What-”
“Just close them,” you insist.
He does, holding out his hands. You place something in them — something small and plastic.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Open.”
He opens his eyes and looks down.
It’s a pregnancy test. And there are very clearly two pink lines.
Sidney’s brain short-circuits.
“Is this-” His voice comes out strangled. “Is this real?”
“Very real,” you confirm, and you’re crying again, happy tears this time. “I took it this morning. And then three more to be sure. I’m pregnant, Sidney. We’re having a baby.”
Something absolutely feral takes over Sidney’s brain. He sets the test down carefully on the entry table, and then he’s on you, kissing you desperately, his hands everywhere.
“You’re pregnant,” he says against your mouth. “You’re actually pregnant.”
“I am,” you gasp. “I’m carrying your baby. You knocked me up just like you promised.”
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands moving to your stomach. It’s still flat, no visible sign yet, but knowing that his baby is in there, growing-
“Bedroom,” he says roughly. “Right now.”
“Sidney-”
“I need to-” He can’t even articulate what he needs. He just knows he needs to get you upstairs, needs to worship you, needs to show you exactly what this means to him.
You seem to understand, nodding, and he practically drags you up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, his hands find the zipper of your wedding dress.
“Careful,” you warn. “This dress was expensive.”
“I’ll buy you ten more,” he says, but he’s careful as he lowers the zipper and helps you step out of it. You hang it carefully on a hanger while Sidney strips off his tuxedo jacket, his bow tie, his vest.
When you turn back to him, you’re in white lace lingerie, and he realizes you planned this. You knew you were going to tell him tonight. You wore this for him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says. “My wife. My pregnant wife.”
“Not very pregnant yet,” you point out. “Maybe four weeks? Five? It’s early.”
“Don’t care,” he says, closing the distance between you. “You’re pregnant. You’re carrying my baby. That’s all that matters.”
His hand splays across your stomach again, reverent. “There’s a baby in here. Our baby. Part of me, part of you.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Your baby. The one you put in me.”
“Fuck,” he groans. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” You challenge. “It’s true. You bred me. You knocked me up. You got me pregnant.”
He’s kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed. You go willingly, and soon you’re on your back with Sidney hovering over you.
“I can’t believe this is real,” he says, his hands tracing over your body. “Can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe we’re married. Can’t believe you’re pregnant.”
“Believe it,” you say, reaching for his belt. “Your wife is pregnant with your baby. And she needs you.”
“What does she need?” He asks, even though he knows.
“Needs her husband to fuck her,” you say bluntly. “Needs you to show her what it means that she’s carrying your child.”
Sidney groans, making quick work of the rest of his clothes. You remove your bra and panties while he strips, and then you’re both naked, pressed together.
“You’re already pregnant,” he says, his hand moving between your legs and finding you wet. “Already carrying my baby. But I’m going to fuck you anyway. Going to fill you up even more. Going to make sure you know exactly who you belong to.”
“Yours,” you moan as his fingers work you. “Always yours.”
“My wife,” he says. “My pregnant wife. Mother of my children.”
He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Ready?”
“Please,” you beg. “Please, husband. Need you inside me.”
The word ’husband’ sends a thrill through him. He pushes inside slowly, savoring the feeling of your body accepting him.
“God,” he groans. “You feel so perfect.”
“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”
He starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your stomach.
“There’s a baby in here,” he marvels. “Our baby. Growing inside you because I bred you.”
“Yes,” you moan. “You knocked me up. Got me pregnant. Made me yours.”
“Already were mine,” he counters, his pace increasing. “But now everyone’s going to know. Going to see you get round with my baby. Going to know I fucked you so well you got pregnant.”
“Everyone’s going to know,” you agree breathlessly. “Going to see me pregnant and know what you did to me.”
“What we did,” he corrects. “You begged for it. Begged me to breed you. Stopped taking your pills because you wanted my baby.”
“Wanted it so much,” you confess. “Wanted to give you everything. Wanted to be pregnant with your child.”
He adjusts the angle, hitting deeper, and you cry out.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. Take my cock. You’re so good at it. So perfect for me.”
His hand moves from your stomach to your breast, cupping it. “These are going to get bigger. Fuller. You’re going to be so sensitive when you’re pregnant.”
“Can’t wait,” you gasp. “Want you to see me change. Want you to watch your baby grow in me.”
“I’m going to worship every change,” he promises. “Every pound, every curve, every new thing your body does. You’re growing my baby. Nothing is more beautiful than that.”
“Sidney,” you moan, and he can tell you’re getting close.
“What do you need, wife?”
“Need to come,” you gasp. “Need you to make me come.”
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come for me then. Come on your husband’s cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”
“Keep talking,” you beg. “Tell me about the baby. Tell me about being pregnant.”
“You’re going to be so beautiful pregnant,” he says, his fingers working faster. “So round and glowing. Everyone’s going to see you and know you’re mine. Know I knocked you up. Know you’re carrying my baby.”
“Yes,” you sob. “Want that-”
“Going to take such good care of you,” he continues. “Going to worship you every day. Going to fuck you whenever you want, keep you satisfied, make sure you know how perfect you are.”
“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come for your husband. Show me how good it feels to be pregnant with my baby.”
You fall apart with a scream, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.
“Mine,” he groans. “All mine. My wife. My baby. Everything.”
He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, and immediately pulls you against his chest.
“That was intense,” you say after a moment.
“You told me you’re pregnant on our wedding night,” he points out. “What did you expect?”
“Exactly that,” you admit, laughing. “I know you, remember?”
His hand finds your stomach again, splaying across it protectively. “I can’t believe it. We’re having a baby.”
“We are,” you confirm. “In about eight months, give or take.”
“Eight months,” he repeats. “That’s … that’s soon.”
“That’s why I told you now,” you say. “We have our honeymoon, and then we need to start preparing. Nursery, baby things, all of it.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Together.”
“Together,” you agree.
There’s a comfortable silence for a moment, and then Sidney says, “When did you know?”
“I suspected a few days ago,” you admit. “I was tired, and my breasts were sore, and I just had a feeling. So I took a test yesterday morning. And then three more this morning because I couldn’t believe it.”
“And you didn’t tell me,” he says.
“I wanted to tell you tonight,” you explain. “On our wedding night. I wanted it to be perfect.”
“It is perfect,” he assures you. “This whole day has been perfect. You’re perfect.”
“I love you,” you say softly.
“I love you too,” he says. “Both of you.”
His hand is still on your stomach, and you cover it with your own.
“We’re going to be parents,” you say, and he can hear the wonder in your voice.
“We are,” he confirms. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“You’re going to be an amazing father,” you counter.
“I’m going to try,” he promises. “I’m going to do everything I can to be a good dad.”
“You will be,” you say with certainty. “I know you will.”
Sidney holds you close, one hand on your stomach, the other stroking your hair, and thinks about the future. About doctor’s appointments and ultrasounds and picking out names. About building a nursery and reading parenting books and feeling the baby kick for the first time. About holding his child, seeing your features and his combined into a whole new person.
“Sidney?” You murmur.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For everything. For loving me, for marrying me, for giving me this.”
“Thank you,” he counters. “For choosing me. For building a life with me. For giving me a family.”
You turn in his arms, facing him. “We really did it. We got married, and I’m pregnant, and we’re starting our lives together.”
“We did,” he agrees. “And I can’t wait for all of it. Every moment.”
“Even the middle-of-the-night feedings and the diaper changes?” You tease.
“Especially those,” he says seriously. “Because it means I get to be a dad. I get to raise a child with you. There’s nothing I want more.”
You kiss him, soft and sweet. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Dr. Crosby,” he says. “Now and forever.”
“Now and forever,” you repeat.
And as Sidney holds his wife — his pregnant wife — in their bed on their wedding night, he realizes that this is what winning really feels like.
Not trophies or championships or individual awards.
This. You. Your baby growing inside you. A lifetime of moments just like this one.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what winning looks like.
Summary: the one where Sidney wants to knock you up
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
Sidney Crosby has a problem.
The problem is twenty-three years old, brilliant, currently writing her dissertation on social inequality in youth sports access, and sound asleep in his bed wearing nothing but his old Team Canada t-shirt.
The problem is that he’s thirty-nine years old and having thoughts that would probably get him canceled if anyone could read his mind.
The problem is that he wants to get you pregnant.
He’s lying awake at three in the morning having this realization, and it’s not sitting well. You’re in the middle of your PhD program. You’ve got at least eighteen months left before you defend. You’ve explicitly told him that kids are “someday, maybe, when I’m done with school and have established my career.”
He respects that. He does. He would never actually try to derail your education or pressure you into something you’re not ready for.
But god, he thinks about it.
He thinks about it when you’re curled up reading journal articles with your reading glasses on, looking adorably academic. He thinks about it when you present at conferences and he watches you command a room with your intelligence. He thinks about it when you cook dinner together and you laugh at his terrible jokes and he imagines a little girl with your laugh sitting in the kitchen with you.
He thinks about it most when you’re underneath him, when you look up at him with those eyes and say things like “yours” and “please” and “daddy,” and every caveman instinct he has screams “mine, keep, breed.”
It’s primitive and probably problematic and he’s never going to say it out loud because you would rightfully point out that you are not, in fact, a broodmare, and he’s supposed to be a modern enlightened man who respects his partner’s autonomy.
But he thinks it.
Fuck, does he think it.
You shift in your sleep, the t-shirt riding up, and Sidney very deliberately thinks about hockey statistics instead of the curve of your hip. Corsi percentages. Fenwick close. Expected goals. Anything but the image of you pregnant, round with his child, glowing and beautiful and his his his-
“Nope,” he mutters to himself. “Not doing this.”
He gets out of bed carefully, heads downstairs, and does what he always does when his brain won’t shut off: he watches game film. Pulls up last night’s game against the Panthers and starts analyzing his shifts, looking for areas to improve.
He’s twenty minutes into a particularly sloppy line change when you appear in the doorway, sleepy and rumpled and so fucking beautiful it hurts.
“Can’t sleep?” You ask, padding over to the couch.
“Just restless,” he says, which isn’t a lie. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t,” you assure him, curling up against his side. “I just reached for you and you weren’t there.”
He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You smell like his body wash and sleep and something uniquely you, and he’s struck by how perfectly you fit against him.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, because of course you can tell something’s off.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he says.
“Sidney,” you say patiently. “You only watch game film at three in the morning when something’s bothering you. What is it?”
He considers lying, but you’ll see through it. You always do.
“Just thinking about the future,” he says carefully.
“What about it?”
“What we want. What our timeline looks like.” He pauses. “Kids, specifically.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Okay. What about kids?”
“I know you want to finish your PhD first,” he says. “And I respect that. I do. I’m not trying to pressure you or anything.”
“But?” You prompt.
“But I’m thirty-nine,” he admits. “And I’m not getting any younger. And sometimes I think about it … and I want it. A lot.”
“I want it too,” you say softly. “Just not right now. I need to finish school first. Establish myself. I can’t do that with a baby.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “And I’m not asking you to. I promise. Your education comes first. Always.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
He sighs. “Honestly? I think I’m having some kind of early midlife crisis where all I want to do is knock you up and keep you barefoot and pregnant, and I know that’s incredibly sexist and regressive and not at all in line with my actual values, but apparently my lizard brain didn’t get the memo.”
You’re quiet for a long moment, and he’s worried he’s just irreparably weirded you out, but then you start laughing.
“It’s not funny,” he protests.
“It’s a little funny,” you counter. “Sidney Crosby, feminist ally and supporter of women’s hockey, having caveman breeding urges.”
“I’m aware of the irony,” he says drily.
“You know I’m on the pill, right?” You point out. “Very effective birth control. We could …” You trail off, and he can feel the shift in the air.
“Could what?”
“Pretend,” you say simply. “You could stop using condoms. Fill me up as much as you want. Talk about it. Get it out of your system.”
Sidney’s brain short-circuits. “What?”
“I’m saying,” you continue, shifting to straddle his lap, “that maybe I’m a little into the idea too. Of you being possessive and primal and wanting to breed me. As long as we’re both clear it’s fantasy right now.”
“You’re into it,” he repeats, his hands automatically going to your hips.
“Yeah,” you say, and he can see the flush creeping up your neck. “I like the idea of you being so into me that you want to … you know. Claim me like that. Mark me as yours.”
“Jesus,” he breathes.
“So maybe,” you continue, rolling your hips against him, “we could explore that. The fantasy of it. You could fuck me raw, come inside me, tell me all about how you’re going to knock me up. And we both know it’s not actually going to happen because I take my pill every morning at eight AM like clockwork.”
“That’s-” He swallows hard. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” you say. “I’ve been thinking about it too, actually. About what it would be like. About you being so desperate to breed me that you can’t help yourself.”
Something snaps in Sidney’s carefully maintained control.
“Bedroom,” he says, his voice rough. “Right now.”
You grin, clearly pleased with his reaction, and climb off his lap. He follows you upstairs, his mind already racing with possibilities.
Once you’re in the bedroom, he strips off his clothes while you watch, then reaches for the hem of your t-shirt.
“Can I?” He asks.
“Please,” you say, raising your arms.
He pulls it off, revealing all of you to him, and takes a moment just to look. You’re so beautiful it makes his chest ache sometimes.
“On the bed,” he directs. “On your back. Legs spread.”
You obey, and he kneels between your legs, running his hands up your thighs.
“We’re going to try something,” he says. “And you’re going to tell me immediately if anything feels wrong or if you want to stop. Understood?”
“Yes, daddy,” you breathe.
“Good girl,” he praises. “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to fuck you. No condom. Just me inside you, bare, the way it’s supposed to be. And I’m going to fill you up with my come. Over and over. Until you’re dripping with it.”
Your breathing has already picked up, your pupils dilating.
“And while I do that,” he continues, “I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m thinking about. About getting you pregnant. About seeing you round with my baby. About everyone knowing you’re mine because you’re carrying my child.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please-”
“Is that what you want?” He asks, letting his fingers trail teasingly close to where you need them. “You want daddy to breed you? Want me to knock you up?”
“Yes,” you admit. “Want it so much-”
“Even though you’re supposed to be focusing on your PhD?” He teases. “Even though you’re a smart, independent woman with career goals?”
“Don’t care,” you whimper. “Just want you-”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs approvingly. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock just barely pressing against you. “Ready?”
“Please,” you beg.
He pushes in slowly, and the sensation of being inside you with nothing between you is overwhelming. He’s used condoms with you for the entire time you’ve been together, and this is … different. This is intimate in a way that makes his breath catch.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel so good. So perfect.”
“You too,” you gasp. “So deep-”
“I’m going to get deeper,” he promises, starting to move. “Going to bury myself so far inside you that you feel me for days. Going to fill you up so much it leaks out of you.”
“Please,” you moan. “Want it, want you-”
“You’re going to take all of it,” he continues, his pace increasing. “Every drop. Going to pump you so full of my come that there’s no way you don’t get pregnant.”
“Yes,” you cry out. “Yes, knock me up, make me yours-”
The words shoot straight through him. He adjusts the angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes you arch off the bed.
“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. Take all of me. This is what you were made for — taking my cock, carrying my babies.”
He knows he should probably feel guilty about the sexism inherent in that statement, but you’re moaning and clinging to him, so clearly you’re on board with the fantasy.
“I think about it all the time,” he admits, his rhythm getting harder, more desperate. “About you pregnant. About your belly growing round. About your tits getting fuller, your body changing because of what I did to you.”
“Tell me more,” you gasp. “Tell me everything-”
“I think about everyone knowing,” he continues. “Everyone seeing you and knowing that I knocked you up. That you’re mine. That you let me breed you like a good girl.”
“Yours,” you agree breathlessly. “All yours-”
“I think about you in the stands,” he says, “pregnant with my baby, watching me play. Everyone knowing that the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins went home and fucked his girl so well she ended up barefoot and pregnant.”
“Oh god,” you moan. “Sidney-”
“Think about you staying home,” he continues, knowing he’s getting filthier but unable to stop. “Taking care of our baby. Waiting for me to come home so I can fuck another one into you. Keeping you constantly pregnant and full of me.”
“That’s so-” you gasp. “That’s so wrong-”
“I know,” he admits. “I know it’s backwards and problematic and you’re going to have an amazing career. But right now, when I’m inside you like this? All I can think about is breeding you. Making you mine in every possible way.”
“I am yours,” you promise. “Already yours-”
“But not pregnant yet,” he says. “Not full of my baby. Not showing the world that you belong to me.”
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you cry out at the additional stimulation.
“Going to make you come on my cock,” he tells you. “Then I’m going to fill you up. Going to pump so much come into you that it has to take. You’re going to be so full of me.”
“Please,” you sob. “Please, daddy, I need-”
“I know what you need,” he assures you. “Need me to breed you properly. Need me to knock you up. Need everyone to see you’re mine.”
“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, all of that-”
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come on my cock and I’ll give you what you need. I’ll fill you up. I’ll breed you like you’re begging me to.”
You fall apart with a broken scream, your whole body trembling, and the feeling of you clenching around him with no barrier between you pushes him over the edge. He buries himself as deep as possible and comes, and it feels different like this, more intense, more primal.
“That’s it,” he groans. “Take it all. Every drop. Going to knock you up for sure.”
He stays buried inside you as you both come down, breathing hard, and some rational part of his brain is screaming that he just said some absolutely unhinged things.
“Holy shit,” you finally say, your voice rough.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Was that—was that okay? I got a little carried away.”
“A little?” You laugh breathlessly. “You basically wrote a manifesto about keeping me barefoot and pregnant.”
“I know,” he says, mortified now that the moment has passed. “I’m sorry. That was-”
“So fucking hot,” you interrupt. “Oh my god, Sidney. That was incredible.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirm. “I’ve never—I didn’t know I was into that, but apparently I very much am.”
“The breeding thing?”
“The whole thing,” you say. “You being possessive and primal. The dirty talk about knocking me up. All of it.”
“Even the sexist parts about keeping you home and pregnant?” He asks carefully.
“Even those parts,” you admit. “I know it’s not what I actually want in real life. I have career goals and ambitions and I’m going to finish my PhD and probably become a professor. But in the moment, when you’re talking about claiming me like that? It’s absurdly hot.”
“Okay,” he says, relief flooding through him. “Good. Because I was worried I just revealed some deeply problematic kinks.”
“Oh, they’re definitely problematic,” you say. “But they’re also hot. And since we both know it’s fantasy and I’m religiously taking my birth control, we can indulge in the fantasy without any actual consequences.”
He’s still inside you, and he can feel his come starting to leak out. Without thinking, he reaches down and pushes it back in with his fingers.
“Can’t waste it,” he murmurs. “Need to make sure it all stays inside. Need to make sure it takes.”
You moan, your hips shifting. “Again?”
“You want more already?” He asks, but he can feel himself starting to harden again inside you.
“Want you to breed me properly,” you say, echoing his earlier words. “Want you to fill me up so much there’s no doubt.”
Something possessive and primal roars through him. “Yeah? Want daddy to knock you up? Want me to fuck baby after baby into you?”
“Yes,” you gasp as he starts to move again. “Want everyone to know I’m yours. Want to be round with your baby. Want to give you everything.”
“Fuck,” he groans, his pace already picking up. “You’re going to kill me. Talking like that when you know how much I want it.”
“Good,” you say breathlessly. “Want you obsessed with it. Want you thinking about it every time you look at me.”
“I already am,” he admits. “Can’t stop thinking about you pregnant. About your body changing. About your tits getting bigger-”
His hand moves to your breast, thumbing your nipple, and you arch into the touch.
“They’re going to be so full,” he continues. “So sensitive. And I’m going to spend hours just playing with them, making you squirm.”
“Sidney,” you whimper.
“And your belly,” he goes on, his other hand splaying across your stomach. “Going to grow so round. Going to see my baby in there, moving around. Going to know I did that to you. That I knocked you up.”
“Want it,” you moan. “Want you to see me like that-”
“Everyone’s going to see you like that,” he says. “Going to see you pregnant and know that I fucked you. That I bred you. That you let me.”
“Let you?” You gasp. “I begged you for it-”
“That’s right,” he agrees. “You begged daddy to knock you up. Begged me to fill you with my come. Such a good girl, taking everything I give you.”
He angles his hips, hitting deeper, and you cry out.
“I’m going to keep you full of come,” he promises. “Every single day. Multiple times a day. Going to make sure there’s never a moment when you’re not dripping with it.”
“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, please, I want that-”
“Want me to breed you constantly?” He asks. “Want me to use this perfect body whenever I want? Want to be my good girl who’s always ready for me?”
“Always ready,” you promise. “Always want you-”
“Even when you’re pregnant,” he continues. “Especially when you’re pregnant. Going to fuck you every day, keep you satisfied, make sure you know how beautiful you are carrying my baby.”
“I’m close,” you gasp. “Daddy, I’m so close-”
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come on my cock and I’ll fill you up again. I’ll give you another load. I’ll breed you until it takes.”
You come with a broken cry, and he follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you again.
This time when you both collapse, he pulls you against his chest, still inside you, not ready to separate yet.
“I think I might have a problem,” he admits.
“What kind of problem?”
“The ‘I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man with an apparently massive breeding kink’ kind of problem,” he says.
You laugh, the sound breathless and satisfied. “I think it’s hot.”
“You would,” he says fondly. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it,” you counter.
“I do,” he admits. “Even when it makes me realize I’m apparently a dirty old man.”
“You’re not old,” you protest. “You’re experienced. There’s a difference.”
“I’m fifteen years older than you and I just spent twenty minutes talking about breeding you,” he points out. “That’s textbook dirty old man behavior.”
“Only if I’m not into it,” you say. “Which I very much am. So it’s just hot.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re very generous with your definitions.”
“I’m very into my boyfriend,” you correct. “All of him. Including the parts that want to knock me up and keep me pregnant.”
“Even though it’s not happening for at least eighteen months,” he confirms.
“Even though,” you agree. “We can fantasize all we want. And when I’m done with my PhD, if we both still want it, we can make it real.”
“I’m going to want it,” he says with certainty.
“I know,” you say. “I’m probably going to want it too. But right now, we get to have all the fun of the fantasy without any of the actual consequences.”
“Best of both worlds,” he murmurs.
“Exactly,” you say. “Now stop having an existential crisis about being a dirty old man and get some sleep. You have practice in the morning.”
“Yes ma’am,” he says, finally slipping out of you. He immediately feels his come start to leak out and has to resist the urge to push it back in.
You seem to read his mind. “Tomorrow,” you promise. “You can do it again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.”
“You’re going to spoil me,” he warns.
“Good,” you say. “You deserve to be spoiled.”
He pulls you close, your back to his chest, and tries to ignore the voice in his head that’s already planning exactly how he’s going to breed you tomorrow.
“Sidney?” You murmur sleepily.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for telling me. About what you’ve been thinking.”
“Thank you for not running away screaming,” he says.
“Never,” you promise. “You’re stuck with me. Breeding kink and all.”
“Good,” he says, and means it. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
“Possessive,” you tease.
“Extremely,” he confirms. “You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I did,” you agree. “And I signed up anyway. What does that say about me?”
“That you have excellent taste,” he says, making you laugh.
“Or terrible judgment,” you counter. “The jury’s still out.”
“Go to sleep,” he says, pressing a kiss to your neck. “Before I decide I need to breed you a third time tonight.”
“Promises, promises,” you murmur, but you’re already drifting off.
Sidney lies awake a little longer, holding you, thinking about the future. About finishing your PhD and starting a family and all the things he wants to give you.
But for now, this is enough. You in his arms, satisfied and his, with the promise of tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what he wants.
And what he wants is you. In every possible way.
He can wait for the reality. But he’s going to enjoy the fantasy in the meantime.
Summary: your picket sign says MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. Garrett’s nose says otherwise. You’re Boston University’s loudest omega-rights activist, three years deep into a thesis that biology is a leash, not a law. Then Briar’s captain scents you across a hockey rink, levels your brother in the process, and decides the rest is just a matter of time. What follows is a war fought in courting gifts and stubborn silences … and a slow, infuriating realization that being chosen doesn’t have to mean losing yourself
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part one here
The shower water is scalding hot, but it’s not enough.
You scrub at your neck with a rough loofah and cheap, unscented body wash until your skin is angry and red. You scrub until it physically hurts, but the heavy, intoxicating scent of cedar, crisp winter air, and bergamot clings to you like a second skin. It’s embedded in your pores. It’s soaked into your hair.
You turn off the water, leaning your forehead against the cool, wet tile of the communal dorm shower, and let out a frustrated, jagged breath.
It’s been four hours since you ran out of the Briar hockey house. Four hours since you willingly pressed your scent gland against Garrett Graham’s neck and let him do the same to you.
“You’re losing your mind,” you whisper to the empty bathroom. “It was just a biological misfire. It means nothing.”
But your body violently disagrees.
You wrap a towel around yourself and trudge back to your room. The moment you open the door, Jackie sits straight up on her futon. She takes one look at you, her nose twitching, and her eyes go as wide as dinner plates.
“Holy mother of alphas,” Jackie breathes out, dropping her phone. “Y/N. You … you smell like a lumberjack wrapped in an expensive cologne ad. What happened? Did you fight him or fuck him?”
“Neither!” You snap, marching over to your dresser and yanking out an oversized sweatshirt. “I went over there to yell at him for the book. I gave it back.”
“You did not just yell at him,” Jackie says, standing up and crossing the small room. She leans in, sniffing the air near your shoulder, and shudders. “My god, that is potent. That is a straight-up claiming scent. You scented him? The president of O.M.E.G.A. scented the most toxic alpha on the ice?”
“I didn’t mean to!” You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I walked in, and his house smelled like him, and my stupid biology just … hijacked my brain! I couldn’t control it, Jackie. It was terrifying. It felt so good, and I couldn’t stop it.”
Jackie’s teasing expression softens. She reaches out, gently rubbing your back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just instincts. You’re an omega, he’s an alpha, and clearly, you guys are highly compatible. There’s no shame in your body responding to that.”
“There is shame in it,” you argue, pulling your sweatshirt over your head. “It goes against everything I stand for. I refuse to be a slave to my hormones. I’m going to sleep this off, wake up tomorrow, and pretend none of this ever happened.”
But sleep does not come.
You lie in your narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars mocking you.
Your omega is awake. And she is absolutely furious with you.
Where is he?
The instinctual demand is a relentless, dull ache in the center of your chest. You curled up in your blankets, trying to create a makeshift nest to soothe the anxiety, but your cheap sheets don’t smell like him. They don’t feel like the crushed velvet and silk he bought for you.
Every time you close your eyes, you feel the scrape of his jaw against your neck. You hear the deep, rumbling purr vibrating against your collarbone.
Alpha. Need our alpha. Go back.
“Shut up,” you hiss into your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut.
You toss. You turn. You kick the blankets off. You pull them back on. The physical ache of separation is agonizing. Scenting an alpha is a promise of proximity. By initiating that contact and then running away, you threw your own nervous system into shock. Your biology thinks you’ve been abandoned by your mate.
A soft, pathetic whine slips out of your throat. You clamp your hand over your mouth, utterly humiliated by the sound.
You spend the entire night trapped in this purgatory. Whining, tossing, fighting your own tears.
***
By Thursday, you are a walking corpse.
You haven’t slept more than forty-five minutes at a time. The dark circles under your eyes look like bruises. Your bones ache, your skin feels too tight, and your concentration is completely shattered.
You sit in the back of your Advanced Gender Theory seminar, staring blankly at the whiteboard. The professor is talking about the societal constructs of omega submission, but the words just sound like white noise.
All you can think about is cedar and bergamot.
The scent on your skin finally started to fade this morning, and instead of feeling relieved, you felt a crushing, devastating wave of panic. Your omega is starving for him.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. You sluggishly pack your notebook into your tote bag, your movements heavy and uncoordinated.
“You okay, Y/N?” A beta classmate asks, eyeing you with concern. “You look really pale.”
“Just pulling an all-nighter for a paper,” you lie, forcing a weak smile. “I’m going to get some coffee. Lots of it.”
You stumble out of the academic building and into the cold, damp Boston afternoon. The sky is a heavy, overcast gray, threatening rain. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, shivering. You need caffeine if you’re going to survive the O.M.E.G.A. board meeting tonight.
You walk two blocks off campus to a small, independent coffee shop tucked between a used bookstore and a laundromat. It’s a neutral zone, caught halfway between BU’s campus and Briar University. You come here when you need to escape the campus bubble.
The bell above the door chimes cheerfully as you step inside. The air is warm, smelling of roasted espresso beans and baked pastries. You let out a sigh of relief, stepping up to the counter.
“Large black coffee, please,” you say to the barista. “Actually, make it a red-eye. Add a shot of espresso.”
You pay, dropping a dollar in the tip jar, and move to the pickup counter near the back of the shop, right next to the narrow hallway that leads to the restrooms and the rear exit door.
You lean your hip against the counter, closing your eyes and rubbing your temples. Just a few more hours, and you can go back to your room and try to sleep again.
The bell above the front door chimes again.
And then, the air in the coffee shop changes.
It happens in a split second. The smell of espresso and pastries is violently overwritten.
Crisp winter air. Bergamot. And heavy, dominant cedar.
Your eyes snap open. Your heart literally stutters in your chest, missing a beat before slamming against your ribs in a frantic, double-time rhythm.
Alpha. Alpha is here.
Your omega violently thrashes to life, a rush of warmth flooding your veins and instantly erasing the exhaustion of the past three days.
You slowly turn your head.
Garrett is standing by the pastry display. He’s wearing a Briar hockey hoodie, his dark hair messy, looking impossibly broad and devastatingly handsome. He’s looking down at his phone, completely unaware of your presence.
Panic, cold and sharp, spikes through your chest.
If he sees you, you’re done. If he gets close to you, your omega will absolutely take over and you will embarrass yourself in the middle of a public coffee shop. You cannot let him touch you.
“Order for Y/N!” The barista calls out, sliding a paper cup onto the counter.
Garrett’s head snaps up at the sound of your name.
His blue eyes lock onto yours across the crowded room. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the exact moment his pupils blow wide. The casual, relaxed posture vanishes, replaced instantly by the rigid, predatory focus of an alpha who just found his missing mate.
“No,” you whisper.
You grab the coffee cup, ignoring the scalding heat against your palm, and bolt.
You don’t go for the front door — he’s blocking it. You spin around and dive into the narrow hallway leading to the back exit. It’s dimly lit, lined with stacked boxes of coffee cups and cleaning supplies.
You reach the heavy metal door at the end of the hall and slam your hand against the push-bar.
It doesn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hiss, throwing your weight against it. It’s locked.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo on the linoleum behind you.
You spin around, your back pressing flat against the cold metal door, your coffee cup clutched to your chest like a shield.
Garrett steps into the hallway.
He fills the narrow space completely. He takes a step toward you, the shadows contouring the sharp lines of his jaw and the intense, dark hunger in his eyes.
“Running again?” Garrett asks, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sends a treacherous shiver straight down your spine.
“Stay back, Graham,” you warn, trying to sound authoritative. It comes out breathless and weak.
He doesn’t listen. He takes another slow step. Then another. Until he is standing right in front of you.
He reaches out, taking the hot coffee cup from your trembling hands. He sets it casually on a stack of boxes next to you. Then, he brings his hands up and places them flat against the metal door, one on either side of your head.
He cages you in.
He doesn’t touch you, but he doesn’t have to. The heat radiating off his massive body is enough to make your knees weak. His scent is a thick, invisible blanket wrapping around your senses, soothing the agonizing ache that has been tearing you apart for three days.
Home, your omega purrs happily. Finally.
“You look exhausted,” Garrett murmurs, leaning in closer. His eyes drop to the dark circles under your eyes, his brow furrowing in genuine concern. “You haven’t been sleeping.”
“Gee, I wonder whose fault that is,” you snap, looking up at him. You try to glare, but your eyes keep dropping to his lips.
“It’s your own fault, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You started a bond and then starved it. Your omega is punishing you for leaving me. You can’t just fight biology and expect to win.”
“I can,” you insist, your voice wavering. “I will. I’m not giving in to this. I’m not giving in to you.”
Garrett sighs, a sound of profound patience. He slowly shifts his weight, leaning closer until his chest is barely an inch from yours.
“Why?” He asks, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, gravelly register. “Why are you fighting this so hard? You know how good it felt. You know you belong in my space. Stop fighting destiny, Y/N.”
“Because I know exactly what destiny looks like!” You explode, the frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over. You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but it’s like pushing against a brick wall. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I know exactly what being an alpha’s destined mate means! I won’t do it!”
Garrett’s expression sharpens. “What does it mean, then? Tell me.”
“It means giving up my life!” You yell, your voice echoing slightly in the narrow hallway. “It means giving up my autonomy! I am the president of O.M.E.G.A. I have a career planned. I have goals! I refuse to become your stay-at-home, submissive omega wet dream, Garrett! I won’t sit in a penthouse and pop out pups and wait for you to come home from hockey practice so I can fetch your slippers!”
Silence falls over the hallway.
You breathe heavily, staring up at him, waiting for the anger. Waiting for the traditional alpha ego to rear its ugly head and demand obedience.
But Garrett doesn’t look angry. He looks fascinated.
Slowly, he moves his right hand from the door. He lifts it, his large, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is so incredibly tender it makes your breath hitch.
“Is that really what you think I want?” He asks softly.
“It’s what all alphas want,” you say stubbornly, refusing to lean into his touch.
“I’m not all alphas.” Garrett cups your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking across your cheekbone. The warmth of his skin sends a wave of lethargy crashing over you. “I read the book you left on my coffee table, Y/N.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. “You read it?”
“Cover to cover,” Garrett says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Dr. Richter makes some good points about systematic oppression. I agree with her. Alphas have abused their biological advantage for centuries to exert control. It’s bullshit. And it’s exactly what my father did to my mother.”
Your anger falters. The fight starts to drain out of your muscles.
“I swore a long time ago,” Garrett continues, his voice thick with raw emotion, “that I would never, ever make my mate feel trapped. I would never take her choices away.”
He leans his forehead against yours. The proximity is dizzying.
“I don’t want a maid, Y/N,” he murmurs, his breath dusting across your lips. “I don’t want a quiet little doll who sits at home. I want the fierce, beautiful girl who stood on the steps of the student union and threw my own courting gift at my chest.”
You let out a shaky breath, your hands uncurling against his chest, the fabric of his hoodie soft under your fingertips. “Garrett …”
“I want your fire,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I want you to run your movement. I want you to change the world. I will stand right behind you and bankroll the entire goddamn thing if you let me. I will fight anyone who gets in your way.”
Tears prick the corners of your eyes. The absolute devotion in his voice is overwhelming. It shatters the armor you’ve spent years building.
“But I’m an alpha,” Garrett says, his voice darkening, a heavy, possessive edge slipping back in. “And you are my omega. And I need you to understand something very clearly.”
You swallow hard, your eyes wide as you look up at him. “What?”
“I would never force you to be submissive in your life,” Garrett says, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “I only want you submissive voluntarily. When you’re in my bed. When you are under me, completely undone, and I am making you feel good the way only I can.”
A hot, heavy flush explodes across your entire body. Your knees literally buckle at the visual, at the unapologetic dominance in his tone.
Garrett catches you instantly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid frame. He holds you up effortlessly.
“You need to stop fighting,” Garrett purrs, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. “You are killing yourself trying to run from something that is already written in our blood. Accept it, sweetheart. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”
He doesn’t order you. He doesn’t use heavy pheromones to force your compliance. He just states it as an absolute, undeniable fact.
And looking up into his gray eyes, feeling the agonizing ache in your chest finally, completely vanish … you know he’s right.
The last ounce of fight drains out of your body. The exhaustion, the anger, the stubborn defiance — it all melts away, leaving behind only the pure, burning need of your omega.
You slide your arms up, wrapping them around his thick neck. You bury your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
Garrett lets out a ragged, triumphant groan.
“Please,” you whisper, the word a surrender.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Garrett leans in and captures your lips with his.
The kiss is explosive. It is nothing like the gentle, tender caresses from a moment ago. It is demanding, hungry, and completely territorial. His mouth is hot and desperate, tasting like espresso and pure alpha heat.
And this time, you don’t fight back.
You melt against him with a soft, desperate whimper, opening your mouth for him. Garrett’s tongue sweeps inside, claiming you, tasting you, tangling with yours in a slick, feverish dance. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips and pulling you agonizingly flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.
The biological click is instantaneous. The bond snaps into place, a rush of pure, golden euphoria flooding your senses.
You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like victory. He smells like home.
Garrett breaks the kiss just long enough for you to catch a jagged breath. He presses a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, working his way down to the sensitive skin of your neck.
“Mine,” he growls against your pulse point, his fangs grazing lightly against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Finally.”
“Yours,” you gasp out, your head falling back against the metal door, completely surrendering to the alpha making you feel better than you ever thought possible.
Garrett kisses you again, deeper this time, swallowing your moan as he backs you fully into the door. The coffee shop, the protest, the movement — it all fades away. There is only Garrett, his scent, and the undeniable truth that you have finally found exactly where you belong.
***
You don’t remember the drive from the coffee shop.
You only remember the heavy, intoxicating scent of cedar filling the cab of Garrett’s truck, the heat of his massive hand resting possessively on your thigh the entire ride, and the absolute, terrifying surrender singing in your veins.
Garrett doesn’t even let your feet touch the ground when you arrive at the house. He kills the engine, rounds the hood of the truck, and scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the crisp winter air and bergamot that clings to his skin, your omega purring in a continuous, frantic vibration against his chest.
He kicks the front door open with his heavy boot.
The loud bang echoes through the house.
“Whoa, what the-” Dean starts, looking up from the living room couch.
Logan and Tucker are in the kitchen, but the moment Garrett steps fully into the entryway, all three alphas freeze. The air in the house instantly thickens, completely saturated by Garrett’s dominant, territorial pheromones and the sweet, heavy scent of your slick vanilla and rainwater.
It is the unmistakable scent of an alpha bringing his mate home to claim her.
“Out,” Garrett snarls.
It isn’t a request. It is a primal, chest-deep command that vibrates off the walls. He doesn’t even look at them. His eyes are entirely black, blown wide with absolute lust and instinctual focus. He holds you tighter against his chest, shielding you from their gaze.
“We’re going, we’re going,” Logan says instantly, holding his hands up in a gesture of pure surrender. He grabs Dean by the back of the shirt, hauling him off the couch. “Tucker, grab your keys. Let’s move. Now.”
Within ten seconds, the front door slams shut behind them. The house is completely, blissfully empty.
“Mine,” Garrett growls softly, his lips pressing a hot kiss to your temple. “Nobody else. Just you and me.”
“Garrett,” you whimper, your hands clutching the fabric of his hoodie. The ache in your lower stomach is becoming unbearable. A heavy, pooling heat
throbs between your thighs, your slick soaking your underwear as your body aggressively prepares for him.
He carries you up the stairs taking them two at a time. He kicks his bedroom door open, steps inside, and kicks it shut behind him, the heavy click of the deadbolt locking sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
The room is exactly as he prepared it. The heavy curtains are drawn, plunging the space into dim, intimate shadows. The massive bed in the center of the room is piled high with the crushed velvet pillows, the faux-fur throw, and the expensive silk sheets he bought just for you.
Garrett gently sets you down on your feet at the edge of the mattress.
Your knees immediately buckle. The biological exhaustion and the sheer weight of his pheromones are too much.
Garrett catches you instantly, his strong hands gripping your waist to keep you steady. “I’ve got you, sweetie. I’ve got you.”
“It’s too much,” you gasp, leaning your forehead against his broad chest. “Garrett, please. It hurts. I need you.”
“I know, baby. I know,” he murmurs, his voice a thick, gravelly purr that sends a fresh wave of slick rushing down your thighs. “But we’re not rushing this. We’ve waited three months. I’m going to savor every single second of you.”
He reaches for the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. “Lift your arms for me.”
You obey without a single thought of rebellion. The fierce, independent president of O.M.E.G.A. is entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, aching omega who finally, willingly yields to her alpha.
Garrett pulls the sweatshirt over your head and tosses it onto the floor. He makes quick work of your jeans, sliding them down your hips and legs, leaving you standing in nothing but a simple lace bra and panties.
He takes a step back.
You shiver, suddenly exposed in the dim light. But when you look up at him, the expression on his face completely steals your breath.
He isn’t just looking at you. He is worshipping you. His black eyes trace every curve, every dip, every soft line of your body like he’s memorizing a sacred text.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he breathes out, his voice practically trembling with reverence.
He steps forward again, his massive hands reaching out to cup your shoulders. He drags his palms slowly down your arms, his calloused skin tracing paths of fire across your sensitive nerves. He unhooks your bra, letting it fall away, and then his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties.
He slides them down, his knuckles brushing against your slick-soaked curls.
You let out a jagged gasp as the cool air hits your wet heat.
“So ready for me,” Garrett purrs, his eyes dropping to the glistening wetness between your thighs. “You smell like heaven, Y/N. You smell like mine.”
He grips your hips and lifts you, laying you back onto the center of the massive bed. The silk sheets are incredibly soft against your bare skin, a stark, luxurious contrast to the rough, feral energy radiating off the man standing over you.
Garrett grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it off in one fluid motion, discarding his t-shirt right after. His chest is broad, carved with heavy, athletic muscle and dusted with golden hair. He sheds his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside.
He is fully aroused, thick and heavily veined, his length bobbing against his flat stomach. The sight of him — so big, so dominant, so entirely focused on you — makes your heart hammer wildly against your ribs.
Garrett crawls onto the bed, positioning himself between your spread thighs.
But instead of looming over you to claim your mouth, he stays low. He grips the backs of your thighs, his large hands easily wrapping around your legs, and pulls your hips right to the edge of the mattress.
“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers twisting into the luxurious silk sheets.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the inside of your knee. “Just let me take care of you. Let me show you how good it can be.”
He presses his face directly against your slick, wet core.
You scream his name, your spine arching entirely off the bed as his hot, rough tongue drags right up your center.
It is a sensory overload. Garrett doesn’t just taste you; he devours you. He groans into your slick, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly they will definitely leave bruises — a possessive, undeniable mark. His tongue flicks over your sensitized bundle of nerves with agonizing precision.
“Garrett! Please!” You sob, your head thrashing side to side on the crushed velvet pillows.
“I’m right here,” he rumbles against your wetness, his breath sending violent shivers through your entire body. “I’ve got you. Fall for me, sweetie. Let it go.”
He sucks you into his mouth, his tongue swirling and lapping as you shatter completely.
The orgasm rips through you like a hurricane. You cry out, your vision flashing white as your inner muscles clench and spasm around empty air.
But Garrett isn’t done.
Just as the peak of your climax hits, just as you are hovering in that terrifying, blissful free-fall, Garrett turns his head. He finds the delicate, highly sensitive scent gland tucked right into the crease of your thigh, where your leg meets your pelvis.
He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs directly into the gland.
You shriek, a wild, primal sound tearing from your throat.
The bite is a sharp, blinding pinch of pain that instantly morphs into the most intense, earth-shattering pleasure you have ever experienced. Biting the thigh gland is a deep, instinctual claiming act — an alpha flooding their omega’s lower nervous system with their own venom and scent, forcing a secondary, even more violent climax.
Your body arches so hard your hips lift off the mattress. A fresh wave of slick floods out of you, completely drenching Garrett’s face.
Garrett pulls back from the bite, his chest heaving, his mouth and chin slick with your essence. He looks like a starved beast who finally caught his prey. He leans back down and licks the excess slick from your thighs, lapping at you like a dying man at an oasis.
“God, you taste so sweet,” he groans, crawling up your body.
He covers you completely, his massive weight pressing you down into the mattress. It is the most grounding, secure feeling in the world. His broad chest crushes your soft breasts, his heart hammering in perfect synchronization with yours.
“Look at me,” Garrett orders, his voice thick and raspy.
You flutter your eyes open, your vision still swimming from the sheer force of the climax. You look up into his dark, entirely feral eyes.
“You belong to me now,” Garrett says, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. “You are my destined mate. You are my omega. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you whisper, tears of pure relief slipping down your temples. “I belong to you.”
A guttural, triumphant growl tears from Garrett’s throat.
He reaches down, guiding his thick, blunt tip to your slick, swollen opening.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he commands softly.
You obey, crossing your ankles over his lower back, opening yourself completely for him.
Garrett pushes forward.
You gasp, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders. He is so big, stretching you incredibly wide. But your body is entirely prepared for him, practically melting around his girth as he sinks in.
He pushes all the way to the hilt in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.
The friction is incredible. The feeling of being entirely filled, of having the agonizing emptiness inside you finally answered, draws a deep, soulful sob from your lips.
It feels like coming home. It feels like a puzzle piece finally snapping into its perfect, designated place. You were made for him, and he was made for you.
Garrett buries his face in your neck, letting out a fractured, breathless groan. “Fuck. Y/N. You feel … you feel so perfect.”
He begins to move.
His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, making sure you can accommodate his size. He pulls almost entirely out before sinking back down to the hilt, the wet sound of your slick echoing in the quiet bedroom.
“Yes,” you moan, your hands trailing down his sweaty back to grip his tight hips, silently urging him to move faster. “Garrett, please. Harder.”
“I’ve got you,” he pants, his rhythm picking up.
He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one forearm while his other hand slides beneath your lower back, angling your hips up to meet his violent thrusts.
He pounds into you, his hips slapping against your thighs with loud, wet smacks. Every thrust hits the deepest part of you, sending shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your stomach. It is a total, absolute claiming. He is branding you from the inside out, erasing every thought, every doubt, every protest you ever had.
The heat in the room is suffocating. The air is thick with the scent of cedar, bergamot, vanilla, and heavy, musky sex.
“Garrett,” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows. The pressure is building again, a tight, coiled spring winding up in your core. “I’m close. Please, I’m so close.”
“Me too,” Garrett grits out, his jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come for your alpha.”
He reaches between your bodies, his thick thumb finding your swollen clitoris. He presses down, rubbing in a harsh, frantic circle while he continues to pound into you from below.
The dual stimulation shatters your restraint.
“Garrett!” You scream, your inner walls violently clamping down around his thick length.
Garrett roars, his hips stuttering as his own climax hits him. He drives into you one final, brutal time, burying himself as deep as physically possible.
But this time, the biological script demands the final step.
As you both free-fall over the edge of the cliff, Garrett’s mouth opens wide. He lines his sharp fangs up directly over the prominent scent gland on the side of your neck.
At the exact same moment, driven by a purely instinctual, undeniable urge, you turn your head and bare your own teeth, pressing your open mouth against the scent gland on the side of his thick neck.
You bite down.
Garrett bites down.
The pain is sharp, piercing, and entirely eclipsed by the blinding, supernatural rush of the mating bond snapping into place.
It is an explosion of light behind your eyes. Your souls violently crash into each other, fusing together at a cellular level. You can feel him in your mind — his fierce protectiveness, his overwhelming love, his possessive triumph. And you know he can feel you — your fiery spirit, your deep, your submission, your absolute devotion.
You taste his blood, rich and metallic, mixing with the heavy cedar of his scent.
Garrett groans against your neck, his fangs deeply embedded in your flesh, marking you for the rest of your life. He pumps his hips, his base pressing flush against you.
The knot at the base of his shaft suddenly swells, locking him firmly inside of you.
You gasp, your eyes flying open as the immense pressure stretches you to your absolute limit. “Garrett …”
“I’m not pulling out,” Garrett growls against your marked skin, his hot breath ghosting over the fresh bite. “I’m never pulling out.”
He unleashes a torrential, scorching flood of his seed deep inside of you. You can feel every powerful pulse of his release, painting your womb with his claiming mark. He imagines his seed taking root, imagines filling you with his pups, securing his ultimate, permanent hold on his destined mate. The alpha breeding instinct is completely unrestrained, and your omega happily, greedily drinks it all in.
He stays clamped to your neck, riding out the violent waves of his climax, until he finally goes limp.
He collapses on top of you, his massive chest heaving for air, completely crushing you into the mattress.
You don’t care. You wrap your arms around his sweaty back, holding him as tightly as you can, a deep, continuous purr vibrating from your chest.
Garrett gently pulls his fangs out of your neck. He presses a soft, tender kiss to the bleeding mating mark, his tongue soothing the broken skin.
“Mine,” he whispers, his voice exhausted but unimaginably happy. “My beautiful, perfect mate.”
“Yours,” you hum, your fingers playing with the damp blonde hair at the nape of his neck.
You lie there tangled together for a long time. Garrett’s knot slowly, gradually begins to recede, but he refuses to move. He keeps you pinned beneath him, periodically dropping soft kisses on your jaw, your nose, your lips.
Eventually, the biological exhaustion wears off, replaced by a strange, humming energy.
Your omega is fully awake now. She is deeply satisfied, fully bonded, and entirely safe. But looking around the messy, disheveled bed, an undeniable urge begins to pull at you.
“Garrett,” you murmur, gently tapping his shoulder. “You need to move.”
Garrett groans, nuzzling his face into your neck. “No. Never moving again. I live here now.”
“Alpha, please,” you say softly.
The word makes Garrett freeze. He lifts his head, his blue eyes entirely clear and focused, staring down at you with raw devotion. Hearing you call him ‘alpha’ voluntarily is the sweetest sound he has ever heard.
He slowly rolls off of you, though he keeps a heavy hand resting on your hip.
You sit up. You are completely bare, your body flushed, covered in sweat, slick, and his scent. Your neck throbs slightly where the mating mark rests, a permanent claim.
You look at the pile of crushed velvet pillows that were kicked to the end of the bed during your frantic claiming. You look at the silk sheets, the heavy faux-fur throw.
The nesting instinct hits you like a physical wave.
You crawl to the foot of the bed, entirely unashamed of your nakedness in front of him. You grab two of the heavy burgundy pillows and drag them to the center of the mattress.
Garrett shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He watches you in complete, mesmerized awe.
You arrange the pillows in a half-circle. You pull the silk sheets up, bunching them together to create a soft, protective wall. You grab the faux-fur throw and lay it gently in the center.
But it’s not enough. It doesn’t smell enough like him.
You look over the edge of the bed at the clothes he discarded earlier. You scramble off the mattress, your legs shaking slightly, and snatch his Briar hockey hoodie and his gray t-shirt off the floor.
You climb back onto the bed and meticulously weave his clothing into the center of the nest. The heavy scent of cedar and bergamot radiates from the fabric, making the small, enclosed space feel incredibly safe and secure.
It is your first nest. It is messy, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.
You crawl into the center of the nest, curling your legs underneath you. The faux-fur tickles your skin, and the scent of your mate wraps around you like a protective shield. You look up at Garrett.
He is staring at you with an expression of such intense, overwhelming love that it makes your chest ache. He is a traditional alpha, an ex-abused kid who just wanted to provide for his omega and protect her from the world.
Seeing you voluntarily build a nest in his bed, with his clothes, is everything he has ever dreamed of.
You smile, a soft, yielding expression that melts the last of his hardened exterior.
You reach your hand out toward him across the silk sheets.
“Come here, alpha,” you whisper softly. “Come into the nest.”
Garrett doesn’t hesitate.
He crawls across the mattress, his massive frame carefully maneuvering into the small, soft sanctuary you built. He wraps his heavy arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and buries his face in your hair.
“Good girl,” Garrett murmurs, his deep purr vibrating right through your spine. “Such a perfect, beautiful omega.”
You close your eyes, leaning back into his solid warmth. The war is over. The rebellion is done. And wrapped in the arms of your alpha, surrounded by the nest you built together, you have never felt more free in your entire life.
***
The morning sun filters through the heavy curtains of Garrett’s bedroom and over the tangled mess of the bed.
You wake up slowly. Your entire body feels heavy, deliciously sore, and incredibly warm. You shift slightly, the expensive silk sheets brushing against your bare skin. Instantly, a massive, muscular arm tightens around your waist, hauling you backward until your spine is pressed flush against a broad, hard chest.
“Don’t move,” Garrett grumbles, his voice a thick, sleep-heavy rasp that vibrates against your shoulder blades. “Nest is too comfortable. We live here now.”
You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “Garrett, it’s 8:30. I have a nine o’clock seminar.”
“Skip it,” he murmurs, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. The deep, rumbling purr starts up in his chest again, a constant, soothing hum that your omega eagerly responds to. “You’re a mated omega now. You don’t need seminars. You just need me.”
“Nice try, Graham,” you say, gently prying his heavy arm off your waist and rolling over to face him.
He looks devastating in the morning light. His hair is a messy halo, his jaw is dark with stubble, and his gray eyes are already entirely focused on you. He reaches out, his large fingers gently brushing your hair aside to expose your neck.
His eyes darken as he looks at the mating mark. The bruised, broken skin is a permanent brand against your collarbone. He traces it lightly with his thumb, his expression shifting into something fiercely protective and deeply awed.
“Does it hurt?” He asks softly.
“A little,” you admit, shivering at his touch. “But it’s a good hurt.”
Garrett leans in and presses a soft, reverent kiss directly over the mark. “Mine. God, you smell so good. You smell exactly like me.”
“I smell like a lumber factory,” you tease, pushing against his chest to sit up. “Seriously, I need to get ready. And I don’t have any clothes here.”
Garrett sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, putting his heavily muscled torso on full display. He grabs the Briar hockey hoodie you used to build the nest last night and tosses it to you. “Wear this.”
You catch the heavy gray fabric. “I’m going to walk onto the Boston University campus wearing the Briar University hockey captain’s hoodie?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, completely unapologetic. “It has my scent on it. And my name on the back. It’ll keep every single alpha on that campus exactly where they belong — far away from you.”
You roll your eyes, but you pull the hoodie over your head anyway. It’s huge on you, the hem reaching halfway down your thighs, and the scent of cedar and bergamot wraps around you like a warm hug. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.
You grab your jeans from the floor and quickly pull them on. “Are you driving me?”
“I’m driving you everywhere,” Garrett states, sliding out of bed and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. “I’m dropping you off at the door. I’m picking you up the second you’re done. Deal with it.”
You don’t fight him. The truth is, the thought of being separated from him right now makes a tight knot of anxiety form in your chest. The new bond is settling, and your omega craves his proximity.
Forty-five minutes later, Garrett pulls his heavy black truck up to the curb outside your academic building.
He kills the engine and turns to you, his hand immediately reaching out to cup your cheek. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you in?”
“I think the hoodie is enough of a statement, Garrett,” you say, leaning into his palm.
“Call me the second you’re out,” he orders, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He leans in and kisses you, a deep, slow, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless. “I love you.”
The words make your heart stutter. He says it so easily. So confidently.
“I love you, too,” you whisper back, feeling a rush of pure euphoria.
You grab your tote bag, open the door, and step out into the crisp morning air. You wave as his truck pulls away, merging into the Boston traffic.
You turn and walk toward the building, adjusting the strap of your bag. You feel amazing. You feel complete, centered, and terrifyingly happy. You are still you. You still have your brain, your goals, your passions. You just happen to share your life with an alpha who worships the ground you walk on.
But the moment you step through the glass double doors into the crowded lobby of the humanities building, the atmosphere shifts.
It happens instantly.
A group of three alphas standing by the vending machines abruptly stop talking. They all turn their heads, their nostrils flaring. One of them actually takes a physical step backward, his eyes widening.
You frown, walking past them toward the stairs.
As you climb the steps, the reaction ripples through the hallway. Betas pause and stare. Omegas cast nervous, wide-eyed glances in your direction. The scent rolling off you — the heavy, dark, aggressive cedar of a highly dominant alpha who has just mated — is practically a physical wall. It’s a biological warning sign flashing neon red CLAIMED, DO NOT TOUCH.
You walk into your seminar room and take your usual seat in the second row.
Jackie is already there. She turns to say something to you, but the words die in her throat. Her eyes drop from your face to the heavy Briar hoodie, and then to the collar of the sweatshirt, which is slightly askew, exposing the angry, bruised mating mark on your neck.
“Oh my god,” Jackie whispers, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
The entire classroom falls dead silent.
Every single head is turned toward you. The professor isn’t there yet, and the silence is deafening.
“What?” You ask, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of twenty stares.
“You did it,” Jackie breathes out, leaning in. Her eyes are wide with shock. “You actually did it. You mated him.”
“I did,” you say, lifting your chin. You refuse to be ashamed. You refuse to hide it. “And?”
“Y/N, you’re wearing a Briar hockey hoodie. You smell like an alpha’s wet dream. You have a bite mark the size of a golf ball on your neck.” Jackie shakes her head, looking completely bewildered. “You’re the president of O.M.E.G.A.”
“My personal life doesn’t invalidate my activism, Jackie,” you say firmly, pulling your notebook out of your bag. “I can have a mate and still fight for equality in the workplace. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Josephine Richter herself said that autonomy includes the right to choose your partner.”
Jackie slowly nods, though she still looks stunned. “Okay. I mean, I’m happy for you. If you’re happy. But … people are going to talk.”
“Let them talk,” you say dismissively.
And they do talk. The whispers follow you all day. In the dining hall, in the library, in the campus quad. It’s annoying, but the heavy, comforting weight of the bond in your chest keeps you anchored. Whenever the stares get to be too much, you just inhale the scent of Garrett from the collar of your hoodie, and the anxiety melts away.
By the time Wednesday evening rolls around, you are ready to get back to business.
The weekly O.M.E.G.A. chapter meeting is held in a large, tiered lecture hall in the student union. It’s your sanctuary. The place where you built a community of strong, independent individuals who refuse to be defined by their secondary genders.
You walk into the lecture hall ten minutes early to set up. You’re wearing a turtleneck sweater today — not because you want to hide the mark, but because the New England wind is brutal. Still, the scent of your alpha is undeniable. It clings to you permanently now.
The hall fills up quickly. Almost sixty members file in, taking their seats. But the energy in the room feels wrong. It’s tight. It’s uncomfortable. Usually, the meetings start with loud chatter and music, but tonight, there is only a tense, heavy murmur.
You stand behind the wooden podium at the front of the room, tapping your microphone.
“Alright, everyone, let’s get started,” you say, your voice projecting clearly across the room. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we need to finalize the logistics for our petition to the university board regarding the beta-omega housing disparity.”
You look down at your notes.
“Wait,” a loud, sharp voice cuts through the room.
You look up.
Becca, a junior omega and the chapter’s treasurer, stands up from her seat in the third row. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is hard and unforgiving.
“I’m sorry, Y/N, but we can’t do this right now,” Becca says, her voice ringing out in the quiet hall.
You frown, gripping the edges of the podium. “Can’t do what, Becca? The petition is due on Friday.”
“We can’t pretend like everything is normal,” Becca shoots back. She steps out into the aisle. “Some of the members have been talking. Actually, a lot of us have been talking.”
“About what?” You ask, though a cold, sinking feeling begins to pool in your stomach.
“About you,” Becca says bluntly. She points a finger at you. “You reek of alpha, Y/N. The entire campus knows what happened this weekend. You went to the house of the most toxic, aggressive alpha in the collegiate hockey league, and you let him claim you.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room, followed by a harsh, biting silence.
Your heart stammers. You stand up taller, forcing your voice to remain steady. “My personal relationship is not up for discussion at this meeting. What I do in my private life has nothing to do with my ability to lead this chapter.”
“It has everything to do with it!” Becca yells, her voice rising in pitch. “You stood on the steps of this very building last week and told us that we shouldn’t submit! You told us that biology isn’t destiny! And then you turned around and spread your legs for a guy who literally beat your brother to a pulp because of territorial aggression!”
“Hey! Back off!” Jackie shouts, standing up from her seat in the front row. “You don’t know the whole story, Becca!”
“I know what I can smell!” Becca snaps back. She turns to address the room. “Look at her! She’s wearing his scent like a collar! She let him bite her! She submitted to the very system we are trying to dismantle! How are we supposed to take her seriously as the face of our movement?”
The room erupts into a chaotic murmur. People are nodding. People are whispering. The hostile energy is suffocating.
“Becca, you are completely misunderstanding the core tenets of our own philosophy!” You argue, your voice shaking slightly, amplifying over the microphone. “O.M.E.G.A. is about choice! It is about not being forced into a role. I made a choice. I chose my mate. Submitting in the bedroom does not mean I am submitting in my life, or my career, or this movement!”
“You’re a hypocrite,” a voice calls out from the back row.
“You sold out!” Another yells.
“You let an alpha buy you with his status!”
The accusations hit you like physical blows. You stare out at the sea of faces — people you mentored, people you marched with, people you fought for. They are looking at you with disgust. With betrayal. They don’t see a leader anymore. They just see a traditional, mated omega.
“I move for a vote of no confidence,” Becca announces loudly, cutting through the noise.
The words freeze the blood in your veins.
“Becca, you can’t do that,” Jackie says, her voice laced with panic. “She founded this chapter! She built this from the ground up!”
“I second the motion,” a beta from the executive board says, standing up next to Becca.
“The motion has been seconded,” Becca says, her eyes locked onto yours with cold, righteous fury. “All those in favor of removing Y/N as president of the Boston University O.M.E.G.A. chapter, effective immediately, raise your hands.”
You stand perfectly still behind the podium. You literally cannot breathe.
One by one, hands begin to rise.
First, Becca’s. Then the executive board members. Then the omegas in the middle rows.
You watch in absolute, paralyzing horror as the room turns against you. It’s not a close vote. It is an overwhelming, crushing majority. Dozens of hands held high in the air, a silent, damning verdict on your character.
Jackie doesn’t raise her hand. She looks at you, her eyes swimming with tears. “Y/N …”
“The motion passes,” Becca states, her voice ringing with finality. “Please step down from the podium, Y/N. You are no longer welcome to lead this group.”
The silence that follows is heavier than anything you have ever experienced.
You don’t argue. You don’t scream. You don’t try to defend yourself again. The rejection is so complete, so absolute, that it hollows you out from the inside.
With trembling hands, you reach down and gather your notes. You slide them into your tote bag. You don’t look at Becca. You don’t look at the crowd.
You step out from behind the podium.
The crowd parts for you as you walk up the center aisle. No one meets your eye. They just watch you leave, their faces set in hard, judgmental lines.
You push open the heavy wooden doors at the back of the lecture hall and step out into the hallway.
You keep walking. You walk past the student union desk, past the bulletin boards covered in flyers for the movement you built, and out the front doors into the biting cold of the Boston evening.
You make it exactly fifty feet down the concrete sidewalk before the shock wears off.
It hits you all at once. The adrenaline crashes, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound. Your identity on this campus — your friends, your cause, the thing you dedicated two years of your life to — is gone. Stripped away in a matter of three minutes.
Your knees buckle.
You stumble toward a concrete bench under a large oak tree and collapse onto it. You drop your bag onto the ground.
And then, you break.
A ragged, agonizing sob tears its way up your throat. You bend over, burying your face in your hands, and cry. You cry so hard your ribs ache. You cry for the unfairness of it all. For the absolute, suffocating narrow-mindedness of the people who claim to champion open-mindedness.
A sharp, terrified whine rips from your chest.
Your omega panics. The emotional trauma triggers a massive biological distress signal. You need your mate. You need safety. You need the one person in the world who promised never to make you feel like this.
Your hands shake violently as you dig into your coat pocket and pull out your phone.
You don’t even look at the screen. You just hit his contact on your favorites list.
It rings exactly once.
“Hey, baby,” Garrett’s voice comes through the speaker, deep, warm, and relaxed. There are loud shouts and the sound of pucks hitting the glass in the background. He’s at the rink. “I thought your meeting went until nine. You want me to come grab you early?”
“Garrett,” you gasp out, the word fracturing into a choked sob.
The background noise on the phone vanishes instantly. The casual warmth in Garrett’s voice disappears, replaced by a cold, terrifyingly sharp focus.
“Y/N. What happened? Are you hurt?” The absolute panic in his tone is palpable. You hear a loud clatter — the sound of him dropping his hockey stick onto the ice. “Who touched you?”
“N-no one,” you cry, struggling to pull air into your lungs. “No one touched me. I just … they voted me out. They kicked me out, Garrett. Everyone. They all raised their hands.”
“Where are you?” Garrett demands. His voice is a low, dangerous snarl. You can hear the heavy thud of his skates as he practically sprints off the ice.
“Outside the union. On the bench near the quad.”
“Stay exactly where you are,” he orders. “Do not move. I am coming right now.”
“You’re at practice-”
“Fuck practice!” He roars, the sound echoing through the phone. You hear a door slam open. “I am getting in my truck right this second. I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep me on the line. Talk to me, sweetheart. Breathe for me.”
“It hurts,” you sob, wiping uselessly at your face as the tears keep coming. “They said I was a hypocrite. They said I sold out.”
“They’re fucking idiots,” Garrett says viciously. The sound of an engine roaring to life fills the speaker. Tires screech against pavement. “They don’t know you. They don’t know shit. You are the strongest person I have ever met. You hear me? You’re brilliant, and you’re mine, and I’m going to fix this.”
“You can’t fix it,” you cry, pulling your knees to your chest.
“I can fix anything if it means keeping you safe,” he promises, his voice a steady, grounding anchor amidst the storm of your panic. “I’m turning onto Commonwealth now. Two minutes. Keep breathing, baby. I’m almost there.”
You sit on the freezing bench, the phone pressed hard against your ear, listening to the roar of his truck engine. Students walk past you, casting curious or pitiful glances at the sobbing girl on the bench, but you don’t care.
Headlights sweep across the quad.
The heavy black SUV jumps the curb, parking illegally right on the edge of the grass, hazard lights flashing wildly.
The driver’s side door flies open before the truck is even fully in park.
Garrett jumps out. He is still wearing his black compression gear from practice, his skates swapped hastily for slide sandals. He looks massive, terrifying, and completely frantic.
His eyes scan the darkness, locking onto you huddled on the bench.
“Y/N!”
He sprints across the grass.
You drop your phone and stand up, your legs trembling.
Garrett crashes into you, his massive arms wrapping around you and hauling you off your feet. He crushes you against his chest, burying his face into your neck right over the mating mark, inhaling your scent in desperate, ragged gasps.
“I’ve got you,” he says thickly, rocking you back and forth. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe. Alpha’s here.”
The physical contact, the overwhelming flood of his heavy cedar scent, shatters whatever fragile restraint you had left.
You bury your face in the crook of his neck and wail. Your fingers dig into the tight fabric of his compression shirt, holding onto him like he is the only solid thing left in the universe.
“Let’s get out of here,” Garrett murmurs, kissing the side of your head.
He doesn’t put you down. He carries you to the truck, yanks the passenger door open, and carefully sets you inside. He grabs your bag from the bench, tosses it into the back seat, and slams the door shut.
A moment later, he climbs into the driver’s seat. He cranks the heat up to the max, ignoring the blaring horn of a passing car as he throws the truck into reverse and speeds off the BU campus.
The cab of the truck is warm, dark, and utterly safe.
You curl into a tight ball in the passenger seat, your face buried in your hands, the sobs wracking your small frame.
Garrett doesn’t say anything at first. He drives with one hand on the wheel, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes dark with a murderous fury. His other hand reaches across the center console, resting heavily on your thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, soothing rhythm.
He drives away from the city. He doesn’t go back to the house. He just drives until the city lights begin to fade, taking you away from the campus that rejected you.
Finally, he pulls into an empty parking lot overlooking a dark, quiet stretch of the Charles River. He puts the truck in park and kills the headlights, leaving the engine running for heat.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, slides across the wide center console, and pulls you firmly into his lap.
“Come here,” he orders softly.
You collapse against him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, pulling you so close there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.
“They hate me,” you whisper brokenly against his shoulder. “They looked at me like I was a traitor. Like I’m some brainwashed, submissive little pet just because I love you.”
Garrett’s arms tighten around you. “You are nobody’s pet, Y/N. You are a queen. And those girls in that room? They’re terrified.”
“Terrified of what?” You sniffle.
“Of you,” Garrett says fiercely. He pulls back just enough to frame your tear-stained face with his large hands. His thumbs gently wipe the wetness from your cheeks. “They built their entire identity around fighting biology because they think biology means weakness. And then you walked in. Strong, independent, brilliant. And mated. You proved that you can have an alpha and still be entirely your own person. It shattered their narrative. So they attacked you.”
“I lost my chapter, Garrett,” you cry, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “I lost everything I worked for.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of absolute certainty. “You lost a room full of hypocrites. The movement is bigger than that classroom. And you are bigger than them.”
He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to each of your eyelids, kissing away the tears.
“I am so sorry I put that mark on you, if it caused this,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly with guilt. “I just … I wanted everyone to know you were mine.”
“Don’t,” you say, your voice suddenly firm despite the tears. You reach up, your small hands gripping his wrists. You press your own wrist against his pulse point, letting your vanilla scent mix with his cedar. “Don’t you ever apologize for claiming me. I wanted this. I want you.”
Garrett lets out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours. “I will burn that entire school to the ground for making you cry.”
“You don’t have to burn anything down,” you murmur, closing your eyes and letting the deep, rumbling purr in his chest soothe the fractured pieces of your heart. “Just hold me. Please, just hold me.”
“Always,” Garrett promises, shifting you closer, wrapping his massive body around you like a human shield. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m never letting go.”
***
The green room at the Boston Convention Center smells like expensive hairspray, stale coffee, and the sharp, grounding scent of cedar.
You stand in front of the full-length mirror, taking a deep breath. You smooth your hands down the front of your tailored, navy-blue maternity dress. At seven months pregnant, your belly is a prominent, beautiful curve. You rest your palms against it, feeling a sharp, familiar flutter as the pup inside gives a vigorous kick.
“Easy in there,” you murmur, a soft smile touching your lips. “Mommy has a big night tonight.”
The heavy wooden door to the green room swings open.
“I’m telling you, buddy, if you don’t eat your broccoli, you’re never going to get drafted,” a deep, rumbling voice announces.
You turn around just as Garrett walks into the room. He is wearing a sharp, custom-fitted charcoal suit that stretches perfectly over his broad shoulders. But the most striking thing about him isn’t the suit or the fact that he’s currently among the top-scoring centers in the NHL.
It’s the fact that he is currently holding your four-year-old son, Cole, completely upside down by his ankles.
Cole, a wildly energetic toddler with your eyes and Garrett’s unruly dark hair, is shrieking with absolute delight.
“I don’t like broccoli! I want chicken nuggets!” Cole yells, his face turning red from laughing as Garrett swings him like a pendulum.
“Chicken nuggets do not build strong hockey players,” Garrett counters playfully. “Right, sweetheart? Tell him.”
“Garrett, please put our son upright before he throws up the apple juice he just drank,” you laugh, crossing the room.
Garrett immediately flips Cole right-side up, catching the boy easily against his massive chest. He presses a loud, exaggerated kiss to Cole’s cheek, making the toddler groan and wipe it away. Garrett looks up at you, his gray eyes instantly softening, completely melting the fierce alpha exterior he presents to the rest of the world.
“Look at you,” Garrett breathes out, his gaze dropping to your rounded stomach before coming back up to your face. He steps forward, wrapping his free arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. “You are the most gorgeous woman in this entire building. They’re going to vote for you just so they can keep looking at you.”
“I’m hoping they vote for me because of my policy platform, actually,” you say, though you lean into him, instinctively rubbing your scent gland against his lapel.
Even after seven years, the bond is just as electric as the day it snapped into place. If anything, it’s deeper. Richer.
“They’ll vote for you because you’re a force of nature,” Garrett corrects smoothly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “How are the ankles?”
“Swollen,” you admit with a sigh. “These heels are a torture device invented by someone who clearly never had to carry an extra twenty pounds of alpha-pup in their uterus.”
“Take them off,” Garrett says immediately. “You can do the speech barefoot.”
“I am running for the United States Congress, Garrett. I cannot walk out onto a national stage in my bare feet.”
“Why not? You’re the boss. You make the rules.” Garrett sets Cole down on the plush leather sofa. “Cole, stay right there. Don’t mess up your bowtie. Your mom is about to make history.”
“Okay, Dad!” Cole says, immediately grabbing a toy firetruck from his small backpack and running it over the sofa cushions.
Garrett turns back to you, his expression turning entirely serious. He reaches out, taking both of your hands in his. His thumbs trace the sensitive skin of your wrists, sending a calming wave of heavy cedar pheromones into your system.
“Are you nervous?” He asks quietly.
“Terrified,” you whisper, looking up at him. “There are three thousand people out there, Garrett. And national news cameras. If I mess this up …”
“You aren’t going to mess anything up,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating anchor. “You have been preparing for this your entire life. You are going to walk out there, and you are going to tell them exactly what they need to hear. And I am going to be standing right in the front row, cheering louder than anyone else.”
You swallow hard, your eyes shining. “You really think they’re ready for this?”
“They don’t have a choice,” Garrett smiles, a wicked, proud smirk playing on his lips. “You’re going to change the world, sweetie. You already changed mine.”
Before you can respond, the door flies open again.
Jackie bursts into the room, a clipboard clutched to her chest and a Bluetooth earpiece blinking on her ear. As your campaign manager, she has been running on espresso and pure anxiety for the last eight months.
“Five minutes!” Jackie announces, slightly breathless. She stops, taking in the sight of you, Garrett, and Cole. “Oh, thank god, no one is crying. Y/N, you look phenomenal. Garrett, you look like a very expensive bodyguard. Cole, do not put that truck in your mouth.”
“I wasn’t!” Cole protests, lowering the toy defensively.
“Alright, let’s review,” Jackie says, marching over to you. “The introduction will be given by Senator Johnson. When he says your name, the music hits, and you walk out. The teleprompters are loaded, but honestly?
Just speak from the heart. That’s what the polls are showing people want. They want your authenticity.”
“I can do authenticity,” you say, taking a deep breath and smoothing your dress one last time.
“I know you can.” Jackie smiles, her eyes softening. “I am so incredibly proud of you, you know that? The girl who used to make Sharpie posters on our dorm room floor is about to become a Congresswoman.”
“We aren’t there yet,” you warn her, though a smile breaks across your face.
“We’re basically there. The incumbent is trailing by twelve points.” Jackie taps her clipboard. “Alright. It’s time. Let’s go make some noise.”
Garrett steps forward, pulling you into one last, tight embrace. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Knock ‘em dead, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too,” you say.
Garrett scoops Cole up, settling the boy on his broad shoulders. “Come on, monster. Let’s go watch Mom save the world.”
***
The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wall the second you step out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.
The Boston Convention Center is packed to the rafters. Three thousand people are on their feet, waving signs, clapping, and cheering as you walk across the stage toward the clear acrylic podium. The bright stage lights are almost blinding, but as you approach the mic, your eyes immediately find the front row.
Garrett is standing exactly where he promised. He is holding Cole on his shoulders, beaming up at you with such intense, unfiltered pride that it makes your breath hitch.
You reach the podium, gripping the edges, and look out over the sea of faces. Betas. Alphas. Omegas. People of all ages and backgrounds, holding signs that read EQUALITY IN INSTINCT and VOTE FOR PROGRESS.
You smile, letting the applause wash over you for a long moment before raising a hand to quiet the room.
Slowly, the roar fades into an excited hum, and then into total silence.
“Thank you,” you say, your voice echoing through the massive hall. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight.”
You look out at the crowd, your heart hammering a steady, powerful rhythm against your ribs. You don’t even look at the teleprompter. You know exactly what you want to say.
“Seven years ago,” you begin, your voice clear and unwavering, “I stood on a concrete bench outside the student union of my college campus, and I cried until I couldn’t breathe.”
A quiet hush falls over the audience. It isn’t the standard political opening they expected.
“I cried because the political movement I had dedicated my entire life to — the movement for omega rights and equality — had just kicked me out,” you continue. “And they kicked me out for one simple reason. Because I had found my destined mate, an alpha, and I chose to let him claim me.”
You pause, letting the words settle. Down in the front row, Garrett is watching you with rapt attention.
“When I was younger,” you say, gripping the sides of the podium, “I used to think that the world was entirely black and white. I believed that submitting to an alpha, in any capacity, meant giving up my independence. I thought it meant surrendering everything our movement stood for. I was angry. I looked at the history of how alphas have used biology to oppress and control omegas, and I decided the only way to be free was to deny my own instincts.”
You look out into the crowd, locking eyes with a young omega girl holding a sign a few rows back.
“But I learned that couldn’t be further from the truth,” you say, your voice rising with passion. “Just as feminism fights for women to have equality and the absolute right to make a choice about what they want to do with their lives, so does omeganism.”
A smattering of applause breaks out, quickly growing louder.
“Omeganism is not about fighting who we are!” You project over the noise. “It is not about suppressing our biology or pretending we don’t have natural instincts! It is about dismantling the systemic, societal roles that tell us those instincts make us weak!”
The crowd cheers loudly. You press forward, your adrenaline surging.
“Submitting to my alpha in the privacy of our home does not make me submissive in a boardroom!” You declare, your voice ringing with fierce authority. “Nesting for my family does not mean I cannot write legislation! Being a mother to my pups does not mean I cannot lead this district!”
The applause turns into a roar. People are standing up, cheering and clapping.
“We are told that we have to choose,” you continue, speaking directly into the camera broadcasting your speech to the nation. “We are told that we can either be a traditional, mated omega, or we can be a strong, independent career professional. I am standing here tonight to tell you that the narrative is a lie!”
You point out into the crowd.
“True autonomy,” you shout, “true freedom, is having the power to choose your own path without society dictating your worth based on your secondary gender! We demand equal pay! We demand equal representation! We demand the right to embrace our biology without sacrificing our equality!”
The convention center absolutely erupts. The sound is deafening.
You smile, tears of pure joy pricking the corners of your eyes. You look down at Garrett. He is cheering so loudly you can see the cords of his neck straining, his hand firmly holding Cole’s leg so the boy doesn’t fall off his shoulders.
“If you elect me to Congress,” you promise, your voice cutting through the cheering, “I will fight every single day to tear down the archaic laws that keep us boxed into these roles. I will fight for a future where our pups — alphas, betas, and omegas alike — can grow up knowing that their biology is a beautiful part of who they are, not a limitation on what they can become.”
You step back from the podium, raising your hand as the campaign music begins to blare through the speakers.
“Thank you, Boston! Let’s go win this!”
The crowd loses their minds. Confetti begins to rain down from the ceiling.
You turn and walk off the stage, your heart soaring, your body buzzing with the kind of high that only comes from knowing you just spoke your absolute truth to the world.
The second you cross the threshold backstage, you are engulfed in a pair of massive, familiar arms.
“You were incredible,” Garrett growls, pressing you back against the cinderblock wall of the hallway and kissing you deeply.
“Garrett,” you laugh against his mouth, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Ew! Gross!” Cole complains from beside you.
Garrett breaks the kiss, turning to look at his son, who is currently covering his eyes with his small hands. “Hey, watch it, kid. I’m kissing the next Congresswoman of Massachusetts. Show some respect.”
“I want ice cream,” Cole demands, dropping his hands.
“Ice cream sounds perfect,” you say, bending down slightly to ruffle Cole’s hair. You look back up at Garrett, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. “Did I do okay?”
“Are you kidding me?” Jackie says, marching down the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear. She covers the receiver. “CNN is already playing clips of the speech. They’re calling it the defining moment of the campaign. You killed it, Y/N. Absolutely killed it.”
“See?” Garrett says, offering you his arm. “I told you. Force of nature.”
***
Three hours later, the adrenaline of the rally has finally faded, leaving behind a deep, comfortable exhaustion.
The sprawling, luxurious house you and Garrett bought out in the Boston suburbs is quiet. The only sound is the gentle hum of the central heating and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
You stand in the doorway of Cole’s bedroom. The room is painted a soft sage green, filled with hockey sticks, building blocks, and an absurd number of stuffed animals.
Garrett is sitting on the edge of Cole’s toddler bed. He’s traded his expensive suit for a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He is reading a picture book about a very confused moose, doing distinct, ridiculous voices for every single character.
Cole is tucked under his blankets, his eyes already closed, his breathing slow and even.
You watch them for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe.
This is the man the O.M.E.G.A. chapter members warned you about. The “toxic, aggressive brute.”
And yet, here he is. One of the NHL’s heaviest hitters, using a high-pitched squeak to voice a cartoon squirrel so his son will fall asleep. He is the most devoted, involved, incredible father you have ever seen. He splits the parenting duties effortlessly. If you have a late-night campaign meeting, he handles dinner and bath time without a second thought. He attends every parent-teacher conference, packs Cole’s lunches, and brags about your political career to anyone in the locker room who will listen.
He didn’t just give you a family. He gave you a true partnership.
Garrett finishes the book, closes it softly, and sets it on the nightstand. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to Cole’s forehead. He stands up, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his massive size, and tiptoes out of the room.
He spots you in the doorway, his eyes warming immediately.
“He’s out,” Garrett whispers, pulling the door partially shut behind him.
“You’re a good dad, Graham,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand.
Garrett laces his fingers through yours, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I have good motivation.”
He leads you down the hallway and into your master bedroom.
The room is vast, elegant, and completely dominated by the massive, custom-built nest in the center of the king bed. Even after seven years, the nesting instinct is something you never let go of. It is your sanctuary. It is a physical manifestation of your bond, a blend of your expensive silk sheets and Garrett’s softest hoodies, heavily saturated in both of your scents.
You let go of his hand and walk over to your vanity, reaching up to unclasp the delicate necklace you wore for the rally.
Garrett steps up behind you. His large hands find your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, beginning to massage away the tension of the long day.
“Mmm,” you groan, letting your head fall forward. “That feels amazing.”
“You carry all your stress right here,” Garrett murmurs, his hands working magic on your tired muscles. “You did so good tonight, baby. I was so proud of you I thought my chest was going to crack open.”
“I meant every word,” you say, opening your eyes to look at him in the mirror. “Everything I said up there … I only know it’s true because of you. Because you showed me what it really means to be claimed.”
Garrett meets your gaze in the reflection. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, right over the faded, permanent scar of his mating mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, comforting purr starting up in his chest.
“You’re mine,” he says softly against your skin. “And I’m yours. That’s the only truth that matters.”
He slides his hands down your arms, wrapping them around your waist from behind, his large palms coming to rest gently over the pronounced swell of your pregnant belly.
He holds you there, the two of you swaying slightly in the quiet room.
Suddenly, your stomach jumps. A sharp, distinct kick against Garrett’s palm.
Garrett lets out a soft, surprised laugh, his eyes lighting up. “Hey there, little one. You awake in there?”
“She’s been kicking like crazy all night,” you smile, covering his hands with your own. “I think she liked the speech.”
“She knows her mom is a badass,” Garrett says, gently rubbing his thumb over your stomach. He presses a kiss to your cheek. “You think she’ll be an omega like her gorgeous mother?”
“I don’t care what she is,” you say honestly, leaning back against his solid chest. “Alpha, beta, omega. As long as she’s healthy. And as long as she inherits your wrist shot.”
Garrett chuckles, a deep, rich sound that fills the room. “She’s going to have a wicked slapshot. I’ll have a hockey stick in her hands before she can walk. Cole is already practically skating.”
“You’re going to turn my children into rink rats,” you sigh affectionately.
“Hey, we need to secure the Bruins’ future draft picks,” Garrett teases.
He gently turns you around to face him. His expression softens, the playful banter fading into something deeply emotional and utterly sincere.
“I love the life we built, Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his thumbs lightly tracing the curve of your jaw. “I love our house. I love our boy. I love this little girl you’re carrying. I love that you’re going to Washington and you’re going to show the whole damn country what an omega can do.”
You look up at the man who barged into your life seven years ago and completely turned it upside down. The alpha who bought you expensive pillows, who stood his ground when you threw his courting gift at his chest, who held you while you cried outside the student union.
He didn’t break you. He didn’t cage you. He simply stood beside you, an immovable, unshakable pillar of support, and let you fly.
“I love it too,” you whisper, rising up on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck.
Garrett leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, and intensely passionate kiss. It isn’t the feral, desperate claiming of your early college days. It is the deep, steady, unshakeable devotion of a bond that has weathered storms, built a family, and changed the world.
He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
“Come on, future Congresswoman,” Garrett murmurs, sweeping you effortlessly up into his arms, just like he did the very first day he brought you home. “Let’s get you into the nest. You need your rest.”
You laugh, burying your face in the warm, cedar-scented crook of his neck as he carries you toward the bed.
“Take me to the nest, alpha,” you whisper against his skin.
Garrett’s arms tighten around you, his chest vibrating with a deep, satisfied purr, and he carries you home.
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has one rule: betas only, until he finds his fated mate. Everyone thinks it’s a joke … until the day your dying scent hits him like a freight train in the middle of campus. You were raised to believe alphas, bonds, and fairytales were lies designed to make you small. Dean’s about to spend the rest of his life proving otherwise
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The seventh day breaks with a quiet, golden light filtering through the sheer curtains of the penthouse suite.
The frantic, blinding fever of your heat has finally burned itself out. In its place is a warm, languid exhaustion that sinks deep into your bones, leaving you feeling entirely hollowed out and completely whole at the same time. The massive nest in the center of the bed is a chaotic disaster of tangled sheets, discarded pillows, and the overwhelming, perfectly blended scent of cedar, rain, vanilla, and honey.
You are lying on your side, your cheek squashed into the soft mattress, hovering in that hazy space between sleep and waking.
A heavy, warm hand slides up your spine. Calloused fingertips trace the line of your vertebrae with agonizing gentleness, right up to the nape of your neck, before a soft pair of lips presses against the healing mating bite over your scent gland.
“Morning, beautiful,” Dean’s voice rumbles, low and gravelly with sleep.
You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting backward until your body is perfectly flush against his solid chest. The bond humming beneath your skin flares to life, vibrating with a deep, answering affection. “Morning.”
“How are you feeling?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you even closer. “The fever is completely gone. You feel cool.”
“I feel like I ran a marathon,” you mumble, keeping your eyes closed. “Or maybe ten marathons. I can barely lift my arms.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “That’s fair. You put in a lot of work this week, sweetheart.”
You flush hotly, the memories of the past seven days rushing back. It had been a blur of skin, heat, and absolute biological demand. Every time you thought the wave was cresting, it would pull you back under, and Dean had been there for every single second of it. He hadn’t just taken care of you; he had worshipped you. He fed you when you were too weak to sit up, carried you to the bath when you were slick with sweat, and answered every single one of your omega’s frantic pleas with absolute, unyielding devotion.
“You must be exhausted,” you say, finally cracking your eyes open and turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.
Dean looks beautifully wrecked. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, his jaw is covered in a week’s worth of golden scruff, and there are faint, dark circles under his eyes. But his green eyes are bright, practically glowing with a fierce, settled contentment.
“I’ve never felt better in my entire life,” Dean says honestly. He props his head up on his hand, looking down at you. “You’re perfect. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”
Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your emotions are still completely raw, sitting right on the surface. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to make us some coffee and get some actual food in you. Room service brought up a massive breakfast spread about an hour ago.”
He climbs out of the nest, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. You watch him walk out to the main living area, admiring the broad slope of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under his skin.
He’s your mate. The reality of it still knocks the breath completely out of your lungs.
A few minutes later, Dean returns carrying a tray loaded with pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and two massive mugs of coffee. He sets it on the nightstand and climbs back into the bed, carefully pulling you up so your back is resting against the headboard. He grabs one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies from the edge of the nest and gently pulls it over your head, completely cocooning you in his scent and warmth.
“Eat,” he commands gently, handing you a fork.
You actually have an appetite this morning. The two of you eat in comfortable, easy silence, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels incredibly domestic. It feels like the start of the rest of your life.
When the plates are mostly cleared, Dean sets his coffee mug down and clears his throat.
“So,” he begins, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to make some phone calls.”
Your stomach does a complicated, nervous flip. “Phone calls?”
“To our parents,” Dean says. He watches your face carefully, instantly picking up on the spike of anxiety pushing through the bond. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your ankle under the blankets. “Hey. It’s okay. I want to call mine first. I want them to know I found you. Is that alright?”
You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Yes, of course.”
“Do you want me to step out into the living room?”
“No,” you say quickly. “No, stay here. I want to hear.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and dials. He hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone onto the mattress between you.
It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.
“Dean? Honey, it’s barely ten in the morning on a Sunday. Are you actually awake, or is the frat house on fire?”
Dean laughs. “No fire, Mom. I’m wide awake. Is Dad there?”
“Peter!” His mother calls out, her voice slightly muffled as she pulls the phone away. “Pick up the line in the study! It’s Dean!” A second later, a deep, authoritative voice clicks onto the line.
“Morning, son. Everything alright?”
“Everything is perfect,” Dean says, leaning forward. He reaches out and takes your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Better than perfect, actually. I found her.”
The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.
Then, his mother gasps. “Dean? Are you … are you serious?”
“I’m completely serious,” Dean says, his chest puffing out with undeniable alpha pride. “She’s right here with me. Her heat just broke this morning.”
“Oh my god,” his mother breathes, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Peter, he found his mate! Dean, this is incredible! Oh, darling, congratulations. We are so, so happy for you.”
“A fated mate,” his father adds, the strictness in his voice completely replaced by a warm, booming joy. “Well done, son. That’s the best news we’ve had in years. What’s her name? Is she a Briar student?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes shining. “Yeah, she goes to Briar. And she’s amazing. She’s the most beautiful, perfect omega I’ve ever met.”
You blush furiously, hiding your face in the oversized collar of Dean’s hoodie.
“Well, don’t keep her all to yourself!” His mother insists. “You need to bring her down to Greenwich immediately. We have to celebrate! I’ll have the staff air out the guest wing, or if she’d prefer, we can come up to Massachusetts. We can take you both out to dinner. Oh, I need to go shopping, I need to get her a welcoming gift-”
“Mom, hold on,” Dean interrupts gently. He gives your hand a firm squeeze. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t coming to Greenwich right now, and you can’t come up here just yet.”
“Why?” His father asks, immediately picking up on the shift in Dean’s tone. “Is everything alright? Was the heat too hard on her?”
Dean takes a deep breath. “She had a rough time. A really rough time before I found her. Her family … they’re betas. Only betas.”
“Oh,” his mother says, her tone shifting to cautious understanding.
“They put her on suppressants when she was fourteen,” Dean continues, his voice hardening slightly at the memory. “Heavy, industrial-grade blockers. They tried to medicate her designation away because they thought it was an inconvenience. When I found her on campus a week ago, she was seizing on the concrete. She had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome from the toxicity. She almost died.”
A sharp, horrified intake of breath comes from the phone.
“My god,” his father murmurs, completely appalled.
“They put a child on those poisons?” His mother asks, her voice trembling with genuine outrage and heartbreak. “Dean, that’s barbaric. That poor darling. Is she okay? Is she healthy?”
“She’s healthy now,” Dean assures them quickly. “We flushed her system at the hospital, but coming off them threw her straight into her first heat. She was terrified. Her parents completely convinced her that fated mates were a myth and that her biology was something to be ashamed of.”
“That is unacceptable,” his father states firmly, the high-powered attorney coming out in full force. “Absolutely unacceptable.”
“I know,” Dean says. “Which is why I’m telling you this. When we do finally come down to visit, or when you come up, I need you to be extra gentle with her. She’s never had a proper pack. She’s never seen how an omega is supposed to be treated in a real family. I need you guys to show her that this is a blessing, not a curse.”
“Dean, you don’t even have to ask,” his mother says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You just tell us what she needs. We will spoil her absolutely rotten. We will show her exactly what it means to be cherished by this family. You just take care of her right now, okay? Let her recover. Let her get her bearings.”
“We’re sending a care package,” his father adds decisively. “Expect it by tomorrow. And Dean … tell her welcome to the family.”
“I will,” Dean says, a massive smile breaking out on his face. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you guys later.”
“We love you, Dean. Send her our love!”
Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.
You are openly crying, the tears spilling down your cheeks and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. You have never, not once in your entire life, heard adults talk about an omega with that level of reverence, care, and desperate protection. And they haven’t even officially met you yet. They just immediately accepted you because you are their son’s mate.
“Hey, no tears,” Dean murmurs, dropping the phone and pulling you onto his lap. He cradles you against his chest, pressing kisses into your hair. “They love you already. I told you, you’re a queen now.”
“They’re so nice,” you sob, clinging to his shirt. “They didn’t even care that I missed class for a week. They just cared if I was okay.”
“Because you’re what matters,” Dean says, rubbing your back. “Not your grades, not your schedule. You.”
You stay there for a long time, letting his words and the overwhelming support from his parents settle into your bones. It makes you feel brave. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.
You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie. You take a deep, shaky breath.
“I need to call my parents.”
Dean frowns, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “You don’t have to do that right now. You can wait. Send a text.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I need to. I’ve been missing for a week. They’re probably worried sick. Or angry. Mostly angry. But I have to tell them.”
Dean studies your face, seeing the determination in your eyes. He hates it. He hates knowing what is likely waiting on the other end of that line, but he refuses to take your agency away.
“Okay,” Dean says softly. “But I’m right here. If they start their bullshit, I’m cutting it off.”
You nod, pulling your own phone off the charger on the nightstand. Your hands are shaking slightly as you scroll to your mother’s contact and hit call. You leave it off speakerphone, holding it tightly to your ear.
It rings four times.
“Hello?” Your mother’s crisp, impatient voice answers.
“Hi, Mom,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the racing of your heart.
“It’s about time,” she snaps immediately, the reprimand sharp and instant. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been? I have been texting you for six days. I called your roommate, and she gave me some nonsense excuse about you being out of town. What is going on with you?”
You flinch slightly. Dean feels the spike of distress through the bond and immediately wraps his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to him.
“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you start, trying to keep your tone reasonable. “I was in the hospital.”
There is a brief pause. “The hospital? I saw a charge hit the insurance from Boston General, but when I called, they wouldn’t release your records to me because you’re an adult. What did you do to yourself?”
What did you do to yourself. Not are you okay? Not I was so worried. “I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice hardening just a fraction. “The suppressants you and Dr. Davidson put me on caused a toxic reaction. I had a severe tonic-clonic seizure on the quad. I almost died, Mom.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs, a deeply irritated sound. “Dr. Davidson warned us that there might be some adverse side effects when we upped the dosage. It was just your body adjusting. You just needed to push through it. If you went to the hospital, I’m sure those doctors overreacted and pulled you off of them.”
You stare blankly at the wall, the sheer, willful ignorance of her words staggering you. “Yes, they pulled me off of them. Because they were poisoning me. Because they caused Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.”
“Well, now what are we going to do?” Your mother demands, completely ignoring your near-death experience in favor of logistics. “You’ve been off them for a week. You must have missed your midterms. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get those professors to let you retake them? You’re jeopardizing your entire semester for a temporary biological hiccup!”
“It’s not a hiccup!” You finally raise your voice, frustration bleeding through. “It’s my biology! Coming off the pills triggered my heat.”
“Ugh,” she groans, the sound dripping with disgust. “I knew it. A whole week wasted wallowing in a dorm room. We are calling Dr. Davidson on Monday. There has to be a different brand, something lower dose that won’t cause the seizures but will still keep you regulated-”
“I’m not taking them ever again.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, I’m never taking suppressants again,” you say firmly, the mating mark on your neck pulsing warmly, giving you strength. “I’m an omega. I’m done hiding it.”
“You are a modern woman,” your mother corrects sharply, her voice rising in anger. “You are not an animal ruled by hormones. I will not let you throw your life away just because you had a bad reaction to one medication. We worked too hard to make sure you were independent.”
“I am independent!” You argue, tears springing to your eyes again, this time entirely out of frustration. “But I also found my mate, Mom.”
The line goes dead silent.
“What did you just say?”
“I found my fated mate,” you repeat, your voice shaking but defiant. “The guy who found me on the quad when I was seizing … he’s an alpha. We mated. Everything you said was just a fairytale, everything you told me didn’t exist in real life … it’s real. And it’s better than I ever imagined.”
Your mother scoffs. It is a loud, derisive, mocking sound.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? This is what this is about?” Her tone is dripping with absolute condescension. “You had a medical emergency, you got scared, and some frat boy alpha fed you a line about being fated to get you into bed during your heat. And you fell for it. You used a fairytale to justify throwing away your medication schedule.”
“That’s not what happened!” You gasp, completely horrified by her cruelty.
“It’s exactly what happened,” your mother says ruthlessly. “Fated mates aren’t real. It’s just a chemical reaction, a biological trap to keep women subservient. And now you’ve bound yourself to some random college boy who is going to expect you to play house instead of focusing on your career. I am so deeply disappointed in you.”
The words hit you like physical blows. You curl in on yourself, a fractured sob tearing from your throat. “Mom, please. Just listen to me-”
“I have heard enough. You are going to pack your bags, you are going to march into your professors’ offices tomorrow and beg for make-up exams, and then you are going to call Dr. Davidson. Until you are ready to act like an adult and take control of your biology, I have nothing else to say to you.”
Before you can even try to respond, Dean’s hand completely covers yours.
He physically pulls the phone out of your grip. His face is a mask of pure, terrifying alpha fury. The air in the room practically drops ten degrees as his scent spikes with sharp, aggressive warning pheromones.
He brings the phone to his mouth.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean snarls into the receiver, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Do not ever speak to my omega like that again. You lost the right to call yourself her mother the second you put your prejudice above her life. Do not call this number again.”
“Excuse me, who do you think you are-”
Dean hits the red end-call button, cutting her off mid-sentence.
He tosses the phone onto the floor, completely dismissing its existence, and immediately turns all his attention to you.
You are shaking violently, sobbing into your hands. The rejection cuts so incredibly deep. It’s exactly what you had always feared — that if you embraced who you were, your family would throw you away.
“Shh, baby, hey,” Dean murmurs, pulling your hands away from your face. He wraps his arms completely around you, dragging you fully onto his lap and pressing your face into his neck. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“She hates me,” you cry, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. “She didn’t even care that I was happy. She just cared that I ruined her perfect plan.”
“She’s toxic,” Dean says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pushes out waves of calming cedar, actively using the mating bond to try and force the panic and heartbreak out of your system. “She is a toxic, miserable person who can’t handle the fact that you have something she will never understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I just wanted her to be happy for me,” you whisper brokenly.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. “But you don’t need her. You don’t need any of them.”
You sniffle, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “I don’t?”
“No,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping away a fresh tear. “Because you have me. And you have my family. We are your pack now. You hear me? You belong to us. We are going to celebrate you, and we are going to love you exactly the way you are.”
He leans in and kisses you, a deep, grounding kiss that tastes like salt and coffee and absolute devotion.
“I’m never letting anyone make you feel small again,” Dean vows against your lips. “You’re my omega. My beautiful, perfect omega. And from now on, your life is going to be a goddamn fairytale. I promise.”
You close your eyes, leaning into his strength, letting his scent wash away the lingering sting of your mother’s words. It hurts. The rejection hurts terribly.
But as Dean holds you tight against his chest, safe in the center of the nest he built just for you, you realize that for the first time in your life, you are finally, truly home.
***
Stepping out of the hotel feels like crossing the threshold between a dream and reality. Only, as Dean’s hand rests heavily and securely on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car in the underground garage, you realize reality is suddenly far better than any dream you could have conjured.
The air in the parking garage is cool, but you are wrapped in one of Dean’s thick, grey Briar Hockey zip-ups, perfectly insulated by the soft fleece and the overwhelming scent of your mate. Your body still hums with a lingering, pleasant ache from the past week, a constant physical reminder of the bond that now firmly tethers your soul to his.
“You good?” Dean asks, opening the passenger door for you. He pauses, his green eyes scanning your face with that intense, focused dedication he hasn’t dropped since he found you on the quad. “Not too tired?”
“I’m good, Dean,” you promise, offering a soft smile as you slide into the leather seat. “I promise. I just feel … different. Lighter.”
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the mating bite resting over your scent gland. The jolt of electricity that shoots through your veins makes you gasp softly. Dean smirks against your skin, clearly pleased with his effect on you, before pulling back and shutting the door.
He climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “First stop, the dorms. We need to grab your essentials.”
“I should probably text Grace,” you say, pulling your phone out of your bag. You hadn’t looked at it since the disastrous call with your mother yesterday. True to his word, Dean had actively pushed out waves of calming alpha pheromones, completely smothering your anxiety and replacing it with a deep, settled peace. “She’s probably going to yell at me for going off the grid.”
“She can yell all she wants,” Dean says lazily, backing the SUV out of the parking spot. “As long as she doesn’t stress you out. If she stresses you out, I’m throwing her out the window.”
You roll your eyes, though a giggle escapes your lips. “She’s my best friend, Dean. And she’s a beta. You can’t throw her out a window.”
“Watch me,” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
The drive to campus is short. Dean navigates the familiar streets of Briar with practiced ease, pulling the heavy SUV right up to the curb outside your dorm building. He throws it into park, hopping out to open your door before you can even reach for the handle.
Walking into the dorm building with Dean Di Laurentis is an experience. Usually, you keep your head down, practically blending into the cinderblock walls to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Today, keeping a low profile is entirely impossible.
Dean entirely envelopes your space. He keeps one hand firmly laced with yours, his broad shoulders practically acting as a shield as he guides you through the crowded lobby.
Heads turn. Whispers instantly break out. Dean is a minor celebrity on campus, and the sight of him fiercely guarding a girl wearing his oversized hoodie sends shockwaves through the Sunday morning crowd. But Dean completely ignores them. He only has eyes for you.
When you reach your door on the third floor, you take a deep breath and push it open.
Grace is sitting at her desk, entirely surrounded by flashcards and empty coffee cups. She looks up, her eyes widening in immediate relief.
“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Grace shouts, jumping up from her chair and rushing toward you. “I have been calling you for-”
She stops dead in her tracks, about three feet away.
Her eyes dart from your face, down to your violently bruised lips, to the massive hockey hoodie, and finally, to the tall, imposing figure standing right behind your shoulder.
Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.
“No way,” Grace breathes, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks at you, then at Dean, then back at you. “No freaking way. You … and him? Dean Di Laurentis?”
Dean offers a charming, completely unapologetic grin, stepping forward to wrap his arm around your waist and pull your back flush against his chest. “Nice to meet you.”
“You … you smell different,” Grace says, taking a step back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she tries to process the heavy, mixed pheromones filling the small dorm room. Even as a beta, she can easily pick up on the intensity of the bond. Her eyes suddenly snap to your neck, catching a glimpse of the bruised, healing skin peeking out from the collar of the hoodie.
Grace gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re mated! You actually did it! You stopped taking the pills!”
“I did,” you say, a massive, genuine smile breaking across your face. You lean back against Dean’s chest, entirely unashamed. “Grace, this is Dean. My mate.”
“But … he’s Dean Di Laurentis,” Grace stammers, entirely bewildered. “He’s Briar’s resident man-whore! He literally had a line of girls waiting outside his frat house last week!”
Dean winces slightly, a faint dusting of pink hitting his cheeks. He tightens his grip on your waist. “Hey. Former. I’m retired. And technically, it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. I only slept with betas because I was waiting for her.”
Grace stares at him for a long, calculating moment. She looks at the way his hand rests possessively on your hip, and the way his green eyes soften every time he looks down at you. The protective, devoted aura rolling off him is entirely undeniable.
Slowly, Grace smiles. “Well. It’s about damn time somebody treated you like a queen.”
“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dean says, instantly warming up to your roommate. He looks around the cramped, sterile dorm room. “Alright, beautiful. Where are your bags?”
You blink, looking up at him. “My bags? I only have a backpack for class tomorrow.”
“No,” Dean says patiently, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “Your duffel bags. For your clothes.”
“Why do I need to pack my clothes?” You ask, completely confused.
Dean stops. He looks down at you, his brow furrowing slightly, before a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk spreads across his lips. “Because you’re not sleeping here anymore, sweetheart. You live with me now.”
A rush of heat floods your cheeks, turning your face a brilliant shade of crimson. “I … I do?”
“Yes, you do,” Dean says, the humor fading into absolute, unshakeable sincerity. “You’re my omega. You think I’m going to let you sleep in a twin-sized dorm bed across campus from me? Not a chance in hell. You’re coming home. To our house.”
You stare at him, your heart doing a frantic, joyful flutter against your ribs. Moving in with a guy you technically met a week ago should feel terrifying. It should feel reckless. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural, inevitable thing in the world.
“Okay,” you whisper, the blush still burning on your cheeks. “Okay. Under the bed. There are some suitcases.”
Dean is a man on a mission. For the next thirty minutes, he practically tears through your side of the room. He pulls out your suitcases, expertly folding and packing your clothes with a terrifying efficiency.
Grace sits on her bed, entirely entertained by the sight of Briar’s hottest alpha meticulously folding your fuzzy socks and organizing your skincare routine into a vanity bag.
“I’m going to miss you,” Grace says softly as Dean zips up the final suitcase. “But I’m really, really happy for you.”
“I’ll still see you in class,” you promise, walking over to pull her into a tight hug. “And I’ll text you. Thank you, Grace. For always telling me not to settle.”
“Anytime,” she smiles, pulling back. She points a warning finger at Dean. “You break her heart, Di Laurentis, and I don’t care how big you are. I will destroy you.”
Dean hoists two massive suitcases over his shoulders like they weigh absolutely nothing. He looks at Grace, his expression dead serious. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, you have my full permission.”
He gestures toward the door with his chin. “Ready, baby?”
“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.
***
The house Dean shares with his hockey teammates is massive, sprawling, and exactly what you would expect a group of athletic college guys to live in. It sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac just off campus, boasting a massive wrap-around porch and a perfectly manicured lawn that you heavily suspect Dean pays someone to maintain.
Dean pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, reaching out to gently cup your cheek.
“Nervous?” He asks, his thumb stroking your skin.
“A little,” you admit, biting your lower lip. “I know who your roommates are, Dean. Everyone knows who they are. What if they think this is weird? What if they don’t want an omega in the house?”
Dean’s expression hardens instantly. “It’s my house. My grandfather bought it, the lease is in my name. And even if it wasn’t, Garrett, Logan, and Tuck are my brothers. They were at the hospital pacing the waiting room right next to me. They already know you’re mine, and they already respect you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
He leans in, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips. “You’re pack now. They’ll treat you like it.”
Dean hops out of the car, grabbing your heavy suitcases from the trunk. He refuses to let you carry a single thing, hip-checking the front door open and ushering you inside.
The house smells like fresh pine, leather, and the distinct, overlapping scents of three other alphas. It’s a little overwhelming, but underneath it all, the foundation is Dean’s comforting cedar and rain, anchoring you immediately.
“Di Laurentis! Is that you?” A deep voice calls out from the living room.
“Yeah, we’re in the hall!” Dean shouts back, dropping your bags near the staircase. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours as he leads you into the main living space.
Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are all sprawled across a massive sectional sofa, entirely surrounded by empty pizza boxes and video game controllers. The massive flat-screen TV is currently paused on a game of FIFA.
The moment the three of them catch your scent — the rich, undeniable sweetness of a newly mated omega — they all freeze.
It’s pure instinct. One by one, the three massive hockey players stand up, completely abandoning their game. The easy, frat-boy energy completely vanishes, replaced by a deep, biological respect.
“Guys,” Dean says, his voice carrying the calm, authoritative rumble of a pack leader. He tugs you slightly forward, keeping you tucked safely against his side. “This is my mate.”
Garrett is the first to move. He steps forward, offering a warm, genuine smile that completely transforms his usually intense features. He keeps his distance, making sure not to crowd you. “It’s really nice to officially meet you. I’m Garrett.”
“I know who you are,” you say softly, offering a small, shy smile in return. “Hi.”
“I’m Logan,” Logan says, giving you a two-finger salute from across the coffee table. “Glad to see you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time we saw you on the quad. Dean was about two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off.”
“Ignore him,” Tucker drawls, his thick Southern accent smooth and welcoming as he steps up beside Garrett. “I’m Tucker. Welcome to the madhouse, darlin’. If this idiot forgets to feed you or starts acting up, you just let us know, and we’ll handle him.”
Dean rolls his eyes, though the tension completely bleeds out of his shoulders. “I think I can handle feeding my own mate, Tuck.”
“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.
You look at the three alphas. You have spent your entire life being told that alpha-heavy spaces are dangerous, that they are overwhelming and oppressive to omegas. Your mother had warned you to stay away from the hockey houses, claiming they were toxic environments.
But standing here, surrounded by four massive alphas, you have never felt safer. They aren’t looking at you like prey. They are looking at you with respect, entirely acknowledging Dean’s claim and welcoming you into the fold without a single moment of hesitation.
“Thank you,” you say, your voice much steadier now. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”
“Alright, show’s over,” Dean announces, clapping his hands once. “We have unpacking to do. Don’t eat all the pizza.”
Dean guides you up the wide wooden staircase, easily carrying both of your massive suitcases. He leads you down a long hallway, pushing open the heavy oak door at the very end.
“Welcome home,” Dean says softly, dropping the bags on the floor.
You step inside, and your breath catches in your throat.
Dean’s bedroom is massive, almost the size of a studio apartment. It has high ceilings, massive windows overlooking the backyard, and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. But what stops you in your tracks is the fact that the room is completely, immaculately clean.
“You cleaned,” you observe, walking further into the room.
Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Tuck might have come up here and helped me scrub the place down yesterday while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be nice for you. I know I’m usually kind of a slob, but I swear, I’ll be better. I want you to be comfortable.”
Your heart melts entirely. You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.”
He lets out a long exhale, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your hair. “Good.”
For the next two hours, Dean helps you unpack. And he doesn’t just clear out a single drawer for you; he completely reorganizes his massive walk-in closet, physically pushing all of his designer suits and hockey gear to one side to give you exactly half of the space. He sets up your skincare on the master bathroom vanity. He clears off the top shelf of the bookcase so you can put your textbooks there.
He doesn’t just make room for you. He completely integrates your life into his, physically and emotionally claiming you with every single sweater he hangs up.
By the time the last bag is unpacked, you are exhausted all over again. Dean pulls back the heavy comforter on the bed and ushers you in, pulling you flush against his chest and entirely burying you in his scent.
As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of cedar and rain in a house full of protective alphas, you realize you have finally found exactly where you belong.
***
The sharp, annoying blare of your phone alarm rips you out of a deep sleep the next morning.
You groan, reaching a hand blindly out from under the heavy comforter to smash the snooze button. The bed is incredibly warm, perfectly molded to your body.
A low, deep chuckle rumbles from the pillow next to you.
“Five more minutes?” Dean asks, his voice thick with morning gravel.
You open your eyes, blinking against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Dean is propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a stupidly fond expression on his face. He is shirtless, the morning light catching the golden dusting of hair across his broad chest.
“I have an eight AM,” you grumble, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “I can’t miss it. I already missed a whole week.”
“I know,” Dean says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m taking you.”
You frown slightly, your sleepy brain trying to catch up. “You don’t have to walk me to class, Dean. I know you’re a political science major. You’re on the other side of campus.”
Dean smirks, a completely devastating look that makes your stomach flip. “Sweetheart, look at your schedule again. We’re in the same Intro to Political Theory lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ve been sitting three rows behind you since September.”
Your eyes widen drastically. “You … you have?”
“Yeah,” Dean says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I always wondered why you smelled like vanilla body spray instead of an actual scent. Now I know.”
He throws the blankets back and hops out of bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness as he walks toward the bathroom. “Come on. Up. I’ll make coffee while you shower.”
Getting ready with Dean is a completely new experience. In your dorm, mornings were a frantic rush of fighting Grace for the mirror and running out the door with a granola bar.
With Dean, everything is slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on you.
He stands behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while you do your makeup, his free hand resting heavily on your hip. When you walk out to the kitchen, he has a travel mug of hot coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel waiting for you.
“Ready?” He asks, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.
“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.
As you step out onto the front porch, you move to sling your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. But before the strap can even touch your arm, Dean’s hand catches it.
“I got it,” he says smoothly, taking the bag from your hand and sliding it onto his own shoulder, right next to his massive hockey backpack.
“Dean, it’s heavy,” you protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry my bag.”
“I’m an alpha, sweetheart,” he smirks, grabbing your free hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Carrying heavy things for my incredibly beautiful mate is literally in my biological job description. Let me spoil you.”
You don’t argue again. You let him pull you down the driveway, a warm, bright feeling blooming in your chest.
Walking across campus with Dean is entirely different this time. You aren’t rushing, you aren’t hiding, and you certainly aren’t invisible.
The campus is buzzing with the morning rush. And almost instantly, people start staring. Dean Di Laurentis, the guy notorious for refusing to commit to anyone, the alpha who supposedly only slept with betas, is walking across the quad holding hands with a girl. And he’s carrying her floral tote bag.
You shrink slightly under the weight of the stares, instinctively moving closer to Dean.
He senses your anxiety immediately. His arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He pushes out a wave of sharp, protective cedar, a clear, biological warning to anyone staring too hard.
“Keep your head up,” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. “You’re with me. Let them look.”
His confidence is infectious. You straighten your spine, leaning into his solid strength, and let the rest of the campus blur into the background.
You reach the massive lecture hall just as the previous class is filing out. Dean guides you through the double doors, leading you down the carpeted stairs toward the middle section.
He stops at a row of empty seats, but he doesn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he drops his backpack onto the floor, places your tote bag gently on the desk, and physically pulls out a chair for you.
“Here,” Dean says softly.
You sit down, completely overwhelmed by his attentiveness. Dean slides into the seat directly next to you, his massive frame making the small university desk look entirely inadequate.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sleek, insulated thermos. He unscrews the top and slides it across the desk toward you.
“What’s this?” You ask, looking at the pale green liquid inside.
“Iced matcha,” Dean says casually, pulling out his notebook. “I noticed you always get one from the campus cafe before this lecture. But since we didn’t have time to stop today, I made it at the house.”
You stare at the drink, completely speechless. He had noticed. He had been watching you closely enough since September to know your exact morning coffee order, and he had taken the time to make it for you before you even woke up.
“Dean,” you whisper, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” he says simply, looking at you with those deep, devoted green eyes. He reaches under the desk, taking your hand and resting it on his muscular thigh, tangling his fingers with yours.
The professor walks in, a stern-looking older beta, and immediately begins writing on the whiteboard. The dull hum of the lecture hall settles as students open their laptops and notebooks.
You try to focus on the lecture. You really do. But it’s nearly impossible when Dean is sitting inches away from you, his thumb slowly, rhythmically stroking the back of your hand under the desk.
About twenty minutes into the class, the professor starts droning on about the philosophical implications of Rousseau’s social contract.
Dean shifts slightly in his seat. Without looking away from the front of the room, he lifts your joined hands from his lap. He turns your hand over, brings your knuckles to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.
A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. You practically stop breathing, your eyes darting to look at him.
Dean is perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the public display of affection. He lowers your hand back to his leg, keeping his fingers tightly laced with yours. A faint, incredibly satisfied smirk plays on his lips.
You look down at your hand resting on his leg. You look at the iced matcha waiting perfectly on your desk. You inhale the rich, heavy scent of cedar and rain that entirely surrounds you, acting as a permanent, invisible shield against the rest of the world.
Your mother was wrong.
Being an omega isn’t a weakness. It isn’t a liability, and it isn’t a biological trap.
It is exactly this. It is feeling completely, undeniably safe. It is being cherished, protected, and adored by an alpha who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.
You shift in your plastic chair, leaning entirely into Dean’s space. You press your shoulder firmly against his massive bicep, nuzzling your face subtly into the crook of his neck to inhale his scent directly from the source.
Dean lets out a low, rumbling purr that completely vibrates through his chest. He wraps his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you flush against him, completely ignoring the professor and the fifty other students in the room.
He drops his head, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.
“I love you,” Dean breathes, the words meant entirely for you, completely lost under the droning voice of the professor.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, meaning it with absolutely every fiber of your newly awakened soul.
Reality had finally begun. And as you sit there, anchored to the alpha you were quite literally born to be with, you realize that your fairytale was going to last a lifetime.
***
The heavy silk of your dress slips over your curves, settling perfectly around your hips. You turn slightly in front of the floor-to-length mirror in the luxury hotel suite, adjusting the thin straps.
It’s been three months since you moved into the hockey house. Three months of waking up completely wrapped in Dean’s scent, of Garrett and Tucker teasing you in the kitchen, of Logan complaining when Dean kisses you too long before practice. Three months of feeling completely, unapologetically alive.
But right now, staring at your reflection, a familiar knot of anxiety is twisting tight in your stomach.
“You’re overthinking.”
Two massive, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a broad, solid chest. Dean rests his chin on top of your head, his green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He is already dressed in his suit — a bespoke, charcoal-grey masterpiece that fits his muscular frame so perfectly it should be illegal.
“I’m not overthinking,” you lie, leaning back into his heat. “I’m just adjusting the zipper.”
Dean smirks, his hands sliding flat over your stomach. “Sweetheart, I can literally feel your heart racing through the bond. And your scent is spiking with anxiety. You smell like sour vanilla.”
You sigh, dropping your hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Dean says softly. He turns you around in his arms, his expression instantly shifting from playful to fiercely devoted. “I told you, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here in this hotel room, order room service, and I can spend the next forty-eight hours ruining that pretty dress. You have absolutely zero obligation to see those people.”
“It’s Jenny’s wedding,” you remind him gently, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket. “She was the only one in my extended family who actually treated me like a person growing up. She snuck me romance novels when my mom confiscated them. She always checked on me when the suppressants made me sick. I’m not going to miss her wedding just because my parents are on the guest list.”
Dean’s jaw ticks, a flash of pure alpha protectiveness darkening his eyes at the mention of your parents. He still hasn’t forgiven them. He likely never will.
“Okay,” Dean says, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips. “But we have a deal. The second they step out of line, the second they make you feel even a fraction of an inch small, I am stepping in. And then we’re leaving. I don’t care if they’re about to cut the cake.”
“Deal,” you smile, the anxiety already melting away under the heavy, grounding weight of his cedar and rain scent. “You look incredibly handsome, by the way.”
Dean grins, his trademark arrogant swagger snapping right back into place. “I know. It’s a burden. But wait until they get a load of you.”
He catches your wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the stunning diamond and sapphire claiming bracelet that hasn’t left your skin since the night in Greenwich. Above it, peeking just over the neckline of your dress, is the dark, permanent scar of his mating bite.
You belong to him. Completely and entirely.
“Let’s go show them what they’re missing,” Dean murmurs.
***
The country club reception hall is beautiful, entirely bathed in warm candlelight and soft floral arrangements. It is also entirely full of betas.
The moment you and Dean step through the double doors, the shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. Betas don’t have the acute, hyper-sensitive olfactory senses of alphas or omegas, but they aren’t entirely blind to biology. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of a fully mated alpha and omega walking into the room creates an undeniable ripple.
Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.
Dean doesn’t falter. He walks with the kind of relaxed, predatory grace that demands the room’s attention, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. He keeps you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle against your spine.
“They’re staring,” you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on the ice sculpture in the center of the room.
“Let them stare,” Dean says smoothly, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to you. “They’ve probably never seen an actual mated couple before. Half of them are probably wondering why their own marriages feel like business transactions compared to this.”
You let out a startled laugh, almost spilling your champagne. “Dean! You can’t say that.”
“I just did,” he smirks, clinking his glass against yours. “Drink up, beautiful. We have a bride to congratulate.”
You spot Jenny near the sweetheart table. She looks radiant in her white gown, laughing with her new husband, a perfectly nice, perfectly average beta named Greg.
When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.
“You made it!” She shrieks, abandoning her husband to practically sprint across the dance floor. She throws her arms around you, squeezing you tight. “I am so happy you’re here. I was so worried your mom was going to convince you to stay in Massachusetts.”
“I don’t really listen to my mom anymore,” you say, pulling back with a bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Jenny.”
“Thank you,” she beams, before her eyes slide to the massive, imposing man standing directly behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in Dean’s sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and the intense, protective way he’s watching the room around you. “Oh my god. Is this …”
“Jenny, this is Dean,” you say, reaching back to grab his hand. “My mate.”
Dean steps forward, offering a charming, devastating smile that completely melts the bride. “Congratulations, Jenny. She talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
“The honor is mine,” Jenny breathes, slightly dazed. She looks at you, her eyes dropping to the mating bite on your neck and the glittering bracelet on your wrist. “Wow. You guys … wow. You look amazing. Both of you. The energy between you two is practically vibrating.”
“It’s a fated thing,” Dean says simply, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping both arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, entirely unashamed of the public display of affection.
You watch the other couples on the dance floor. The beta partners are swaying together, polite and pleasant. There is love there, absolutely. But it lacks the gravity, the desperate, magnetic pull that exists between you and Dean. When Dean touches you, it isn’t just a physical action, it’s a soul-deep reassurance. He doesn’t just hold your hand; he anchors your entire existence.
“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Jenny says softly, her eyes shining with genuine tears. “You deserve the fairytale. I always knew it was real for you.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back into Dean’s solid heat.
“Enjoy the open bar,” Jenny grins, turning back toward her husband. “And brace yourself. Your parents are at table four, and they’ve been glaring holes into the back of your head since you walked in.”
The warmth instantly drains from your face.
Dean feels the spike of cold dread through the bond immediately. His arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, barely audible growl. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your ear. “Want me to go tell them to get lost?”
“No,” you say, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. “No, I’m not hiding. We’re going to get a drink, we’re going to dance, and if they have something to say to me, they can come say it.”
Dean spins you around, a look of pure, blazing pride on his face. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you’re brave.”
He kisses you hard, right in the middle of the ballroom, before leading you toward the bar.
For the next hour, it’s perfect. You drink champagne, you introduce Dean to a few of your nicer aunts and uncles — who are all entirely captivated by his old-money charm and sheer alpha presence — and you dance. When a slow song comes on, Dean pulls you into the center of the floor. He doesn’t leave space between you like the beta couples. He pulls you flush against his body, his hands roaming freely over your back, your hips moving together in perfect, effortless synchronization.
You are laughing at a joke he just whispered in your ear when the music fades into a low hum.
“Having fun?”
The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.
You freeze. Dean immediately stops swaying, his body going rigid as he turns you both to face the edge of the dance floor.
Your mother is standing there, flanked by your father. She is wearing a stiff navy dress, her lips pursed in a thin, deeply disapproving line. Her eyes rake over you, taking in the close proximity of your bodies, the flush on your cheeks, and finally, the heavy claiming mark on your neck.
“Mom. Dad,” you say, your voice perfectly even, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
“I’m surprised you showed up,” your father says bluntly, crossing his arms. “After the stunt you pulled.”
“It’s my cousin’s wedding,” you reply, keeping your chin high. “I wasn’t going to miss it.”
Your mother scoffs, an ugly, condescending sound. She looks directly at Dean. “And I suppose this is the boy you threw away your medication schedule for. The one who convinced you that acting like an animal in heat was somehow romantic.”
Dean lets out a low, vibrating snarl that is so purely alpha it actually makes your father take a physical step back.
“Speak to my mate with respect, or I will have security throw you out of this venue,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously quiet, entirely completely devoid of his usual charm. It is a lethal, unyielding command.
“Excuse me?” Your mother bristles, her face flushing with anger. “This is a family event. You don’t get to dictate-”
“I dictate everything concerning my omega,” Dean cuts her off, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you with his body. “You gave up your right to be called her family the day you decided her biology was an inconvenience. The day you nearly killed her with toxic suppressants.”
“We were trying to protect her future!” Your mother hisses, keeping her voice low to avoid a scene, though several nearby guests are already staring. “She was on track to graduate early. Now she’s probably failing half her classes because she’s too busy playing house with some arrogant frat boy.”
“Actually,” you say, stepping out from behind Dean. The fear is completely gone now. Staring at the bitter, close-minded woman in front of you, you only feel pity. “I have a 4.0 this semester. Because instead of fighting my own body, I’m actually healthy. I’m happy. And Dean isn’t a frat boy. He’s my mate.”
Your mother looks at the diamond and sapphire bracelet on your wrist, her lip curling in disgust. “A temporary chemical bond. He’ll get bored of you the second he graduates and goes back to his rich little alpha circles.”
Dean actually laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.
“Temporary,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting your wrist so the diamonds catch the chandelier light. “My grandfather bought these sapphires in Paris for my grandmother on the night he claimed her. They’ve been in my family for sixty years. And now they belong to her. She is wearing my mark, my family’s legacy, and she has my entire soul in her hands. There is absolutely nothing temporary about this.”
Your parents stare at him, completely silenced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his devotion.
“You don’t understand it because you’re incapable of feeling it,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto your mother’s. “And that’s fine. But you will not stand here and project your miserable, sterile worldview onto my mate. We’re done here.”
Dean turns to you, his expression softening instantly. “Ready to go, baby?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your chest swelling with so much love for him it physically aches.
You don’t look back as Dean leads you off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, and straight to the valet.
***
The silence in the elevator ride up to your hotel suite is heavy, thick with the lingering adrenaline of the confrontation.
Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, his grip on your hand almost painfully firm. His alpha is entirely agitated, the protective instincts pushed into overdrive by the perceived threat to his omega.
The second the suite doors click shut behind you, Dean drops the keycard on the entry table and turns to you.
“I should have ruined them,” Dean snarls, running a hand aggressively through his perfectly styled blonde hair. “I should have completely torn into them. The way she looked at you-”
“Dean,” you say softly, dropping your small clutch onto the table.
You step into his space, sliding your hands up his chest to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. You look up into his dark, storming green eyes.
“You defended me,” you whisper, the words heavy with awe. “You stood in front of my parents, and you defended me. No one has ever done that for me.”
Dean’s breathing hitches. He looks down at you, the blazing anger slowly morphing into a deep, desperate hunger. “I will always defend you. I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone make you feel ashamed of being mine.”
Your omega practically screams in response to his dominance. A hot, slick rush of arousal pools instantly between your thighs. The sheer display of his protective, primal nature has completely short-circuited your brain.
“Show me,” you beg, your voice dropping to a breathy, desperate rasp. You pull on his lapels, forcing him to step closer until your bodies are flush. “Show me I’m yours.”
Dean groans, a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your knees weak.
He grabs you by the hips and physically lifts you off the floor. You let out a startled gasp, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles behind his back.
Dean doesn’t even bother walking to the bedroom. He backs you up two steps, slamming your back against the heavy wooden door of the suite. The impact knocks the breath out of you, completely replaced by his mouth crashing down onto yours.
It is a devastating, bruising kiss. There is no gentleness in it, only raw, desperate possession. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in the soft moans escaping your throat.
“So fucking perfect,” Dean breathes against your mouth, his hands dropping to grip the backs of your thighs.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pitch black, completely feral. He reaches up and grips the neckline of your expensive silk dress.
With one sharp, violent tug, the silk tears down the center, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet entryway.
“Dean!” You gasp, entirely shocked by his aggression, but it only fuels the fire burning in your belly.
“I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growls, shoving the ruined fabric off your shoulders. The dress pools around your waist, leaving you in nothing but a sheer lace bra and a matching thong.
Dean’s eyes rake over your exposed skin, darkening even further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping heavily over the mating mark he left there months ago. You throw your head back, arching your spine off the door as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core.
“You handled them so beautifully, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. “You were so brave. My perfect omega.”
“Take it off,” you plead, your hands frantically tugging at his suit jacket. “Dean, please, I need you. I’m so empty.”
He drops you to your feet, letting your ruined dress fall completely to the floor. You step out of it, entirely focused on him.
Dean rips his suit jacket off, tossing it blindly into the room. He tears at his tie, popping the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt before he completely abandons it, unable to wait. He reaches for his belt, his breathing harsh and ragged as he sheds his slacks and boxers in a matter of seconds.
He stands before you, perfectly cut and entirely hard, the heavy, thick length of his arousal pulsing with demand.
You drop to your knees.
Dean’s breath catches violently in his throat as you look up at him through your lashes. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“Claiming you back,” you whisper.
You reach out, wrapping your small hands around his thick base, and take him completely into your mouth.
Dean roars, his hands instantly flying to tangle in your hair. His head throws back, hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck! God, baby, yes.”
You swallow him as deeply as you can, the sheer size of him stretching your jaw comfortably. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a desperate, greedy rhythm. You want to taste every inch of him. You want to make him lose that perfect, arrogant control.
Dean’s hips begin to buck involuntarily, entirely at your mercy. He grunts with every agonizingly wet pull of your mouth. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he sets a brutal, driving pace.
“I can’t-” Dean gasps, his entire body trembling violently. “Baby, stop. I’m going to finish in your mouth, let me go.”
You don’t listen. You hum against his length, increasing the suction, entirely determined to wreck him.
Dean curses, a filthy, desperate sound. He pulls back roughly, ripping himself from your mouth before he completely loses his mind.
He grabs you under the arms, hauling you to your feet. He spins you around, slamming your chest against the smooth wood of the door.
“You’re a menace,” Dean snarls, his chest heaving as he presses his massive body against your back. “A beautiful, entirely too eager menace.”
He reaches around your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace thong. He rips it down your legs, leaving you completely bare and entirely exposed to him.
“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.
You obey instantly, stepping your feet shoulder-width apart.
Dean reaches down, his fingers completely coated in the slick, wet heat pouring from your core. He doesn’t bother with any preamble; you are already soaked, completely primed and desperate for him.
He aligns his thick, blunt tip against your entrance, leaning forward to bite down sharply on the junction of your shoulder and neck.
As you gasp at the pain, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one brutal, merciless thrust.
You scream his name, your fingernails digging frantically into the wood of the door. The feeling of him completely filling you up, stretching your inner walls taut, is the most intense, overwhelming sensation in the world.
“So fucking tight,” Dean groans, his forehead resting heavily against your back. He stays perfectly still for a moment, letting you adjust to his massive size. “You feel like heaven, baby. You feel so good.”
“Don’t stop,” you sob, throwing your hips back against him, demanding friction. “Dean, please move!”
He chuckles darkly. He grips your hips, holding you firmly in place, and pulls back almost entirely. And then he slams his hips forward, bottoming out with a loud, wet slap of skin.
You completely lose your mind.
Dean sets a punishing, relentless pace. He takes you from behind with pure alpha dominance, entirely feral and completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond. His thrusts are hard and deep, hitting the exact spot inside you that makes your vision white out.
“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a low, rough growl in your ear. “Take all of me. Show me how much you need me.”
“I need you,” you cry, your head thrashing back and forth. “I love you, Dean. Please, please!”
He slides one hand around to your front, finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. He rubs his thumb in a tight, fast circle right over your clit while continuing his brutal assault from behind.
It is entirely too much. The sensory overload snaps the last shred of your control.
“Dean!” You scream, your body bowing violently off the door as a massive, blinding climax rips through you. Your inner walls clench frantically around his length, completely milking him.
Dean snarls, his own control completely shattering. He drives his hips forward in rapid, erratic thrusts, chasing his release.
“Mine,” he roars, burying himself to the hilt as the heavy knot at his base swells, completely locking him inside you.
He unloads deep inside your womb with a devastating, earth-shattering force.
You cry out as his climax hits, the sheer volume of his heat sending you spiraling straight into a second, paralyzing orgasm. You ride the devastating aftershocks together, the physical tie of his knot anchoring you as the mating bond flares brilliantly in your chest, linking your souls in absolute, unshakeable harmony.
For a long time, the only sound in the entryway is your synchronized, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly collapses forward, pressing his sweaty chest entirely against your back. He keeps his heavy arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright as your legs tremble uncontrollably.
“God,” Dean breathes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder blade. “You are going to be the absolute death of me.”
“You started it,” you murmur, turning your head to smile weakly back at him.
Dean chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. His knot slowly begins to recede, allowing him to carefully pull out of you.
He turns you around, catching you immediately as your knees buckle. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing, carrying you down the hall and into the master bedroom.
He drops you gently into the center of the massive king-sized bed, crawling in right beside you. He pulls the heavy duvet up over both of your damp, exhausted bodies, instantly pulling you flush against his chest.
“I’m sorry the wedding was stressful,” Dean murmurs, his thumb stroking a soothing rhythm up and down your bare arm. “I’m sorry they were there.”
“I’m not,” you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.
Dean looks down at you, surprised. “You’re not?”
“No,” you smile, looking up into his devoted green eyes. “Because looking at them tonight, looking at how miserable and bitter they are, it just made me realize how lucky I am. I used to be so afraid of this. I used to think being an omega was a curse.”
You reach up, tracing the strong, sharp line of his jaw.
“But you showed me the truth,” you whisper. “You gave me the fairytale, Dean. I’ll never be afraid again.”
Dean’s expression melts into pure, undeniable adoration. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs.
“I’m just getting started, sweetheart,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly how perfect you are.”
You close your eyes, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of cedar and rain. As you drift off to sleep in the arms of your fated mate, wrapped entirely in his love and protection, you know with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth.
The happily ever after wasn’t just a story. It was finally yours.
***
Five years.
It feels like an entire lifetime ago that you were a terrified college student, choking down pale blue pills and trying to smother the very essence of your soul. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you still marvel at the sheer, impossible trajectory of your life since the day you collapsed on the Briar University quad.
But right now, the house is perfectly, beautifully quiet, and you aren’t thinking about the past at all. You are entirely captivated by the present.
You are sitting in the direct center of the most magnificent nest you have ever built. It takes up the entirety of the massive, custom-made mattress in the master bedroom of the home you and Dean bought just outside of Boston. The nest is a masterpiece of biology and absolute luxury — woven together from Dean’s worn-in college hockey hoodies, the ridiculously expensive cashmere throws Dean’s mother gifts you every Christmas, and the softest silk sheets money can buy.
And resting perfectly against your chest, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, is your daughter.
Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.
You stare down at her tiny, sleeping face, your heart expanding so rapidly in your chest that it actually aches. She is impossibly small, with a full head of soft, spun-gold hair that exactly matches her father’s, and a tiny, perfect button nose. Her little chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful rhythm, and every time she lets out a soft, mewling sigh, your omega instincts absolutely roar with a fierce, all-consuming wave of protective love.
She smells like sweet milk, baby powder, and the undeniable, distinct genetic blend of vanilla and cedar. Your pup. Your perfect, beautiful pup.
The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicks open, the hinges entirely silent because Dean had personally oiled them the day before you went into labor.
You don’t even have to look up. The rich, grounding scent of rain-soaked asphalt and deep cedar immediately floods the room, completely blanketing your senses and making the mating mark on your neck tingle with warmth.
“Hey,” a low, achingly gentle voice whispers.
You look up. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray loaded with a massive spread of food, a pitcher of ice water, and your postnatal vitamins. He is wearing soft grey sweatpants, entirely shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest currently acting as a canvas for the tiny, dark ink of your initial over his heart.
He is twenty-seven now. The cocky, arrogant college playboy has long since matured into a devastatingly handsome, fiercely commanding alpha who runs a massive division of his family’s luxury hotel empire. He wears bespoke suits to the office and commands boardrooms with lethal precision.
But right now, looking at you and Celia, he just looks like a man who has been completely brought to his knees by his own heart.
“You’re awake,” Dean murmurs, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He moves with an incredible, practiced quietness, setting the heavy tray down on the bedside table before turning his full attention to the nest.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, your voice raspy. You brush a gentle finger over Celia’s soft cheek. “I just wanted to watch her.”
Dean’s green eyes soften into pools of pure, liquid devotion. He steps up to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees so he is perfectly at eye level with you and the baby. He doesn’t cross the boundary of the nest yet; even as your mated alpha, his biological respect for your nesting space during the immediate postpartum period is absolute.
“How is she?” Dean asks, his gaze tracing every single line of his daughter’s face as if he is trying to memorize it for the thousandth time today.
“Perfect,” you say, a completely genuine, exhausted smile spreading across your lips. “She ate about an hour ago, and then she just milk-drunk passed out. She hasn’t even fussed.”
“She’s a Di Laurentis,” Dean smirks, reaching out slowly. He rests his massive, calloused hand on the mattress, just inches from where your knee is tucked under the blankets. “She knows how to appreciate a good nap in a luxury bed.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You are completely ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” Dean says, though his smile is wide and painfully bright. He looks up from Celia, his eyes locking onto yours. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Really. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You’re exhausted.”
“I am exhausted,” you admit, the truth of it settling heavily in your bones. The labor had been long, a grueling eighteen hours that tested every ounce of your physical strength. But Dean had been a rock, an immovable anchor holding your hand, pushing his scent into your lungs, and practically growling at any nurse who didn’t move fast enough for his liking. “My body aches. But it’s … it’s a good ache, Dean. It feels like exactly what I was meant to do.”
Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”
Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.
“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”
“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”
He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”
“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”
A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.
“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”
“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”
You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.
“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.
“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”
“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”
“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.
Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.
“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.
He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.
The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.
This is what heaven looks like.
“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.
“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.
He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.
Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.
“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”
You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.
“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”
“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.
A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.
“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.
“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”
Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”
He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.
“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.
Your parents.
You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.
But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.
“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”
Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”
“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”
You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.
“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”
Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”
“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”
Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.
He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.
“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”
He looks down at Celia, then back at you.
“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”
You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.
“I know,” you whisper back.
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.
It is the promise of forever.
When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.
“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”
Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.
You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.
Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.
But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.
You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.
And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.
warnings: whew. gator munch tillman. foot fetish tillman. gator refers to her as a slut. tit worship. stripping. no touch play. outside. hot sexy sweaty sticky.
A day without Gator Tillman.
One where you weren’t pissed at him or one where he wasn’t away… in fact - he was less than 10 minutes from you. You knew it and you swear you could even feel it. As if your heart could connect to the bluetooth of his own, in range and playing a song only the two of you could hear.
And you could still feel his hands on you. His lips traveling down your neck. Your fingertips graze over the slight pink skin that he gave you last night.
Said it was just another early birthday present…
Maybe that was because the fucked up week was closing, and as reluctant as your are about your birthday, you were kinda excited for tomorrow. Victoria was here, and you had a boyfriend - not just any fucking guy either… the guy. Your guy. Your Gator.
The summer sun beat down on the two of you, tanning with no shade in the dryness of North Dakota? It was nearly as good as…
“Im telling you, we need a beach trip!”, Victoria yelled over the Nelly Furtado that enhanced the tanning experience.
You squint over to your best friend, both of you bare naked because who the actual fuck cares? You’re in the middle of nowhere and its nothing you hadn’t seen before.
“You know that I am trying to get clients back right?”
“Yes? What does that have to do with anything?”, Victoria scoffed, upset that you’re already dismissing her idea.
A smile squirmed its way out, “It means that I actually need to be here in order to fill my books…”
“I thought you filled them already?”
“Yeah… with men. And men don’t make appointments and the most I can get out of a cut here is like $35… maybe $40.”
“But they tip good, huh?”
You smirked, “Yeah… ‘specially when I get my acrylics into their hair for the scalp massage.”
“I'm surprised Gator lets you do that.”
“Gator doesn’t fucking let me do anything… this is my business-”
“Well he got you all the male clients…”
“Nope… he got me a couple. Charlie got me the rest.”
“And Charlie issssss?”
“Sid’s boyfriend- or… I don’t know if they’re official, but - her man.”
“Oh, okay… and the one you’re setting me up with is?”
“Wade”
“Okay okay… and I'm meeting him tonight?”
“I mean - maybe? I don’t know, I guess I could get Gator to send him to Ralphs tonight?”
You grabbed the strawberry lemonade between the two of you, taking a big gulp - ice long melted inside the plastic.
Victoria smiled, an evil plan formed in her green eyes, “I like that idea. Don’t plan on me coming home tonight because I need dick.”
The lemonade shot out of your nose and mouth as you laughed, “OH- MY GOD”
Victoria howled out a rumbling laugh, her plan worked. Too fucking easy. Bringing her sunglasses back down over her eyes, she mumbles “You good, babe?”
Sitting up, the lemonade ran down your body and dripped from your chin, “No! Thanks to you! This shit burnt my fucking nose-”. You pull the towel from behind your back and go to drape it across your body to clean the mess, you were laughing but already thinking about the sticky mess you were about to be.
“Girl-”
“What?”
“Send him a pic.”
You looked down at your sweaty, bronzing, lemonade dripping tits that glittered in the sunlight due to the tanning mist you used. Now, you knew you weren’t horrible to look at, but you were still learning exactly how to see yourself in Gator’s eyes. Right now? You see what he sees in you. And Victoria was right - this might just kill him.
“Wait - turn around… don’t look at me-”
“I have been laying next to you naked for thirty minutes and now you’re shy? I- I cant. Im going inside.”
“Wait! Really, V?”
“Girl, I am going to burn - I am too fair for this shit, but you go right ahead miss never fucking burns”, she shot out her tongue in defiance towards you, easing you.
“Your ass is hot!”, you whistle back to her.
Victoria throws up her middle finger at you swaying her hips dramatically for emphasis, which caused you to laugh even more… but then you were alone again.
And then it came on.
Milkshake.
Kelis rang through the yard, and you couldn’t help but glance down - aroused by yourself.
And then you thought of him.
You didn’t mean for your fingers to pass overtop of your hardened nipple. You didn’t mean to lick the tip of your finger that had the remnants of strawberry lemonade on it. And you definitely didn’t mean to begin pulsing around nothing. God… you needed something.
And then you don’t even allow yourself to overthink as you snatch your phone from underneath the lounger, keeping it shaded from the sun. You don’t think as you open up the camera, nor when you angle it down to your dripping tits, nor when you stick your tongue out wide and flat, nor when you press send.
The response? Well it was not surprising when an incoming FaceTime call rang through not even 30 seconds later - which you just as swiftly declined.
Wrong choice, sweetheart.
A few more minutes of the beating sun on your skin and your playlist ‘Cunt Cult Classics’ ringing through the backyard, and then you heard it. Tangled in with ‘Hot in Herre’, you heard the faint sound of an engine growling… coming from? The field behind your yard?
Oh. Oh no.
The field that makes up the country road perimeter of The Tillman Ranch.
Instinctively, you swipe the old ratty Harley tee-shirt of Gators that you were using as a hair shade off of your seat. It slips with a bit of struggle over your head and onto your sticky skin, falling over the curves of your hips.
The sound began ripping louder than the music.
Didn’t take long to see the source as Gator Tillman revs the engine, jolting the dirt bike into sight. Fuck. He was on the complete other side of the stretched out 2 acres yet you could see everything you needed to see - sweaty, shirtless, and clearly hot and bothered.
He climbed off the bike, carelessly letting it fall to the ground - ripping off the helmet, his eyes fall directly on you. Stone cold staring.
You lift your back off the lounger and watch as he begins taking heavy steps in your direction - falling just short of the well maintained grass that he cut just last week. Right at the property line.
“What are you doing?”, you yell out to him from the grassy distance between you.
“You think you’re real funny, don’t ya?”
Your lips flick up in a curve, time to play, “I don’t know what you mean?”
“I was out shooting with some of the deputies. And you send me that.”
You slowly stand to your feet, grab your glass of strawberry lemonade and begin walking across the grass, the blades glide through your toes in your barefoot state. His shirt tickles your thighs. He hasn’t come into your yard.
“Why are you standing back there?”, nodding to the fact that he is standing at the property line.
“Its a ‘no Gator’ day.”, he hasn’t blinked.
“Exactly… boundaries are important, Gator bug.”
“Im respecting your boundary. Im on my property.” He tips his head down to a small row of rocks that create a boundary line, “Put these here years ago.”
“The rocks?”, you questioned with amused curiosity.
“Mhm. Dad told me I had to respect Miss Rosie’s yard.” He mumbled low.
You didn’t realize he knew your landlord like that, “You know her?”
“Shit… she’s known me since I was born. But were not talking about that.” Gator dismissed.
“Then what are we talking about?” You asked teasingly, knowing what is coming.
He pulls out his phone from his pocket, and swipes open to the picture.
“We, baby, are talking about this.”
You glanced down at the phone and quickly looked away, embarrassed but still so very needy. He took a step closer to the rock line.
“No, no. You’re not gonna get all shy now, you started this.”
He towered over you, you glanced up at him through your lashes. You ignored the fire burning inside of you, you were outside - Victoria could walk out any minute. And yet?
You sat down the lemonade.
Your hands slipped over the top of your hips, playing with the hem of the torn up t-shirt. His. Nails grazing your skin, digging in slightly. You took a step back - he leaned in, but stayed on his side. Gators breath began to grow deeper, heavier. His chest heaved, lungs filling itself with whatever intoxicating spell you placed on him.
Slowly, you lifted the shirt up and off your body - throwing it, he caught it without looking.
Your bare frame stood there, untouchable - a tease, always a fucking tease for a girl who’d only had sex twice.
“Holy fuck, baby -”, his eyes roamed your body, desperate for relief, “Fucking goddess.”
“You like?”
“Love. I fucking love. Adore. Worship.”
His head shook slowly, “Can’t believe my perfect girl has just been out here fucking naked, like a fucking slut. You know anyone could’ve seen you?” You could visibly see him struggling not to touch you. There weren’t many things Gator truly loved, but two of the things he did - he couldn’t have right now. You and control.
“What was it, hm? Fucking sweating out here in the heat? Or did ya have to hose yourself down?”
“Don't ya wish you could find out?” You reach down to grab the cup again, taking a messy swig - letting it dribble down in the same pattern as before. His eyes watched the liquid run, run, run right to your peaks and drop down to the tops of your toes.
Gators knees gave out entirely, “Oh fuck.”
His hands rested on your side of the yard. That simply wouldn’t do.
Your foot tucked under his chin, tilting his face up to look at you, “You passed the rocks.”
Before you could react, his hand clasped your ankle. His tongue instantly running across your toes, licking up the drops of strawberry lemonade.
“Holy shit, Gate!”
“Your mamaws recipe. My favorite.”
He continued to lick the sticky substance from your toes, giving open mouthed kisses over the tips - finally giving in to his desire, he opened his mouth.
You didn’t even know how to respond, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to - Gator Tillman under your control? On his knees for you? Fucking worshipping you at your feet? On your feet?
The softness of his tongue ran on the underside of your big toe before he closed his mouth down around it, hallowing out his cheeks. The sight nearly undid you right there and then.
“Fuck, Gator! What- Gator I am barefoot!”
“Yeah, for fucking once-”, he muffled out, too preoccupied, “always in those fucking heels, I fucking swear, woman. The things these feet do to me - finally gonna show you exactly what you put me through”
His teeth sunk down into the arch of your foot, making you gasp sharply and release a low moan, “Holy fuck - Baby! What the fuck are you doing to me… holy shit-”
“Feels good, Mama?”
“Like sin.”
His tongue ran across the length of your sole, teeth grazing at your little toes, eyes locked on how your body is reacting. He would have to be blind to miss the way your pussy was on full display with your foot propped in his hand. And Gator was mesmerized, your cunt shining from your slick. He hadn’t had you in a week, and after all the fighting, the sleepless nights, and the entirety of yesterday - God, he needed you in every single fucking way.
His mouth filled itself with your freshly pedicured toes, his hand finding your other - not wanting it to feel left out.
Your thighs began to tremble. You couldn’t tell if it was from standing on one foot for this long or if it was from the outright worship you were receiving. All you knew is that Gator knew. He shifted, sitting on his heels now - his large calloused hands grab at your ass, literally sweeping you off your feet and setting you down onto the grass bare naked.
He tapped your ankle and gave a flicking motion, commanding you to open your thighs for him. He needed an unobstructed view of his reward for being such a good obedient boy.
“You know I've stayed on my side…”
“What about it?”
“I’ve been good.”
“You still came over, when I explicitly told you I needed a day-”
“And yet, you were the one who walked up to me.”
He cocked his eyebrow up to you, cocky grin growing - he knew. He knew the truth. The truth was you needed him just as much as he needed you.
Slowly, you separated your legs - exposing yourself entirely to him. He squinted, eyes glued to your core.
“Holy shit, princess - you’re right, I am a fucking dog. Pickin’ up your scent from here.”
He lowered himself down, low to the earth and crawled on his knees and forearms across the rocks that marked your property line. The rocks scratched through his happy trail and brushed against his hard denim covered cock, an aggressive relief.
He was about to lose his mind.
Gator planted his elbows in between your thighs, locking them opened.
You whined out as he hovered over your dripping cunt, “Baby, please-”
“Please what?”
“Please - please me”
His eyes shifted from your pussy to your eyes, smirk dropping, “Say my name when you beg like that. Let me hear exactly who you’re asking for.”
Your breath hitches, chest heaving up and down.
“Gator, please fuck me-”, you body so pent up and needy, back arched and bottom lip trembling.
“No.”
Your eyes shot open to argue, but his mouth was on your cunt - causing the words to die on your tongue and replace it with a string of high pitch moans that filled the yard. Music to his ears. He let out a low vibrating groan against your core in response to your responsiveness. God, you wrecked him. He knew it and he was proud walking to the slaughter.
“But I said please!”
He pulled himself up to your face, placing an elbow by your face, “And you put me through hell for a whole fucking week and I treat you like a motherfuckin’ queen despite it all, so I will decide when you’ve had enough. For now, you’re going to learn patience.”
Before you could protest, he slid his hand down right on top of your pussy - which unfortunately for you, made your hips buck up into him for more friction. His fingers pulled back and smacked your cunt in punishment, pulling a scream out of your lungs.
“What did I just say? Learn. Patience. I have been so fucking patient for you, for years, in fact. And now… its your turn.”
His face returned back to your cunt, sucking you in completely with hallowed cheeks, tongue flicking up to your clit and lapping at it. Your back arched up and your hands flew to his hair, which thankfully was loose and windblown. Your nails scratched at his scalp, tugging at the root - causing a growl to rumble out of his chest and vibrate against your skin. The feeling was over whelming. Your thighs clenched aground his head, and his arms wrapped underneath your thighs and he grasped ahold of each of his own forearms, locking you in place. One hand remained in his hair as the other traveled over all his exposed skin, biceps, forearms, back back back back fuck. Holy shit, his back. You could see the dips right above his waistband. You could see his shoulder blades, crafted by God.
You could feel the burn inside of you, he knew it too.
Hips bucking into his mouth, back not even touching the grass anymore - speaking of grass, you had ripped out all the blades within reach, just trying to fight the stimulation. Whines rolled out of your mouth, curses, cries, and mostly his name.
“Gator! Baby! Fuck - baby, I’m gonna cum!”
He released you, mouth off your soaked core. He pulled himself back up, taking both of your tits in just one hand, squeezing them at the base causing them to swell in his face.
“Time to taste what I came for-”, he reached next to you, you were so wrecked from your assassinated orgasm that you didn’t even notice him grabbing the strawberry lemonade.
The cold liquid poured out onto your tits, spilling all over your body - and his mouth reconnected. His lips secured themself around one of your nipples, moaning onto your skin as he tasted the tangy lemonade mixed with your sweaty skin. Absolute perfection.
Chilled from the lemonade, you were at the brink once again - so close to your orgasm. You couldn’t help it as your hand shifted down, circling overtop of your clit as Gator hooked your other nipple in his teeth, pulling slightly.
You weren’t being very patient, were you?
It came fast and hard. You pulled back your hand in hopes you weren’t caught bringing yourself to the selfish finish you craved, as your body shook in release. A string of whimpers chased from your tongue as Gator captured your mouth with his own, holding your face in place to lock the kiss.
As soon as you were able to move, you shoved him up and back - ready to finally get the full relief you needed, and you knew he did too by the look of his pants.
But he swiftly stood, and stepped back over the rocks, “Enjoy your ‘no-gator’ day baby.” And with that, he turned and picked up his dirt bike. He winced as he climbed onto the bike, uncomfortable with his painfully hard cock remaining untouched. He watched you as he lowered the helmet on his head. You sat there in shock… awe, pain, disparity. The bike roared to life and he ripped through the dirt, and suddenly - out of sight.
Between the devilish orgasm and the strawberry lemonade poured all over your body, you really were a sticky mess.
Summary: your picket sign says MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. Garrett’s nose says otherwise. You’re Boston University’s loudest omega-rights activist, three years deep into a thesis that biology is a leash, not a law. Then Briar’s captain scents you across a hockey rink, levels your brother in the process, and decides the rest is just a matter of time. What follows is a war fought in courting gifts and stubborn silences … and a slow, infuriating realization that being chosen doesn’t have to mean losing yourself
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The pungent scent of nail polish remover and cheap vanilla air freshener fills the small space of your Boston University dorm room.
You sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of poster board and permanent markers. You uncap a thick red Sharpie and lean over your current masterpiece.
“I just don’t understand why society still expects us to roll over and expose our necks the second some guy puffs out his chest,” you say, aggressively dotting the ‘i’ on your poster.
Your roommate, Jackie, sighs from her spot on the ratty futon. She’s meticulously painting her nails a violent shade of crimson, her knees pulled up to her chest. “Because biology is a bitch, and alphas smell good. It’s not that deep, babe.”
“It is that deep, Jackie,” you argue, sitting back on your heels to admire your work. The sign reads MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. “That’s literally the entire point of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy.”
“O.M.E.G.A. is a mouthful,” she mutters, blowing gently on her left hand.
“It’s an acronym,” you correct her, tossing the red marker aside and picking up a black one. “And we have a meeting tomorrow night. You should come. We’re discussing the systematic dismantling of second-gender workplace bias, specifically in corporate leadership.”
“Sounds like a rager. Can’t wait.” Jackie rolls her eyes, though she’s smiling. “You know, for an Omega Studies and Sexuality major, you spend a lot of time completely denying your own instincts.”
“I am not denying my instincts. I am refusing to be ruled by them,” you say firmly. You grab your BU Terriers hoodie off the floor and pull it over your head. “I refuse to be a stereotype. I’m a sophomore in college. I want a career. I don’t want to be locked in a penthouse somewhere popping out pups for an arrogant, territorial alpha who treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain.”
“Hey, if some rich alpha wants to lock me in a penthouse and pay off my student loans, I am not fighting it,” Jackie teases.
“You’re impossible.” You laugh, zipping up your canvas tote bag. You love BU, and you love your major — even if your parents think it’s a colossal waste of tuition. You are fiercely independent. The whole concept of a destined mate makes you want to gag. You don’t need protection. You don’t need a provider. You just need people to treat you with basic human respect.
“Are you still coming to the game tonight?” You ask, checking your phone.
“To watch your brother get demolished by Briar University? Absolutely.” Jackie carefully caps her nail polish. “The Hawks are basically walking wet dreams on ice skates. Have you seen their captain? Garrett Graham?”
“I don’t care what he looks like. He’s an alpha, which means he’s probably an arrogant Neanderthal.”
“A hot, arrogant Neanderthal,” Jackie corrects. “Seriously, your brother is a decent third-line center, but Briar is number one in the country right now. It’s going to be a bloodbath. Graham is merciless.”
“He’s my brother. I have to support him.” You shove your phone into your pocket. “Plus, he promised me he’d take me out for pizza after the game. I am holding him to that, even if he’s bruised.”
“Assuming he survives,” Jackie says, grabbing her jacket. “Come on. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to get stuck sitting behind the glass where all the obnoxious frat alphas bang on the plastic.”
***
Garrett stares at the glowing screen of his phone, the white text bubbles burning into his retinas.
Don’t embarrass me tonight. Scouts are watching. Play like a man, not a bitch.
That’s it. That’s the pre-game motivational text from his father. Phil Graham, NHL legend, all-star defenseman, and world-class piece of shit.
Garrett locks the phone, the screen going black, and throws it roughly into his duffel bag. He leans forward on the wooden bench of the visitor’s locker room at the BU arena, resting his elbows on his knees. He runs a heavy hand over his face, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of tape wax, sweat, and the chill of the ice rink.
This is his sanctuary. The ice. Briar. His team. Out here, Phil can’t touch him.
“You good, G?”
Garrett looks up. Logan is standing there, leaning his weight casually on his expensive composite hockey stick, his dark eyebrows raised. Logan is his best friend, his right-hand man, a fellow alpha, and the only person on earth who knows exactly what kind of monster Phil Graham really is behind closed doors.
“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice rough. He clears his throat and forces the trademark cocky captain smirk onto his face. The mask falls into place easily. “Just thinking about how bad we’re gonna crush BU tonight in their own barn.”
“That’s the spirit,” Dean calls out from three stalls down. He is tossing a roll of white athletic tape in the air and catching it flawlessly. “I hear they have a weak defense. I’m planning on scoring at least a hat trick so I can impress those bunnies I saw waiting by the tunnel.”
“You literally couldn’t score a hat trick if the goalie was blindfolded and facing the wrong way, Dean,” Tucker says mildly. Tucker is adjusting his shoulder pads, his southern drawl cutting through the locker room noise.
“Fuck you, Tuck. My wrister is lethal, and you know it.”
Garrett chuckles, the lingering tension in his shoulders bleeding out. These guys are his brothers. The family he chose.
He turns his attention down to his skates, his mind drifting back to his mom as he pulls the laces tight. She was a beta. Soft-spoken, kind, with a warm laugh that used to fill their massive, empty house before the lung cancer took her away. Before she got sick, Phil had been an overbearing, traditional alpha. But behind closed doors, he was abusive. The yelling. The shattered plates. The bruises she tried so hard to hide with concealer.
Garrett had been too small, too young to stop it back then. By the time his own alpha presentation hit, flooding his system with the strength and size he needed to fight back, she was already gone. And the abuse turned fully onto him. Verbal. Physical. Every failure on the ice punished.
He shakes his head, forcefully clearing the dark memories. He made a promise to himself a long time ago. When he found his omega, she would never know a single day of fear. He’d be a traditional alpha in the best sense of the word. A protector. A provider. He would spoil her rotten and treat her like a princess.
“Alright, boys,” Garrett says, his voice booming. He stands up, his massive frame towering in the room. The locker room goes instantly quiet, all eyes turning to their captain. “Listen up. BU thinks they have home-ice advantage tonight. Let’s show them they don’t own shit. We play fast, we play hard, we don’t let them breathe in the neutral zone. We hit them hard and we keep hitting.”
“Hell yeah,” Logan says, slamming his stick against the floor.
“Let’s go!” Dean yells.
The chorus of shouts and barking echoes off the concrete walls as the Briar Hawks file out of the locker room, their skates clattering against the rubber mats as they head for the tunnel.
Garrett takes a deep breath, letting his alpha instincts rise to the surface. He’s ready for war.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening.
The smell of popcorn, stale beer, and the heavy, musky scent of overexcited alphas in the crowd presses in on you from all sides. You wrinkle your nose, instantly regretting your decision not to apply a scent blocker to your pulse points before leaving the dorm.
“This is exactly why I hate hockey games!” You yell over the roar of the crowd, leaning close to Jackie. She is sitting next to you, a giant red foam finger on her hand, practically vibrating with excitement.
“What? I can’t hear you over the sound of my own ovulation!” Jackie yells back, pointing frantically down at the ice. “Look at them! Look at Briar’s captain! Number 44! Oh my god, he’s massive.”
You roll your eyes, groaning, but let your gaze follow her pointing finger anyway.
Garrett Graham.
He’s big. Even under the bulky pads, you can tell he’s built like an absolute tank. He skates with a terrifying, aggressive fluidity. A natural predator on the ice. He stops abruptly at the blue line, sending a spray of crushed ice into the air, and rips his helmet off for a second to run a thick, gloved hand through his messy, sweat-dampened dark hair.
Okay, objectively? The man is gorgeous. Jawline carved from marble, broad shoulders, arrogant smirk.
Subjectively? He’s everything you despise. The alpha posturing. The aggressive chest-puffing. The way the crowd roars for him just because he exists.
“He’s just a guy playing a game,” you say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“He is a literal god,” Jackie counters, fanning herself with a game program. “Oh look, your brother’s line is going out for the shift.”
You lean forward, your focus immediately shifting away from the Briar captain. Your brother skates out to the center circle. It’s midway through the first period, and the energy in the building is already chaotic.
“Come on,” you whisper, clutching the cold edge of your plastic seat. “Win this face-off.”
***
Third period. Ten minutes left on the clock. The score is tied 2-2.
Garrett skates slowly to the center dot, his chest heaving. His muscles are burning — a good, familiar burn. He feels alive. He feels utterly dominant. He already has one goal and an assist under his belt tonight, but he wants the game-winner.
He coasts to a stop, the steel blades of his skates biting sharply into the ice.
The BU center skates up to the dot opposite him. Some sophomore kid. Number 13. Garrett doesn’t even know his name. He just knows the kid is a third-liner trying to punch above his weight class.
Garrett bends his knees, resting the blade of his stick on the ice, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
He takes a deep, grounding breath through his nose, pulling in the icy air to cool his burning lungs.
And then it hits him.
It’s not just a scent. It’s a violent explosion in his brain.
Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And a sharp, wild hit of sweet jasmine.
It bypasses every logical thought process in his mind and hooks directly into his brainstem. His alpha instantly roars to life, clawing desperately at the inside of his skull.
Omega.
My omega.
Garrett freezes. His pupils blow wide, consuming his irises. His vision tunnels, the edges of the brightly lit arena blurring into darkness. The deafening roar of the BU crowd fades into absolute, dead silence in his ears.
He breathes in again, harder this time. The scent is intoxicating. It’s the most incredible thing he’s ever smelled in his entire life. It makes his blood run boiling hot, his heart slamming against his ribcage like a sledgehammer trying to break out.
He snaps his head up, his neck cracking, looking around wildly. Where is she? Where is his mate?
But the scent isn’t coming from the stands behind the glass.
It’s coming from directly in front of him.
Garrett’s crazed gaze snaps down to the BU center. Number 13. The kid is an alpha — Garrett can smell the faint, bitter undertone of male alpha hormones — but it’s completely smothered, drowned out by the sweet, overwhelming scent of Garrett’s omega.
The realization hits him like a freight train to the chest.
This alpha has his omega’s scent on him.
Not just a passing brush in a hallway. The scent is deep. It’s lingering. It’s embedded in the fabric of his jersey, soaked into his skin. This alpha has been touching her. Holding her.
Mine.
A low, guttural snarl rips from Garrett’s throat. It doesn’t even sound human. It sounds like a wild animal cornered in a cage.
The BU center looks up from the ice, his eyes widening in confusion. “What the-”
Garrett doesn’t think. He doesn’t process. The rational, calculating captain of the Briar Hawks vanishes in an instant, replaced entirely by a feral, territorial alpha staring at a direct threat to what is his.
“Why do you smell like her?” Garrett growls, his voice vibrating with absolute venom.
“Excuse me?” the BU player says, gripping his stick tighter, stepping back slightly at the sheer hostility rolling off the Briar captain.
“Why. Do. You. Smell. Like. My. Omega.”
Before the kid can even open his mouth to answer, Garrett snaps.
He drops his expensive stick onto the ice. His heavy, padded gloves shoot out, grabbing the front of the BU center’s jersey and twisting the fabric tight into his fists. With a violent, explosive shove, Garrett slams the guy backward off his skates.
The kid hits the ice hard.
The referee’s whistle blows shrilly, piercing the air.
Garrett doesn’t hear it. He falls on top of the guy, his heavy fist pulling back and coming down. Hard.
The BU player’s helmet flies off, skittering across the ice.
“Don’t touch her!” Garrett roars, his vision completely red. He lands another brutal punch to the guy’s jaw. “Don’t you ever fucking touch her!”
“Graham! What the fuck!”
Hands are suddenly grabbing at his jersey. Pulling at his shoulder pads.
“Get off me!” Garrett thrashes wildly, throwing an elbow blindly backward to shake off the hands. He needs to get back to the alpha beneath him. He needs to obliterate this guy. He needs to erase him from existence for daring to lay hands on his destined mate.
“Garrett, stop! Stop!”
It’s Logan’s voice, shouting directly in his ear. Logan has his massive arms wrapped securely around Garrett’s chest, hauling him backward with pure, desperate alpha strength.
Dean is there a second later, grabbing Garrett’s right arm, while Tucker grabs his left. Two referees are swarming the pile, one of them throwing himself over the bleeding BU player to shield him.
“Let me go!” Garrett snarls, his fangs fully descended, his chest heaving violently. He fights against his own teammates, his boots scrambling frantically for purchase on the slick ice to launch himself forward again.
“Garrett, snap the fuck out of it!” Logan yells, shoving him forcefully back against the glass boards. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re going to get suspended!”
Garrett blinks, panting heavily, his breath pluming in the cold air. His knuckles ache. The thick, red haze of pure, instinctual rage slowly starts to recede, leaving behind a frantic, clawing panic in his chest.
“He smells like her,” Garrett gasps out, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes dart frantically toward the BU bench where the athletic trainers are dragging number 13 off the ice. “Logan, he smells like my mate.”
Logan stares at him, his face pale under his visor. “What?”
“My omega,” Garrett says, his voice breaking with sheer desperation. “He had her scent on him.”
***
You are on your feet, your hands clamped tightly over your mouth in absolute horror.
It happened so fast. One second, your brother was lining up for the face-off. The next, Garrett Graham had morphed into a literal monster, tackling him to the ice and wailing on him like a madman.
The entire arena is in an absolute uproar. Boos, screams, and curses echo off the vaulted rafters.
“Oh my god,” Jackie gasps beside you, her foam finger forgotten on the floor. “What just happened? Was that a dirty hit? I didn’t even see a hit!”
“He just attacked him!” You yell, your voice shrill with panic. “He didn’t even do anything! He just stood there!”
You watch, trembling violently, as three Briar players have to physically drag their captain away from your brother. Graham looks insane. He’s fighting them, screaming something you can’t hear over the deafening noise of the crowd. His face is twisted in a mask of pure rage.
That’s your brother on the ice. Bleeding.
“I have to go,” you say, grabbing your tote bag and shoving past Jackie.
“Wait, Y/N, you can’t go down there! Security won’t let you!”
“He’s my brother, Jackie! He might be seriously hurt!”
You squeeze past the knees of the people in your row, ignoring their annoyed grunts and spilled beer. You practically run down the steep concrete steps of the bleachers. Your heart is lodged in your throat, beating a frantic rhythm against your windpipe.
This is exactly what you preach against. This is exactly the kind of volatile, dangerous alpha behavior that society constantly excuses because ‘biology made them do it.’ Garrett Graham is a brute. An animal. He is everything wrong with the system.
You reach the bottom of the stairs and sprint toward the restricted tunnel that leads to the locker rooms and the medical bay. A large security guard steps into your path, holding up a hand.
“Miss, you can’t be down here. Authorized personnel only.”
“My brother is the player who just got attacked!” You say, your voice cracking with emotion. “Number 13! Please, I need to make sure he’s okay!”
The guard softens slightly, checking the radio clipped to his shoulder. He sighs. “Alright. Just stay close to the wall and don’t get in the medics’ way.”
“Thank you!”
You hurry down the dimly lit concrete hallway. You can hear the muffled shouting from the ice above you, the angry roar of the BU crowd.
You hate him. You absolutely despise Garrett Graham. You don’t even know the man, but you hate everything he stands for. He thinks he can just do
whatever he wants, hurt whoever he wants, because he’s a star alpha? Because he wears the captain’s C on his jersey?
You’re going to make sure he faces consequences. You’re going to take O.M.E.G.A. and start a campus-wide protest if the league doesn’t suspend him.
You turn the corner, rushing toward the BU medical room, completely unaware of the intoxicating scent you’re leaving behind in the cramped hallway.
Sweet vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild jasmine.
***
The concrete walls of the tunnel blur as Logan and Tucker practically drag Garrett away from the ice. The deafening roar of the BU crowd slowly muffles behind the thick, soundproof doors, but the pounding in Garrett’s skull is louder than any arena.
He’s fighting them every step of the way. His skates catch and drag on the rubber floor mats.
“Get your hands off me!” Garrett snarls, thrashing his shoulders. “I have to go back out there!”
“You’re not going anywhere near that ice, G!” Logan barks, his grip tightening on the collar of Garrett’s jersey. “You’re done for the night. You’re lucky if you’re not done for the season!”
“You don’t understand!” Garrett shoves Tucker hard enough that the defenseman stumbles against the cinderblock wall. Garrett spins around, chest heaving, his alpha fully dialed up to a ten. His fangs are still descended, pressing sharply against his bottom lip. “He had her scent on him. The BU center. He smelled like my mate.”
Tucker recovers his balance, his easygoing southern expression completely wiped away, replaced by deep concern. “Garrett, man, you’re not thinking straight. You don’t even have a mate.”
“I do now!” Garrett roars.
And then, he smells it.
It hits him like a physical blow to the sternum. The scent isn’t buried under sweat and masculine alpha pheromones this time. It’s pure. It’s fresh. It’s hanging heavy and sweet in the stagnant air of the restricted hallway.
Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild, intoxicating jasmine.
Garrett freezes. The violent thrashing stops instantly. His pupils dilate so fast his vision swims.
“She’s here,” he whispers, his voice trembling.
He inhales deeply, his chest expanding as he tries to pull every single molecule of her scent into his lungs. It’s coming from further down the corridor. Toward the medical bay.
She was just here. She walked right through this hallway.
“Oh, fuck no,” Logan says, seeing the terrifying, predatory shift in his best friend’s eyes. “Don’t you even think about it.”
But Garrett is already moving. He rips himself out of Logan’s grasp with a violent surge of adrenaline, his heavy hockey skates clattering awkwardly against the floor as he lunges down the hallway.
“Mine,” he growls, the word tearing from his throat. He needs to find her. He needs to see her. He needs to wrap her up and hide her away from every other alpha on the planet, especially the one currently bleeding on the ice.
“Grab him!” Logan shouts.
Before Garrett can make it ten feet, a heavy weight slams into his back. Tucker tackles him around the waist, taking them both down to the rubber matting. Garrett hits the floor hard, his elbow pads taking the brunt of the impact. He roars, twisting like a feral animal, throwing an elbow back to dislodge Tucker.
“Graham! Stop!”
Smitty, the Briar Hawks’ head athletic trainer, comes sprinting down the hall, his medical kit swinging wildly from his shoulder. He takes one look at the chaotic pile on the floor — Garrett snarling and clawing at the floorboards to crawl forward, Tucker desperately holding him back, and Logan diving in to pin Garrett’s shoulders — and instantly knows what’s happening.
“Hold him down!” Smitty orders, dropping to his knees beside the pile. He rips open his medical kit, his hands moving with practiced, frantic speed. “He’s scent-drunk. He’s totally lost in an alpha drop.”
“She’s down there!” Garrett screams, his voice cracking with pure, agonizing desperation. “Let me go! She’s my omega! I have to get to her!”
“Keep his head still, Logan!”
Logan wraps his thick arms around Garrett’s chest and neck, locking him in a wrestling hold. “I got him. Hurry up, Smitty. He’s strong as shit right now.”
Smitty tears open a sterile foil packet with his teeth. Inside are three heavy-duty scent blocker patches — industrial strength, the kind usually reserved for alphas who go into uncontrollable rut in public spaces.
Garrett realizes what they are doing a second too late.
“No!” He thrashes violently. “No, don’t! I need to smell her! Don’t take her away from me!”
It’s heartbreaking. The raw, unfiltered panic in his voice makes Logan wince, but he holds firm.
Smitty slaps the first cold, gel-lined patch directly over the scent gland on the right side of Garrett’s neck. He presses it down hard. He rips open a second packet and slaps it onto the left side. Then he grabs Garrett’s bare wrist, right where his glove ends, and slaps a third one over his pulse point.
The reaction is almost instantaneous.
The heavy, pharmaceutical chemicals in the patches flood Garrett’s system, aggressively suppressing his olfactory receptors and numbing the frantic misfiring of his alpha hormones.
The sweet, beautiful scent of vanilla and jasmine vanishes.
It’s like someone turned off the sun. The world goes cold, gray, and completely empty.
Garrett stops fighting. The adrenaline drains out of him so fast he feels physically sick. His head slumps back against Logan’s arm, his breathing ragged and shallow. He stares blankly at the ceiling, a hollow, agonizing ache carving itself out in the center of his chest.
She’s gone. He can’t feel her anymore.
“You good, G?” Logan asks quietly, cautiously loosening his grip.
Garrett doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes, a single tear slipping out and tracking through the sweat and grime on his cheek.
“Get his gear off,” Smitty says gruffly, standing up and brushing off his khakis. “I want him in street clothes and on the team bus in five minutes. He’s going straight back to campus. He does not pass go, he does not collect two hundred dollars. Do not let him take those patches off until tomorrow morning.”
“What about the game?” Tucker asks, climbing off Garrett’s legs and offering a hand down to help him up.
“The game is over for him,” Smitty says flatly. “And if the league reviews that footage, his season might be over, too.”
***
You sit on the edge of the vinyl exam table in the BU medical bay, your leg bouncing a mile a minute. You are chewing furiously on your thumbnail, your eyes locked on the doctor shining a penlight into your brother’s eyes.
“Follow the light, please. Good. Now the other side.”
Your brother sits there, looking miserable. His bottom lip is split wide open, swollen to the size of a grape. There’s a nasty, purple bruise already blooming over his left cheekbone, and he’s holding an ice pack against his jaw.
“He’s lucky,” the doctor finally says, turning off the penlight and stepping back. “No concussion. Just some deep contusions and a busted lip. He’ll need a few days off the ice, but structurally, his jaw is fine.”
“Fine?” You snap, sliding off the table. “He got mauled by a rabid animal in front of five thousand people! He’s not fine!”
“Y/N, calm down,” your brother mutters, wincing as the movement pulls his split lip. “It’s hockey. Fights happen.”
“That wasn’t a fight!” You yell, throwing your hands in the air. “He jumped you! You didn’t even drop your gloves! He just snapped and attacked you for absolutely no reason!”
“Actually,” your brother says slowly, lowering the ice pack. He frowns, looking confused. “He was screaming at me.”
“Yeah, because he’s an unhinged, steroid-pumped Neanderthal.”
“No, he … he was screaming about his omega.” Your brother looks at you, his brow furrowed. “He kept asking why I smelled like his omega.”
You freeze. The anger bubbling in your chest hits a sudden, strange roadblock. “His … what?”
“His omega. He said I had her scent on me.” Your brother shakes his head, wincing again. “I don’t even know what he was talking about. I haven’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. And I definitely haven’t been near any Briar girls.”
A cold, uneasy prickle washes over the back of your neck. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very exposed in the sterile room.
“It’s just alpha bullshit,” you say quickly, forcing a dismissive scoff. “He was trying to justify his violent behavior by blaming it on his biology. It’s the oldest excuse in the book. ‘My instincts made me do it.’ It’s pathetic.”
“Maybe,” he says softly. “But he looked … terrified. And pissed. Like I had actually taken something from him.”
“Well, he’s delusional,” you state firmly. You grab your tote bag from the chair. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m filing a complaint with the athletic commission tomorrow. O.M.E.G.A. is not going to let this slide. We are going to make an example out of Garrett Graham.”
***
The off-campus house is usually a hub of noise, video games, and chaotic energy. Tonight, it feels like a morgue.
Garrett has been pacing the length of the living room hardwood floor for two hours straight. Back and forth. Window to kitchen island. Kitchen island to window.
He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt, his hair wet from the shower he was forced to take. The three medical patches are still stark and ugly against his skin. They make his head feel thick and fuzzy, like his brain is wrapped in cotton. He feels nauseous. He feels disconnected from his own body.
But beneath the heavy chemical blanket of the blockers, his alpha is still screaming. Pacing its cage. Clawing at the walls.
Mate. Omega. Where is she? Find her.
Logan sits on one of the leather barstools at the island, nursing a beer. Dean is sprawled on the sectional sofa, silently tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it. Tucker is sitting at the dining table, his laptop open, the screen illuminating his face in the dim room.
“You gotta sit down, G,” Logan says quietly. “You’re wearing a trench in the floorboards.”
“I can’t,” Garrett grates out, running both hands harshly through his damp hair. “I can’t sit still. I feel like I’m going to jump out of my own skin.”
“The blockers are messing with your equilibrium,” Tucker chimes in without looking up from his screen. “Smitty said to give it time.”
“Fuck Smitty. Fuck the blockers.” Garrett stops pacing and grips the edge of the granite countertop, his knuckles turning white. He looks at Logan, his blue eyes bloodshot and wide with manic energy. “You don’t understand what it felt like, Logie. It was … it was her. I know it was her. My chest physically hurts right now. Like I’m missing a vital organ.”
Logan sighs, setting his beer down. “I believe you, man. I do. But you can’t go feral on the ice. You beat the shit out of a guy for existing in the same airspace as your supposed mate.”
“He had her scent all over him!” Garrett snaps, a low growl rumbling in his chest despite the patches. “It wasn’t just in the air. It was on his skin. On his jersey. He touched her.”
“Okay, so let’s use our heads,” Dean says, catching the tennis ball and sitting up. “If this guy had her scent on him, that means he knows her. He’s been close to her. Which means he’s our only lead.”
Garrett’s head snaps toward Dean. “What?”
“Dean’s right,” Tucker says, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “If we want to find this girl, we start with the guy you used as a punching bag.”
Garrett abandons the counter and marches over to the dining table, pulling up a chair and leaning over Tucker’s shoulder. Logan and Dean follow suit, the four alphas crowding around the glowing screen.
“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, his voice tight.
“I pulled up the BU athletics roster,” Tucker explains, clicking a few links. “The guy you fought was number 13. Here he is. Center. Sophomore. Hometown is just outside of Boston.”
“Pull up his social media,” Logan orders.
Tucker nods, opening a new tab and typing the kid’s name into Instagram. His profile pops up immediately. It’s public.
Garrett stares at the screen, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache. He hates looking at this guy’s face. His alpha demands he smash the laptop, but he forces himself to breathe. He needs the information.
Tucker scrolls through the feed. Lots of hockey pictures. Pictures with his buddies at parties. Pictures of a golden retriever.
“Look for girls,” Dean says eagerly. “Any girlfriends? Exes? Fling?”
Tucker clicks on a photo from a few months ago. The BU center has his arm thrown around a pretty blonde girl. “Maybe this is her?”
“No,” Garrett says immediately, pointing at the screen. “That’s a beta. I can tell just by looking at her. My mate is an omega. A strong one.”
“How the hell can you tell from a picture?” Dean scoffs.
“I just can,” Garrett snaps. “Keep scrolling.”
Tucker scrolls further back. “Okay, let’s look at tagged photos. Family events. Holidays.”
He clicks on a photo from what looks like a high school graduation a couple of years ago. The BU center is standing in a cap and gown, smiling brightly. Standing next to him is a girl.
You have a radiant smile, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist in a clear display of affection. You’re beautiful. Strikingly beautiful.
Garrett’s breath hitches in his throat. Even through the heavy, suffocating fog of the scent blockers, a jolt of pure electricity shoots straight down his spine. His heart stutters, then slams into a frantic, double-time rhythm.
“Stop,” Garrett whispers.
Tucker pauses the mouse cursor.
“Who is that?” Garrett asks, his voice suddenly hoarse. He leans closer to the screen, his eyes hungrily tracing the lines of your face. The curve of your cheek. The spark in your eyes.
Tucker clicks on the tag hovering over your face. It opens your profile in a small popup window.
Sophomore @ BU. Omega Studies & Sexuality. President of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy (O.M.E.G.A).
A heavy silence falls over the dining table.
“Oh, no,” Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face.
“Bro,” Logan says, letting out a long, slow whistle. “You are so screwed.”
Tucker clicks to open your full profile. The grid loads, and suddenly the screen is filled with pictures of you.
Some are normal. Selfies with a friend. Coffee cups. Stacks of textbooks. But a massive chunk of you feed is dedicated to you activism.
There are pictures of you standing on the steps of a campus building holding a megaphone. Pictures of you holding up protest signs made of poster board and Sharpie.
MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY.
ALPHA PRIVILEGE IS A POISON.
EQUAL PAY, EQUAL SAY. END SECOND-GENDER ROLES.
“She’s one of those omegas,” Dean says, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. “The militant ones. The ones who take hormone suppressants and refuse to nest. Man, she’s practically denying her own biology.”
“Performative activism,” Logan mutters, crossing his arms. “They think fighting their true nature makes them independent, but they just end up miserable and stressed out all the time. Being an omega isn’t a weakness, it’s just how they’re wired.”
“She hates alphas,” Tucker points out, gesturing to a particularly aggressive infographic you posted about toxic alpha territorial behavior. “And considering you just proved her entire thesis correct by beating her brother to a bloody pulp on live television … I’d say your chances are hovering somewhere in the negative digits.”
Garrett ignores them. He tunes out their groans and their commentary entirely.
He reaches out and takes the mouse from Tucker’s hand. He clicks on a close-up selfie of you. You’re looking off-camera, laughing at something, the wind blowing your hair across your face. You look so vibrant. So fiercely alive.
You are the BU center’s sister. That’s why he smelled like you. It wasn’t a lover’s scent. It was familial. Protective.
A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washes over Garrett, so intense his knees actually weaken. You aren’t claimed. You aren’t with another alpha. Yiu arehis.
He stares at the picture, taking in the stubborn tilt of your chin. The fire in your eyes.
You’re a fighter. You think you have to fight the world to prove you’re worth something. You think being an omega means being a victim, being weak, being subservient. You’ve built a fortress around yourself, armed to the teeth with protests and slogans and defiance.
Garrett’s lips slowly curve into a small, terrifyingly confident smirk.
He isn’t disappointed. Not even a little bit. If anything, the challenge thrills him. His alpha hums with dark, possessive approval.
“You guys are looking at this all wrong,” Garrett says, his voice low and steady.
Logan raises an eyebrow. “Enlighten us, G. Because from where I’m standing, your destined mate is the president of the I Hate Alphas fan club.”
“She doesn’t hate alphas,” Garrett says, clicking to the next picture. It’s a photo of you looking exhausted but determined, sitting at a library desk at 2 AM. “She hates the way alphas have treated her. She hates feeling like she has to rely on guys who see her as property instead of a partner.”
“And you don’t?” Dean asks skeptically. “You literally just claimed her as yours after smelling her once.”
“She is mine,” Garrett states, factually, like he’s discussing the weather. “Fate decided that. But I’m not going to treat her like property. I’m going to treat her like a goddamn queen.”
He stands up, his massive frame towering over his friends. The frantic, manic energy from earlier is gone. It’s been replaced by a cold, laser-focused determination. The target has been acquired. The mission is set.
“She thinks biology is her enemy,” Garrett says softly, looking back down at the screen. He reaches out and gently traces the edge of the monitor, right over her smiling face. “She thinks giving in to her instincts means losing her freedom. She’s spent her whole life fighting against exactly what I am.”
“So, what’s your play?” Tucker asks, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t exactly walk up to her with a bouquet of roses and say, ‘Hey, sorry I hospitalized your brother, but we’re destined to be together. Let’s go make a nest.’“
He turns away from the laptop, a terrifying, beautiful clarity settling over his mind. The scent blockers are still numbing his senses, but his purpose is crystal clear.
“She thinks she doesn’t need an alpha,” Garrett says, a dark thrill running through his veins. “She thinks she can do it all on her own. Fine. Let her think that.”
He cracks his knuckles, the bruised skin from the fight pulling tight.
“I’m not going to force her into anything,” Garrett continues, his voice vibrating with absolute, unshakable conviction. “I’m going to work for it. I’m going to prove to her that being mine isn’t a cage. I’m going to show her exactly how good it feels to be protected, to be cherished, to be taken care of.”
Logan watches him for a long moment, then slowly shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“I’m motivated,” Garrett corrects him.
“She’s going to fight you every single step of the way, G,” Tucker warns him. “Omegas like her … they don’t break easy. They don’t submit just because you smell nice and buy them things.”
“Good,” Garrett says, his smirk widening into a full, genuine smile. For the first time since he stepped off the ice, he looks like himself again.
The cocky, unstoppable captain of the Briar Hawks. “I like a challenge. And she’s not going to break. I don’t want her to break.”
He looks back at the laptop screen one last time, making a silent vow to the fiery, stubborn girl in the photos.
“I want her to fall,” he whispers. “And I’m going to be the one to catch her.”
***
The high-end bedding boutique in downtown Boston smells like lavender, sterile cotton, and the overwhelming scent of a very stressed-out Logan.
“I’m just saying, G, three hundred dollars for a single blanket is extortion,” Logan mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks completely out of place, a massive hockey player surrounded by delicate displays of pastel throw pillows and scented candles. “We’re college students. We sleep on futons we found on the curb. This is madness.”
Garrett ignores him. He runs a large, calloused hand over a faux-fur throw draped over a display bed. It’s incredibly soft. Like a cloud. But is it soft enough for her?
“She’s an omega, Logan,” Garrett says, his voice low and intensely focused. He drops the faux-fur and moves to a display of crushed velvet pillows. “Her skin is sensitive. Her nesting instincts are going to kick in eventually, no matter how much she tries to suppress them. When she comes to the house, I want her to have the best. I want her to feel completely surrounded by comfort.”
Logan sighs, leaning against a display table. “Okay, first of all, she doesn’t even know you’re courting her yet. Second of all, you beat up her brother. She’s not exactly going to be eagerly jumping into a nest in our spare room.”
“It’s not the spare room,” Garrett corrects him smoothly. “It’s my room. And she’ll be there.”
“You’re dangerously delusional, man.”
“I’m prepared.” Garrett grabs four of the crushed velvet pillows in a deep, rich shade of burgundy and shoves them into Logan’s chest. Logan grunts, instinctively catching them. “Hold these. I need to look at the Egyptian cotton sheets. Smitty took the blockers off this morning, and my senses are dialed to a hundred. If a sheet feels scratchy to me, it’ll feel like sandpaper to her.”
Since the scent blockers were removed, Garrett’s entire world has snapped back into razor-sharp focus. The crushing, suffocating emptiness is gone, replaced by a relentless, thrumming energy. His alpha is awake, demanding action, demanding progress.
He spent the entire morning tearing apart his bedroom. He scrubbed every inch of it, threw away his cheap college sheets, and vacuumed until the carpet looked brand new. Now, he’s building the foundation. An alpha provides. It’s the most basic, fundamental instinct in his DNA. He couldn’t protect his mother, but he can provide for his mate. He will build her a sanctuary so perfect she won’t ever want to leave.
“Garrett!” Tucker’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the boutique.
Garrett turns to see Tucker jogging through the glass doors, holding his phone up like a trophy.
“I’ve got a visual,” Tucker says, slightly out of breath as he navigates around a tower of decorative towels. “The O.M.E.G.A. Instagram account just went live. They’re hosting a protest. Right now.”
Garrett’s posture instantly straightens. The softness of the boutique vanishes from his mind. “Where?”
“BU quad. Right in front of the student union.” Tucker taps the screen. “Looks like a decent turnout. They’re protesting toxic alpha aggression in collegiate sports.”
Logan barks out a harsh laugh. “Gee, I wonder what sparked that particular topic?”
“This is it,” Garrett says, his pulse beginning to race. He steps away from the sheets. “This is the moment.”
“You’re going to crash an anti-alpha protest?” Tucker asks, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Garrett, they will literally tear you apart. You are public enemy number one right now.”
“I don’t care about them. I only care about her.” Garrett reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, plush object.
It’s a teddy bear. A ridiculously soft, expensive-looking bear with a little ribbon tied around its neck. But it’s not just a bear. For the last twenty-four hours, since he bought it at a boutique near the arena, Garrett has kept it pressed securely against the scent gland on his neck beneath his jacket.
It is saturated. Absolutely soaked in his natural scent — crisp winter air, sharp cedar, and a deep, grounding undertone of bergamot. It is a traditional first courting gift. A piece of the alpha, offered to the omega for her nest, to surround her with his scent and offer protection.
“A stuffed bear?” Logan asks, eyeing the plush toy. “Really?”
“It’s tradition,” Garrett says firmly, slipping the bear back into his pocket. He turns to the cashier, an older beta woman who is staring at them wide-eyed. “Ring up the pillows. And the silk sheets. Highest thread count you have. Logan will pay. I have to go.”
“Wait, I have to pay?” Logan yells as Garrett is already pushing through the glass doors, the bell chiming loudly overhead.
Garrett doesn’t look back. The blood is roaring in his ears. He’s going to see her.
***
The Boston University quad is buzzing with nervous, electric energy.
You stand on the concrete steps of the student union, the heavy megaphone gripped tightly in your hand. The wind whips your hair across your face, but you barely notice. You are running on pure adrenaline and righteous anger.
Over a hundred students are gathered on the lawn in front of you. Most are omegas and betas, holding up hastily made cardboard signs.
HOCKEY IS NO EXCUSE FOR ASSAULT.
HOLD ALPHAS ACCOUNTABLE.
INSTINCT DOES NOT EQUAL INNOCENCE.
“We are told, time and time again, that biology dictates behavior!” You shout into the megaphone, your voice echoing off the brick buildings. “We are told that alphas cannot control their territorial aggression. We are expected to just accept it when they treat us, and each other, like property to be fought over!”
A cheer of agreement ripples through the crowd. Jackie is standing in the front row, holding up a sign and nodding fiercely.
“Just three nights ago, we all witnessed this exact, toxic behavior on the ice!” You continue, your chest heaving. The memory of your brother bleeding on the ice is a fresh, burning brand in your mind. “An unprovoked, brutal attack! And what does the league do? They review it. They hesitate. Because ‘boys will be boys,’ right? Because ‘alpha instincts are complicated.’ No! It is a choice! Violence is a choice!”
You lower the megaphone for a second to catch your breath. Your hands are shaking slightly. It’s terrifying to stand up here, but you refuse to back down. You refuse to let the system win.
Suddenly, a strange ripple moves through the back of the crowd.
The chanting dies down. The cheering stops. People are turning around, their voices dropping into hushed, anxious whispers.
You frown, lifting the megaphone again. “Listen, we can’t let them-”
“Y/N,” Jackie says sharply from the front row. She isn’t looking at you. She’s staring wide-eyed toward the edge of the quad. “Look.”
You follow her gaze.
The crowd of students is physically parting. They are stepping back, creating a wide, empty path through the center of the lawn, as if repelled by a magnetic force.
And walking right down the middle of that path is Garrett Graham.
Your breath catches in your throat.
He is not in his hockey gear. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black t-shirt that stretches tightly across his broad chest, and a leather jacket. He looks massive. Imposing. Dangerous.
And the scent.
Oh god, the scent.
The wind shifts, carrying it directly up the steps and wrapping it around you like a physical blanket. Crisp winter air. Heavy cedar. Bergamot. It is intoxicating. It bypassed your brain completely and hooks straight into your chest. Your omega, the part of you that you spend every single day suppressing and ignoring, violently thrashes to life.
Alpha.
Your knees actually weaken for a split second. You have to lock your joints to stay standing. You grip the megaphone so tightly your knuckles turn white.
He stops at the bottom of the steps, looking up at you. His gray eyes are piercing. Unblinking. They strip away the crowd, the signs, the noise, leaving only you and him in a silent, high-stakes vacuum.
“What is he doing here?” someone mutters nearby.
“Is that the guy from Briar?”
You swallow hard, forcing the primal, biological panic down into the pit of your stomach. You are the president of O.M.E.G.A. You will not cower. Not in front of him.
You lift the megaphone to your mouth. “Are you lost, Graham?” You project, your voice echoing loudly across the silent quad.
Garrett doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, a slow, infuriatingly confident smirk spreading across his lips.
“Or,” you continue, your voice dripping with venom, “are you here to voluntarily suspend yourself for the rest of the season? Because the athletic commission office is in the next building over.”
A few nervous chuckles break out in the crowd, bolstered by your defiance.
Garrett takes a step up the concrete stairs. The movement is slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He never breaks eye contact with you.
“That’s adorable,” Garrett says. He doesn’t have a megaphone, but his voice is a deep, rich baritone that carries easily in the sudden silence. “But no. I’m not here for the athletic commission.”
He takes another step up. The distance between you is closing, and his scent is growing stronger, richer, wrapping around your senses and making your head spin.
“Then why are you here?” You demand, lowering the megaphone. You don’t need it. He’s close enough now.
“I think you know,” he says softly.
He stops two steps below you. He is still taller, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. He looks at you with an intensity that borders on madness. It’s terrifying, but it’s also … magnetic. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to lean into the space between you.
Garrett reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket.
The crowd tenses. A few people gasp.
But he doesn’t pull out a weapon. He pulls out a small, incredibly soft-looking teddy bear.
You stare at it, completely thrown off balance. “What is that?”
“A gift,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates straight into your bones.
He holds it out to you.
The moment the bear leaves his pocket, the scent hits you in a concentrated wave. It smells exactly like him. But deeper. Richer. It smells like safety. Like home. Like everything your biology is screaming at you to claim.
You recognize it instantly from your Omega Studies textbooks.
A courting gift. Scent-saturated. The first official step in an alpha claiming an omega.
A hot flush of pure, unadulterated outrage burns through your veins, instantly vaporizing the biological haze.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” You ask, your voice a harsh, disbelieving whisper. “You put my brother in the hospital, and now you’re bringing me a stuffed animal? You think you can just show up here and … and court me?”
“I don’t think,” Garrett says, his eyes darkening with possessive heat. “I know. You’re mine.”
“I am not yours!” You explode. You don’t even care that a hundred people are watching. “I am not property! I don’t belong to you, and I certainly don’t belong to a violent, out-of-control brute who attacks people because of some archaic biological glitch!”
Garrett’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. But he doesn’t yell back. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just keeps the bear held out toward you.
“Take the gift,” he says quietly. It’s not a request. It’s a command, laced with heavy alpha pheromones meant to compel an omega into submission.
Your breath hitches. For a terrifying second, your hand actually twitches. Your fingers ache to reach out, to grab the soft plush, to press it against your nose and drown in his scent.
You violently yank your hand back, furious at your own body’s betrayal.
“Get off my campus,” you sneer.
Without breaking eye contact, you snatch the bear out of his hand.
Garrett’s eyes flare with immediate triumph, thinking you’ve accepted it.
But you don’t hold it. You don’t smell it. Using all your strength, you wind your arm back and throw the bear directly at his chest.
It hits his leather jacket with a soft thump and falls to the concrete step between his boots.
The entire quad gasps in collective horror. To throw an alpha’s courting gift back at them is the ultimate insult. It is a direct challenge. It is a rejection of their protection and their scent. In traditional circles, it’s enough to start a war.
Garrett looks down at the bear on the concrete.
Silence stretches so tight you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You brace yourself. You prepare for him to snap, to roar, to turn into the monster you saw on the ice.
Slowly, Garrett bends down. His large hand scoops the small bear off the step.
He doesn’t look angry.
He straightens up, brushing a speck of dust off the bear’s ear. He lifts the plush toy right up to his face, resting it just beneath his nose.
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.
When his eyes open again, the blue irises are entirely blown out, swallowed by blown pupils. He looks feral. But not with rage.
With pleasure.
“You’re magnificent,” Garrett breathes out, a dark, wicked smile curving his lips.
You falter, stepping back. This wasn’t the reaction you expected. “What?”
“You touched it,” he says, his voice rough and thick. “Your hands were on it.”
He lowers the bear, looking at you like you are the only thing that exists in the entire universe.
“You think this is a game,” you say, your voice wavering just a fraction. “You think you can wear me down. I am telling you, Graham, I will fight you until my last breath. I will never submit to you.”
“I know,” Garrett says smoothly. He takes a step back, moving down the stairs. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
He doesn’t say another word. He just turns around and walks back through the parted crowd. He doesn’t look back. He walks with the terrifying, easy swagger of a man who knows he has already won the war, even if he lost the first battle.
You stand frozen on the steps, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your hand, the one that touched the bear for a split second, tingles.
And the worst part? The absolute, most infuriating part?
The wind shifts again, and you can still smell him.
***
The house is dark by the time Garrett finally walks through the front door.
Logan, Dean, and Tucker are in the living room, a hockey game playing silently on the massive flat-screen TV. They all turn their heads as Garrett walks in.
“Well?” Logan asks, muting the TV. “How’d it go? Did she accept the gift? Are we planning a mating or a funeral?”
Garrett doesn’t answer immediately. He walks into the kitchen, tossing his keys onto the counter. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the teddy bear.
He stares at it in the dim light coming from the stove hood.
“G?” Tucker asks, walking into the kitchen. He looks at the bear. “Did she reject it?”
“She threw it at my chest,” Garrett says.
Dean bursts into laughter from the living room. “Oh, man. I told you. She’s ruthless. You’re never going to break that one.”
“I don’t want to break her,” Garrett says softly.
He brings the bear up to his face again. The scent on the plush fabric is different now. It’s no longer just his sharp cedar and crisp winter air.
Intertwined with his scent, clinging to the fabric from the fraction of a second her hands gripped it, is the delicate, breathtaking scent of vanilla and rainwater.
His scent. And yours. Tangled together.
It is the most intoxicating thing he has ever experienced. It sends a spike of pure, primal satisfaction straight to his brain. She touched it. She infused it with her essence. Even in rejection, she left a piece of herself with him.
“She’s a fighter,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of the bear’s ear. “She’s angry, and she’s stubborn, and she’s absolutely perfect.”
Logan walks into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. He watches Garrett smell the toy like a man possessed. “You’re sick in the head, man. She publicly humiliated you in front of a hundred BU students, and you look like you just won the Stanley Cup.”
“I won something better,” Garrett says, finally lowering the bear. He looks at Logan, a terrifying, calm certainty in his eyes. “She thinks her rejection pushed me away. She thinks I’m going to give up.”
“And you’re not.”
“I’m just getting started.”
Garrett walks past Logan, heading for the stairs. “I’m going to sleep. We have practice at 8 AM. We have to prepare for the playoffs.”
“What about the suspension?” Tucker calls out. “The league is still reviewing the tape!”
“They won’t suspend me,” Garrett says without looking back. “They’ll fine me. The commissioner loves money, and Briar brings in the ratings. I’ll be on the ice this weekend.”
He climbs the stairs to his bedroom — the room he spent hours scrubbing and preparing. He walks in and closes the door behind him.
The moonlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the ridiculous amount of luxury bedding piled onto his mattress. It looks excessive. It looks insane.
Garrett doesn’t care.
He strips down to his boxers, tossing his clothes into a hamper. He climbs into the bed, the expensive silk sheets cool and smooth against his skin. He pulls one of the crushed velvet pillows toward him, adjusting it.
Then, he brings the teddy bear up to his chest.
He tucks it right under his chin, his nose pressed directly into the plush fabric.
He breathes in. Deep and slow.
Vanilla. Rainwater. Cedar. Jasmine.
It’s a promise. It’s a taste of the future. She is out there, right now, across the city, probably seething with anger, writing another speech about how much she hates alphas.
Garrett closes his eyes, a soft, satisfied groan rumbling in his chest.
You’re so feisty, he thinks, the darkness pulling him under. It’s just going to make claiming you that much more satisfying.
He falls asleep instantly, his heart beating in steady rhythm, his lungs filled with the scent of his destined mate.
***
Three months.
That is exactly how long you have been locked in a silent, infuriating war of attrition with Garrett Graham.
It started with the teddy bear at the protest, but it didn’t end there. Oh, no. For a guy who spends his weekends brutally slamming other men into fiberglass walls, the Briar Hawks’ captain possesses an absolutely terrifying amount of patience.
He didn’t text you. He didn’t call. He didn’t show up at your dorm to harass you.
Instead, he launched a highly coordinated, psychological courting campaign.
During finals week in December, when you were running on three hours of sleep and pure anxiety, a courier delivered a massive box to the library reference desk with your name on it. Inside were six different blends of expensive, organic loose-leaf tea meant to soothe omega stress, a ceramic mug, and a pair of top-tier noise-canceling headphones.
You donated the tea to the campus food pantry and gave the headphones to Jackie.
In January, when the Boston winter became unbearable, a custom-made, heated weighted blanket appeared at the O.M.E.G.A. student office. It was incredibly soft, ridiculously heavy, and smelled distinctly like crisp winter air and cedar. You threw it in the campus dumpster.
Every gift was practical. Every gift was thoughtful. Every gift was a glaring, neon sign blinking I am an alpha who can provide for you better than you can provide for yourself.
And it drove you absolutely insane.
Now, it’s late March. The snow is beginning to melt, turning the BU campus into a slushy mess.
You are sitting on your bed, staring at the small, unassuming cardboard box sitting on your desk. It arrived thirty minutes ago. Jackie is sitting on her futon, eating popcorn and watching you stare at the box like it’s a bomb about to detonate.
“Just open it,” Jackie says, tossing a kernel into her mouth. “What’s the worst it could be? A diamond ring? Keys to a Porsche? The horror.”
“He’s escalating,” you say, crossing your arms over your oversized sweatshirt. “It’s a small box. That means it’s not a blanket or a fruit basket. It’s something specific. It’s a calculated strike.”
“You talk about this guy like he’s a supervillain,” Jackie laughs. “He’s just a guy who is biologically obsessed with you. It’s actually kind of romantic, in a twisted, obsessive way.”
“It’s not romantic. It’s stalking with a budget.”
You slide off the bed and walk over to the desk. You pull a pair of scissors from your cup holder and slice through the packing tape. You fold back the cardboard flaps.
Inside, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, is a book.
You frown. A book? You carefully lift it out. It’s an older edition, the dust jacket slightly faded at the edges. You turn it over to read the cover.
The Autonomy of Instinct by Dr. Josephine Richter.
All the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, sudden rush.
“What is it?” Jackie asks, noticing your sudden stillness.
“It’s … it’s Josephine Richter,” you whisper, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the embossed letters of the title. “She’s the founder of modern-day omeganism. This book is the foundational text of the entire O.M.E.G.A. movement.”
“Okay, so he bought you a textbook. That’s a weird flex for a hockey player.”
“Jackie, it’s not a textbook,” you say, flipping the cover open. You stare at the title page, your heart dropping into your stomach.
There, written in faded black ink, is a personalized note and the loopy, unmistakable signature of Dr. Josephine Richter herself.
To a brighter future - J. Richter, 1964
“It’s a signed first edition,” you say, your voice cracking. “These are practically impossible to find. They belong in museums. They cost … I don’t even want to know how much this cost.”
Jackie stops chewing her popcorn. “Damn. Okay. That is a flex.”
You slam the book shut, a hot, blinding wave of fury washing over you.
This isn’t a blanket. This isn’t tea. This is him holding your entire belief system in the palm of his hand and wrapping a bow around it. It’s a message. It says: *I see your movement, I see your rebellion, and I can buy it. I can buy anything you care about.*
It’s patronizing. It’s arrogant. It’s the ultimate alpha power play.
“That’s it,” you snap, shoving the book into your canvas tote bag.
“Whoa, where are you going?” Jackie asks, sitting up.
“I am going to put an end to this,” you say, grabbing your keys and your winter coat. “He thinks he can just wear me down with a credit card. He thinks he knows me. I’m going to march right into his obnoxious frat house and give him a piece of my mind.”
“Y/N, wait, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jackie calls out as you march toward the door. “Going onto his turf? Your omega is going to absolutely freak out.”
“My omega is perfectly under control,” you throw back over your shoulder. “I’m going to Briar.”
***
Garrett sits at the large kitchen island in his off-campus house, nursing a protein shake.
The house is relatively quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Tucker is at class, and Dean is asleep on the couch with a textbook covering his face. Logan is sitting across from Garrett, scrolling through his phone.
“Playoffs start next week,” Logan says without looking up. “Coach is going to run us into the ground at practice tomorrow. Make sure you hydrate.”
“I’m always hydrated,” Garrett mutters, staring blankly at the granite countertop.
“You’re always something,” Logan replies, finally looking up. He eyes Garrett critically. “You’ve been on edge all week. Let me guess. You sent her something else?”
Garrett’s jaw ticks. “Maybe.”
“G, it’s been three months. She’s thrown away everything you’ve given her. Including that weighted blanket I helped you pick out, which I am still deeply offended by, by the way. Don’t you think it’s time to admit defeat?”
“I don’t lose, Logan.”
“This isn’t a hockey game. You can’t just out-skate her.” Logan sighs, putting his phone down. “You have to consider the fact that maybe she really just doesn’t want an alpha.”
“She wants one,” Garrett says softly, his blue eyes darkening. “Her head is just getting in the way of her instincts. I just have to find the right key to unlock the door.”
Before Logan can respond, three sharp, aggressive knocks hammer against the front door.
Dean jolts awake on the couch, the textbook sliding off his face and hitting the floor with a thud. “What the hell? Who’s banging on the door like a cop?”
Garrett frowns, sliding off the barstool. He walks through the living room and pulls open the heavy wooden front door.
He stops dead in his tracks.
You are standing on his porch.
Your cheeks are flushed bright red from the cold wind. Your hair is a bit messy, and your eyes are blazing with absolute, unadulterated fury. You look like a valkyrie ready to burn his house down, and Garrett has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
For a solid three seconds, Garrett’s brain completely short-circuits. His alpha roars to life so fast it makes him dizzy.
Mate. Home. You came home.
“You,” you snarl, pointing a single, accusatory finger directly at his chest.
“Me,” Garrett replies, his voice immediately dropping into a low, rumbling purr. He grips the edge of the doorframe, trying to keep himself from reaching out and dragging you inside.
“Don’t you purr at me, Graham,” you snap, stepping forward.
You are entirely too close. The scent of vanilla and fresh rainwater hits him like a freight train. It’s been three months since he smelled you this close. He has been surviving on the fading remnants of your scent on the teddy bear he keeps in his bed, but this? This is the real thing. It’s intoxicating.
“Who’s at the door, G?” Logan calls out from the kitchen.
You don’t wait for an invitation. You push past Garrett, stepping right into the entryway of the house.
The moment you cross the threshold, the dynamic shifts.
You don’t notice it at first because you are blinded by rage. You march right into the living room, digging into your tote bag. Dean is sitting on the couch, staring at you with wide, shocked eyes. Logan walks into the living room, stopping dead when he sees you.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers. “It’s the omega.”
“Out,” Garrett orders softly, closing the front door behind you. The click of the lock echoes loudly in the room.
Logan and Dean don’t need to be told twice. They take one look at Garrett’s face — the dark, blown-out pupils, the rigid posture — and they practically sprint for the back door.
“Nice meeting you!” Dean calls out before the back door slams shut.
You ignore them. You pull the vintage copy of The Autonomy of Instinct out of your bag and slam it down onto the glass coffee table.
“Explain this,” you demand, turning to face Garrett.
Garrett doesn’t look at the book. He walks slowly toward you, his massive frame moving with predatory grace. “Did you like it?”
“Like it?” You scoff, throwing your hands in the air. “Are you insane? It’s a first edition Josephine Richter! You can’t just casually mail this to someone’s dorm room!”
“Why not? I thought it would make you happy.”
“It doesn’t make me happy! It makes me furious!” You yell, your chest heaving. “You think this is some kind of game! You think you can just buy my submission! You think because you have money you can purchase a piece of my movement and hand it to me like a shiny toy!”
“I don’t want your submission,” Garrett says, stopping just two feet away from you. He looks down at you, his expression completely serious. “I wanted to show you that I listen to you. I see what matters to you. And I support it.”
“You don’t support it! You embody everything O.M.E.G.A. is fighting against!” You argue, but your voice wavers slightly.
Because suddenly, the anger is starting to slip.
You are standing in his house.
The entire space is saturated in his scent. Sharp cedar. Crisp winter air. Bergamot. It’s in the couches. It’s in the rug. It’s in the very oxygen you are breathing.
It is overwhelmingly, suffocatingly alpha.
Your pulse begins to race, but not from anger. A deep, heavy heat starts to pool low in your stomach. Your breathing turns shallow.
“You …” you start, trying to regain your train of thought. You look at the broad expanse of his chest in his gray t-shirt. “You think you can just …”
Garrett watches the shift happen. He sees the exact moment your righteous fury falters. Your pupils dialate, a beautiful, liquid black swallowing the color of your eyes. Your rigid posture softens.
“I think,” Garrett says softly, his voice a hypnotic rumble, “that you’re fighting a war that ended the second we met.”
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. But you don’t step back.
Your omega is waking up.
It’s been suppressed by stress, by blockers, by pure, stubborn willpower. But standing here, in the den of the alpha who has been relentlessly pursuing you, providing for you, proving his dedication … your biology simply takes the wheel.
You feel a sudden, desperate urge to close the distance. Your skin feels too tight. You feel cold, and the only source of warmth in the entire world is the massive man standing in front of you.
“Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, seeing the glazed, hazy look in your eyes. He knows exactly what is happening. He keeps his hands firmly at his sides, refusing to push you. He needs you to come to him.
You let out a soft, fractured breath. The smell of cedar is so heavy it feels like a physical weight on your tongue.
Without thinking, without a single shred of rational thought, you take a step forward.
You close the gap between you. You are so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. You look up at him, your lips parted, your breathing ragged.
“You smell so good,” you whisper. The words slip out of your mouth before your brain can stop them.
Garrett’s eyes flare with dark, possessive triumph. His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath, a low, rumbling purr starting deep in his chest. It vibrates in the air between you, a sound meant to soothe and encourage a distressed omega.
It works.
The purr shatters the last of your restraint.
You lift your hands. You place your palms flat against his chest. His heart is hammering wildly against your fingertips. The muscle beneath his shirt is rock hard.
Garrett remains completely still, letting you explore him. He is terrified that if he moves too fast, he’ll break the spell and you’ll run.
You slide your hands up his chest, over his broad shoulders. You step up onto your tiptoes.
Your omega demands comfort. It demands recognition. It demands to be claimed.
You tilt your head, exposing the sensitive skin of your own neck, and you press the inside of your wrist directly against the pulse point on the side of Garrett’s neck. Right over his scent gland.
Garrett lets out a harsh, jagged groan. The sound sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.
You rub your wrist against his neck, a slow, deliberate circle. You are scenting him. You are marking him with your scent, claiming him as yours in the most primal, instinctual way possible.
“Fuck,” Garrett breathes out, his hands finally coming up to grip your hips. His touch is firm, grounding, but he doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds you there, letting you work.
You switch hands, bringing your other wrist up to rub against his jawline. You press your face into his chest, inhaling deeply, letting the cedar and bergamot fill your lungs. It feels so right. It feels like the safest place in the entire world.
“My turn,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with lust and alpha instinct.
You whimper softly, tilting your head back further, offering yourself to him.
Garrett leans down. He doesn’t use his wrists. He uses his face. He presses his nose directly against the scent gland on the side of your neck, right below your ear.
He inhales so deeply you can feel the pull of air against your skin.
Then, he rubs his cheek against your neck. The slight stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin. He drags his scent gland directly over yours, mixing his heavy cedar with your sweet vanilla.
He is marking you. Claiming you. Overwriting every other scent on your body with his own.
It feels incredible. A wave of pure, heavy euphoria crashes over you, making your knees buckle.
Garrett catches you instantly. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. He holds you up, his face still buried in your neck, purring loudly into your skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “You’re perfect. Mine. So incredibly sweet.”
He presses an open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point.
The wet heat of his mouth against your skin is like a bucket of ice water to your brain.
The euphoria shatters. The biological haze cracks, letting the cold, harsh light of reality flood back into your mind.
What are you doing? You are practically making out with Garrett Graham’s neck in his living room. You are scenting him. You are letting him scent you. You are submitting.
Panic, sharp and violently bright, erupts in your chest.
“No,” you gasp, your eyes snapping wide open.
You plant your hands flat against his chest and shove him backward with all your strength.
Garrett stumbles back a step, clearly caught off guard. His eyes are entirely black, glazed with lust and alpha satisfaction. He reaches for you again instinctively. “Y/N-”
“Don’t touch me!” You scream, stumbling backward until the back of your knees hit the couch.
You look at him, horrified. You look at your own hands, trembling violently. You can smell him all over you. Your skin is practically humming with his scent.
“I’m sorry,” Garrett says quickly, his hands raised in surrender. He takes a deep breath, forcing his alpha down, trying to clear his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You initiated it, sweetheart, I just-”
“Don’t call me that!” You shout, grabbing your tote bag off the coffee table. You leave the book sitting there. You don’t care. You need to leave. You need to get out of this house before you do something permanent. Before you let him bite you.
“Y/N, wait, please. Let’s just talk.” Garrett takes a step forward, his voice pleading.
“There is nothing to talk about!” You back away toward the front door, your breathing erratic. “This … this was a mistake. A biological misfire. It doesn’t mean anything!”
“You know that’s a lie,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave, serious and firm. “You felt it just as much as I did. You feel safe with me.”
“I feel suffocated by you!” You lie, your voice cracking.
You turn around, grab the doorknob, and yank the front door open. The freezing March air hits your face, snapping the last lingering threads of the scent-haze.
“You can run,” Garrett calls out from the living room, not moving to chase you. He stands perfectly still amidst the wreckage of your restraint, looking like a king who has just breached the castle walls. “But you can’t wash me off! You smell like me now! Everyone on campus is going to know exactly who you belong to!”
You let out a choked sob of frustration and sprint out the door, slamming it shut behind you.
You run down the front steps and down the sidewalk, ignoring the slush seeping into your boots. You run until your lungs burn and the Briar hockey house is completely out of sight.
You stop at a corner, leaning against a brick wall to catch your breath.
You bring a trembling hand up to your neck. The skin there is still warm. It’s tingling.
You close your eyes and take a shaky breath.
He was right.
You smell like him. You smell like crisp winter air, heavy cedar, and absolute, undeniable safety.
And the most terrifying part of all?
Your omega is already crying out to go back.
***
Garrett stands in the quiet living room for a long time after the door slams shut.
The house feels empty again. Colder.
But the air is permanently changed. Woven into the heavy cedar of his own scent is the sweet, bright trail of vanilla and rainwater. You were here. You willingly walked into his den. You touched him. You scented him.
The back door creaks open. Logan cautiously sticks his head into the kitchen.
“Is the coast clear?” Logan asks quietly. “Did she kill you?”
Garrett slowly turns around.
Logan pauses, taking in the sight of his best friend. Garrett’s hair is messy, his eyes are still dark, and there is a terrifying, triumphant smile playing on his lips.
“Logan,” Garrett says, his voice thick and rough.
“Yeah, G?”
Garrett reaches up and touches the side of his own neck, right where you pressed your wrist against his pulse point.
“She scented me,” Garrett whispers, the awe and victory clear in his voice. “My omega scented me.”
Logan lets out a long breath, stepping fully into the kitchen. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers, twisting the caps off and handing one to Garrett.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Logan says, clinking his bottle against Garrett’s. “Congratulations, man. You broke the ice.”
Garrett takes a long pull of the beer, his eyes drifting down to the vintage book left abandoned on the coffee table.
“I didn’t just break the ice,” Garrett says softly, his thumb tracing the condensation on the glass bottle. “I started an avalanche. And now, she has nowhere left to run.”
17.) “That sounds like a future me problem, and I don’t care about that guy.”
Beau Maxwell x Di Laurentis!Reader
AN: Smut below! 18+
“My brother is going to beat your ass.” You say, staring down at Beau as he nestles in between your bare thighs. His pretty brown eyes look up at you before pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs and finally finding your clit.
“Baby,” he begins, his tongue flattening to lick up your center. You let out a breathy moan and he laughs. “That sounds like a future me problem, and I don’t care about that guy.” He says. You laugh, but it quickly turns into a moan as his lips press a kiss you your clit, his tongue flicking the sensitive nub.
“Beau…” you say, voice practically a desperate whimper. Beau chuckles.
“Besides, he already knows.” He says nonchalantly. You freeze, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“What?” You ask, eyes wide. Beau sits up a bit, wiping his wet chin with the back of his hand.
“He found your note book in my car.” He says with a laugh. “Your one from Ethics that you leant me to copy notes.” He explains. You think about that particular note book, yep that’s would give it away, a black notebook with silver sparkly letters on it that said Y/N Heyward-Di Laurentis.
“Shit, what did he say?” You ask. Beau smiles up at you.
“Baby, can we not talk about your brother while I’m trying to go down on you?” He says playfully.
“Is he mad?” You ask ignoring Beau entirely. The two of you had been sneaking around for three months now and in the last month things had been official for the two of you, you’d just been waiting for the right moment to break the news to your slightly older brother. 11 months older than you and he acted like it meant he had so much more life experience.
“I mean he wasn’t super happy about it. I tried to tell him you were just letting me borrow your notes, but then he noticed your jacket was in the backseat.” He explains. “He’s a lot smarter than we give him credit for.” Beau says with a laugh. You roll your eyes a smile on your lips.
“Was he pissed?” You ask, biting your bottom lip. Beau shrugs, his lips pressing teasing kisses to your inner thighs. He looks up at you.
“I mean after I told him I was seriously in love with you and introduced him to the idea of being brother-in-laws he was kinda cool with it.” Beau says casually, before going back to work.
“You told him you’re in love with me?” You ask. Beau had told you that already and you’d returned the sentiment but telling your brother just felt super real, you liked it.
Beau rolls his eyes, a smile on his face as he props himself up on his elbows to stare at you.
“Yes baby, now no more Dean talk you’re ruining my dinner.” He says. You laugh, the sound quickly transforming into a moan as he eats you like a starved man.
“Beau…” you whimper, your hands finding his hair once more. You feel him smile against you before you feel his finger tease your entrance. He sucks your clit gently, just enough to drive you wild. As you squirm beneath him he relents, giving you a finger.
“That feel good pretty girl?” He coos. You stare down at him, he looks so hot right now. Pupils blown, hair messy, and his lips and chin glistening with your arousal.
“More please.” You whisper. Beau chuckles, adding a second finger.
“So polite.” He teases, leaning down to kiss your clit. He pumps his fingers at a slow pace, teasing you.
“Stop teasing me.” You beg. Beau grins at you before your phone rings.
“Ignore it.” Beau murmurs against your soft skin.
“What if it’s an emergency?” You reason, reaching for your phone to see your brother’s contact information and a goofy picture of him from middle school.
“Hello?” You ask trying to sound normal. On the line Dean pauses.
“Hey-are you, are you having sex right now?” He asks.
“Dean, you have two seconds before I hang up.” You say through gritted teeth as Beau continues his slow agonizing pace with his fingers.
“Oh my God! Are you and Beau having sex right now!” He asks, saying his best friend’s name like a disease.
“Dean Sebastian.” You say irritatedly, only bothering to use one of your brother’s middle names.
“Sorry, one ew, two can I borrow your notes from Econ? I spilled coffee all over mine.” He says.
“Yes. I’ll bring them by later.” You say shortly.
“Thanks, oh and sis, bring Beau too. I miss him you steal him from me too much.” Dean says completely unfazed by the fact that you are indeed trying to have sex.
“Got it. Bye.” You say clicking off the phone. Beau laughs.
“Where were we?” He says, taking your phone, putting it on do not disturb and tossing it in the chair.
The Power You Hold (Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader)
Wordcount: 3k
Summary: Your husband, the Prince Daemon Targaryen returns from a conquest, of which you do not know the details. All you know is, he is injured. As you tend to the wounds of a man who barely speaks to you, you discover what lies beneath his rough exterior. And he tends to your wounds as well. Different wounds. And in a different manner.
Genre: Smut, angst, fluff
Warnings: Smut (MDNI!), fingering, making out, a little dry humping i suppose, unhappy marriage, dom!daemon, slight manhandling, riding, creampie
Notes: In honor of s3 <3 I am so feral for him.
Marriage is a curse.
You know no greater frustration than that of the illusion that you are above every other person in this castle. An illusion that everyone is aware of, yet intent on upholding. The truth is that you hold no more power than every handmaiden, every servant and every guard. A guard is at least allowed a sword. Your sword, your only chance of protection, is your husband.
Husband.
The word holds no meaning.
Had The Seven been kinder to you, or to your blood, perhaps this gnawing at your dignity could’ve been replaced with something more comforting. A devotee. A shred of compassion, even just friendship, from the man sworn to stand at your side.
You remember it like it was yesterday.
The supposed glory of a Prince for husband was nothing short of delicious. You wished so badly to taste it, smell it, feel it. You were hungry for it. That sweet dedication to something.
Someone.
You used to pray for the opportunity, so often and so fiercely your knees were blue for a fortnight. All these wretched years as nothing but a daughter, a girl. You wanted the end of it. The end of bargaining and appealing to men and lords you’d never truly know. Never truly feel loyalty towards, much less love. You wanted something greater.
You had assumed that the station of the Prince Daemon Targaryen, your then betrothed, meant a future with a brave and chivalrous partner. A former commander of the Kingsguard. A man of honor. Of truth.
A worthy husband.
Thunk!
Ah, yes. Reality strikes its mighty sword.
The doors slam behind you. You need not look away from the goblet of wine in front of you. You simply have to open your ears to the trodding of heavy leather boots, the clash of shiny armour against the marble floors, to know that the Prince is home.
You had hoped for a somewhat relaxing night. A night where you could drink more wine than appropriate for a Princess, blend in with the crowd of other dancing drunks downstairs, wear one of your best and most scandalous dresses in an attempt to forget the fact that no man is allowed to desire what is underneath. Because you belong to someone else.
Someone who doesn’t want you.
“You’re up late”, he sighs. The sounds of his armour hitting the floor has stopped. You turn around to be met with the results. The Prince stands now only in his undergarments, a sweaty tunic and simple linen pants. It occurs to you that you have no idea where he has been. When you awoke to a lonely bed this very morning, you assumed he went into the city, to partake in one of the many sinful enjoyments it has to offer. Drinking, whoring, dancing. Whatever fun you are robbed of behind these golden gates.
But he was clad in armour?
That is when you notice the red stains covering his clothes.
“You are hurt.”
Your instinctual sympathy angers you. This man cares not whether you live or die, and yet you are racing to him at the sight of a drop of blood. As soon as you are close enough to his body, you are peeling the shirt from his body to assess the damage.
“Eager are we?”
It seems your husband is more amused with his injuries, rather than concerned, as he keeps his gaze on you, the picture of a smirk painted across his face.
“Shut up.”
The gashes scattered across his upper body are vile, but not fatal. You gently lay your fingers to them, before a hiss escapes the Prince's lips. Your eyes meet his, and what you are met with is no longer amusement, but discomfort. This prompts you to prance around the chamber for ailments that will alleviate his pain.
“There is no need, wife. I will call for-”
“The maester? He is old and needs his rest. I have cleansed wounds before, Your Grace.”
As you retrieve the needed bottles, you witness the man raising his arms in mock surrender, before falling into one of the lounging chairs in front of the fire. He leans forward, reaching for the warmth of the flames, wincing as the wounds pinch at his skin. He shifts his gaze from the fire, to your face, as you kneel before him, pouring the liquid medicine onto a cloth.
“Careful, this might-”
“Burn?”
You can’t help but scoff, though you try to hide it as best you can.
“Right.”
But you still hear your husband's quiet laughter, as you begin tending to his wounds. He sees through you. You wonder how he manages to know you so well, yet remain a stranger.
“I have missed a gentle touch.” He leans his head back, and closes his eyes. “I must admit, it does not compare to the thrill of battle.”
“And what manner of battle do you refer to?” You change your focus to that of his face, as you look at him with a demand for answers. For an explanation.
His smile fades once again, as he leans into your gaze. Your faces are only mere inches apart like this, his eyes glossed over with something you do not recognize. The Prince is usually frank. Not afraid to cloak his true feelings in velvety niceties. Something has happened. Something unusual, that he is afraid to speak plainly of.
“Just a thief. You know how it is out there.
“Quit it.”
The grit in your voices startles the both of you. You watch the Prince shrink under your changed attitude, as if he is the one currently kneeling. His shoulders tense, his lips transforming into a thin line as he attempts to hold his tongue.
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
At some point your faces move even closer together, as if given a challenge by something invisible.
“They were saying things. About you.”
Your resolve crumbles under the weight of confusion. His answer has only provided you with more questions.
“Things doubting your honor. Your worthiness, as my Princess. Calling you lowly, powerless, weak. And I will not have the dignity of the woman I have at my side be questioned, for that dignity is shared between us.”
You rise to your feet.
“So when your dignity is at stake, suddenly I matter? Suddenly I am worthy of defense, of acknowledgement, of the husband I was promised?”
Daemon is completely unaffected by your raised voice and the rage that is no doubt consuming your entire physicality. He remains leaned back, legs spread and arms resting into the cushion of the chair. Hair loose, messy, the cool light of the moon illuminating the bright white strands.
“Answer me!”
“You were never promised any of that.”
It is his turn to rise, stand in front of you. Your bodies are closer than they have been since the consummation of your marriage. It occurs to you that you have only been in your very thin nightgown this whole time. You have been so exposed this whole time. No wonder he sees through you.
“I understand that it is what you expected, and that I have not met said expectations. That, I will admit. However, I refuse to let mere subjects think they hold any power over you.”
You choose to ignore Daemon's eyes raking over your exposed form. You choose to ignore his face softening, his calloused fingertips grazing your hand. You choose to not let yourself be comforted by any of it.
“Well maybe they do. Have you ever thought that maybe, I am treated no differently within these walls, surrounded by servants meant to obey me, than I am out there by scoundrels and thieves? If the entirety of Westeros sees it unfit for a woman to ever be comfortable, whether she wears a crown or shackles, why should it be any different for me, a Princess? If you are not blind, to how I am treated, then the men you have bested were not wrong. You hold all the power.”
You grab the wrist of the hand that has moved to caress your cheek.
“So do something.”
His hand freezes as you hold onto it, along with his eyes on yours. You search them. You search for familiarity, recognition and you are taken aback when you find what you have been looking for all these months.
Loneliness.
“If you wish to leave, you may. I would not blame you. I am not made for love.”
Loneliness, as well as fear. That is what coats his words, what is evident in his longing touches, his dwindling arrogance. The fear of holding something dear. Something binding him.
A bond that is so fragile. So easily severed.
You loosen your grip, turn into an embrace. You hold both of his hands, and see the lonesome man in front of you, for all he is. Scarred, undressed and cold. The offer to leave this life behind is tempting for under a second, as you remember what the alternative is:
Emptiness.
There is no one beyond this castle, waiting for you. And here is man, who in his loneliness is your twin flame, as well as entirely yours. If you both simply dare to let the other see it.
“I think we need each other”, you reply in a whisper. Daemon nods. He rubs the pads of his thumbs against the back of your hand. Briefly, the moment feels like routine. Like that of a regular, lovestruck married pair, making a quiet agreement, one made many times before: I am here. And I will always be right here.
You don’t know who kisses who first. It feels as if you are suddenly covered by something dark, but warm. It drowns out the Valyrian words Daemon mumbles against your lips, though you would not have understood them anyway. You shut him up by marrying your lips again. The haze you are in causes you to go faster, harder, the frustration, vulnerability and confusion culminating to the boiling of your blood. Your teeth bite down on his lower lip, your nails scratching his neck, clawing to him like an animal, as you chase the erasure of all things singular, lonely or remotely dim. You wish to feel that there are two people in this room, for once.
Daemon himself can hardly keep his composure, large hands roaming your form, grabbing and pulling at anything he can get ahold of, and soon enough they find your thighs. There is no need for him to tell you to jump. He is strong enough, and begins swiftly carrying you to bed.
“I have been a fool”, he whispers into your skin as he kisses you all over, between your breasts, your thighs, through the thin material of your nightgown. Currently you are both quite thankful for the general lack of clothing on both your bodies.
“Was that what you said earlier?”
Your comment earns you only a questioning hum, as your husband continues his journey over the valleys of your body.
“In High Valyrian. You said something, a moment ago.”
He raises his head from his latest conquest, your bare neck.
“No, no. I said something, well…A little filthier, there.”
Heat pools in your lower stomach. Luckily, you need not tell your husband to continue. This time, he positions himself between your open legs, causing his hardness to rest against your bare cunt. This does not go unnoticed by Daemon, who lets out a strangled groan.
“Fuck…You already feel incredible.”
In response you simply grind up into him as you breathe incomprehensible pleas into the confined space between yours and his lips, begging for more. He graciously grants it to you with his fingers trailing down to your cunt, rubbing slow circles onto your clit. You twist and writhe at the sensation, jutting out your ribs and arching your back, but Daemon is quick to press a strong hand to your chest, keeping you still and at his will.
“There you go, easy for me…”
Your vocal chords feel as if they have twisted into tight knots, unable to produce a single sound that isn’t a moan, yet you attempt to speak to him.
“What’s that?”, your husband teases, even daring to slow down his already torturous pace on your sensitive bud.
“You must use your words, darling. Tell me what you want.”
The plea that leaves you is desperate in its simplicity.
“More…Daemon- Your fingers-”. Before you can finish the sentence, Daemon has already pushed his fingers past your entrance. He grunts in delight at the discovery that you are wet enough already, to take two of his digits.
“I wonder what has made you this needy for me, hm? Was it the High Valyrian?”
Even with his hand keeping you steady, you manage to grind down on his fingers, though he is not cruel. He helps you along by pumping them steadily against that sweet spot he remembers so well from your wedding night.
“Or was it something else? You are practically dripping…Must’ve started a while ago, yes? Were you already wet when I came home? When I ridded myself of my armour?”
You nod, eyes closed as the image of him, stripping himself in the warm light of the candles flashes before you.
“Look at me.”
But the sight currently before you? It does not nearly compare to that recent memory. What you see above you is the Prince, your husband, silver locks sticking to his forehead, eyes piercing and mouth slightly agape as he quickens the pace of his fingers inside of you.
“Your grace”, you moan.
“No. Try again, love.”
“...Daemon.”
He is delighted to feel you clench around his fingers at the uttering of his name. He swears on the gods themselves, he even feels the wetness start to drip into the palm of his hand, flowing down his wrist and onto the sheets. You are so close now.
“Again”, his fingers speed up once again.
“Daemon!”
“Come for me.”
Your body goes tense, but the Prince does not halt his movements, aiding you in riding out your high, and admiring the way your jaw goes slack, surrendering to a loud moan. He leaves the comfort of your body beneath him, sitting up, revelling in the complete mess you probably resemble.
Your chest rises and falls with every rugged breath, your hair is tousled, covering your eyes and when you run a hand through your scalp to see clearly, you are met with the sight of Daemon's hard cock, leaking, awaiting relief.
“Can you sit up for me?”
It takes you a moment to register his words. Your distraction does not go unnoticed by your husband, but you no longer care how much you are stroking his ego. With a hand around your waist, he guides you into his lap.
“I seem to recall you liking this position?”
You are surprised that he has kept such a memory of your wedding night. You assumed by now, he would have completely forgotten. Or simply not cared to remember.
“I certainly enjoy it. Seeing you from up here”, you whisper with a caress of his jaw. It’s true. You like having him at your mercy. Or rather, the illusion of it. Of having a shred of control, pretending that the marital bed is your council, your seat in your husband's lap, your chair at the Painted Table.
The prince moves beneath you, planting the soles of his feet into the silks. You respond by grabbing ahold of his cock, slowly leading it to your warm entrance.
The moan that leaves his lips as you surround him, is like an apology. The way you roll your hips against his is forgiveness. His hands fly to your hips, urging you to go harder, faster, rougher.
“Do you know- fuck…How long i’ve been needing you for?”
“Since I began arguing with you?”, you reply with a smirk, knowing the Prince has a certain weakness for a raised voice.
Daemon shakes his head.
“Since I saw those dirtymouthed cunts die at my hand. Since I watched the life leave their eyes, knowing that, gods-”
He interrupts himself by raising his hips, now fucking up into you and meeting your own thrusts.
“That you are mine to protect. That to fuck with my wife, my Princess, means death.”
He grabs you by the jaw, redirecting your gaze from the joiningplace between your bodies to his face. He yanks you forward, closer, though you didn’t think it was possible.
“It made me so fucking hard, that that, is what you do to me. Turn me into a bloodlusting, dirty beast.”
His relenting pace along with the close proximity of your bodies closens your high. You feel him so deep inside of you, all around you, completely occupying your physical as well as your spiritual form.
“That, is the power you hold. Over me.”
You collapse into your climax, falling onto your husband's chest as he fills you with his cum. It falls down your thighs like the pouring rain outside, his final groan of pleasure thundering next to your ear. But what is beyond this room, no, this bed does not concern you.
Soon enough your thighs begin to ache, and you attempt to peel yourself from your husband's sticky limbs. But he halts you, with a firm grasp of your behind.
“Daemon, I-”
“I know, I know. Just…”
He adjusts your position, scooting his lower body further down the bed, so you are now laying completely on top of him, his cock still inside you, and somehow still hard.
“Not yet.”
Time from then on, is as unintelligible as the wind. You lay there for what could be minutes or hours, losing track of which body is which. The dancing fingers tracing soft patterns along your skin could belong to you, or to Daemon, or to whatever God or entity has replaced the usual hostile air of the room with such affection.
“I shall save a seat for you at the council, on the morrow.”
You lift your head to look at your husband.
Husband.
Yes, indeed. This is your husband. All tender eyes and mild touches. A different man.
“There is good to be done”, you answer, with a hand cupping his cheek. His lips press to the inside of your wrist, long fingers wrapping around it, barely putting any pressure on it.
There is no need for gratitude. This is no gift, no favor.
Series Summary: It’s definitely not conventional for two alphas to spend their lives together, but Jack and Robby have never been particularly conventional in the first place. They don’t need an omega – but, fuck, do they want you.
Chapter Summary: Long-married alphas Jack and Robby have accepted their strange but comfortable life together -- until you come into the ED with a scent that makes them wonder if fate may have something else in mind.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!jack, alpha!robby, omega!reader, first meeting, jack and robby's love story uwu
Content Warning: child in the emergency room (fever, not ultimately serious)
Author’s Note: let’s all collaboratively agree not to project the way i write omegaverse in this one onto the regular human spectrum of sexuality okay? because EYE like it
Word Count: 3.3k
They’d gotten together before they presented. Both late bloomers. Very late. Med school. Assumed to be betas because, well, they were twenty-one and that was more than a little late to be anything else. Robby, bitingly sarcastic, rakishly and boyishly handsome, too cocky for his own good as he flirted with anything with a pulse. Jack, a squirrely redhead fresh off a tour in Kuwait with darkness in his eyes and an amputation that needed six more weeks before he could be fitted for his prosthesis. An unlikely pair connected by one thing: Being not quite enough. Not quite at the top of their class. Not quite harsh enough to attract omegas or soft enough to attract alpha. Just enough for each other.
Morning workouts where Robby pretended he wanted to get fit as an excuse to come to Jack’s physical therapy sessions, encouraging him and watching him with barely controlled lust as he fought his way out of the wheelchair and onto his prosthetic, going from wobbly to sure over weeks and weeks of hard work. Midday lunches where they could complain about professors who lived behind the times and other students who just plain sucked. Study sessions where they savored shortbread cookies from the cafe attached to the library, those shared moments of late-night sweetness enough to fuel them through days of harsh salt and sour.
So they bonded – not in the traditional sense of the word with bites and pheromones, but something else. Something that went deep. Deep enough that when they were both hit by their first rut, they collided into each other full force. Lips that broke against teeth, sweat that mingled as they lost themselves, knots that rubbed against each other as they tangled up in Jack’s army-issue sheets. After that first rut together, they locked eyes – hazel and brown, a sunlit creek – and knew. It would be a hard road for them in a society where two alphas together was well outside the norm, but this was it. This was lust and love and laughter and light and everything all merged into one relationship.
They decided to figure it out together.
Wedding bands and attending positions and fifteen years of figuring it out later, there’s only one thing missing: A family of their own. Every alpha has that deep urge at the base of their gut to have pups – to breed, yes, but also to raise children, to grow with them, to be a parent. That was the one thing they couldn’t give each other. There are plenty of options these days for non-A/O couples, of course, but none of them felt like a fit for Jack and Robby.
They could only agree on one option: If the right omega came along, someone they could both spend their lives with, they’d have pups of their own. If it happened, it happened. They could be happy and fulfilled without it, but the option was open.
There’s been a handful of omegas over the years, but never anything serious. Friends they helped out during heats, brief flings, one boyfriend of a couple months. In the last five years, though, it’s just been the two of them. Nowadays, creeping into their forties together, they’re pretty damn sure that dream is no longer possible. Countless friends who understand them most have told them to wait, it’s fate, that biology wants alphas to find omegas. But, really, no matter how much they nod along or laugh it off, they’ve made peace with their simple life together, refusing to admit that there’s still a tiny spark at the backs of their minds every once in a while. That want. That ache.
Jack can smell you from the hub.
Through the clear semi-perforated patch over his nostrils that usually keeps omega pheromones off his mind.
His chin snaps up as you sit down at regular triage. As a nurse does your intake, you cradle a pup who can’t be more than two wailing in your arms. Your eyes are as red-rimmed as his, clearly affected deeply by him being so upset. You soothe the poor baby with gentle bouncing and intentionally flaring that scent of yours. Jack’s body moves before his brain catches up, taking long strides until he’s next to the nurse receptionist, hand on her shoulder, mouth already opening to say, “I’ll take them back and handle everything now. Thank you.”
It takes him by surprise as much as the nurse, who gives him a curious, amused sort of glance. Sure, theoretically, he’s more than welcome to take a patient back in whatever order he wants as an attending. But she can see right through any real reasoning. The stern and sarcastic Dr. Abbot fawning tenderly because of a crying pup and a sniffling omega? It’s…endearing, if strange.
After more than a decade in emergency medicine, he’s very rarely affected by the presence of omegas in distress. He even chuckles when his younger, less experienced coworkers trip over themselves to focus on anything when a sweet, soft thing like you needs immediate help. But now here he is, hand on your lower back as you introduce yourself and the toddler to him, taking sturdy steps across the ED like he’s trying to shield you from any other doctors who might poach your presence.
Guiding you into the closest open room equipped with pediatric supplies, Jack moves like he’s your marionette. As he gets the room and chart ready, his every motion is an unconscious response to you, his body instinctively trying to comfort and assure and take control the way an alpha should. It’s all instinct buried in medicine. While he tries to keep his head on straight, Jack sits on his stool opposite you and the toddler on the hospital bed and gently says, “Tell me all about what’s going on.”
You offer up a small smile and explain as you fuss over the toddler’s messy hair and tear-streaked cheeks and rumpled pajamas, “Benny’s felt yucky all day – really sleepy and fussy, not wanting to eat, running kinda warm – but we had it under control until a few hours ago. Sips of clear fluids, nice cooling bath, resting with some Bluey.” Your eyes go misty again as you look up from Ben and find Jack’s gaze resting tenderly on you. With your lower lip wobbling and your voice thick with tears, you tell him, “But then his fever just kept climbing up starting after dinner. I didn’t feel good about going to sleep not knowing if it would break or not, so we’ve been up for hours. Now he doesn’t want to drink anything and- and he’s never upset and clingy like this; he’s so curious and polite and-” You fall into tears again. “Sorry, I just- I just-”
Jack can’t stand seeing you upset. It hurts as much as any real heartbreak. And he’s never even met you before. He can’t help wondering what it would be like if he took the scent blocking patch off his nose and let himself inhale the fullness of you. Clearly your pheromones are strong enough to be a problem for him without even knowing that.
Swallowing hard, Jack scoots closer and takes your free hand in his. It’s not professional, but you don’t mind. You lean into the touch, clutching his hand close, taking his strength to be your own. Jack squeezes your hand and assures, “It’s alright; you did the right thing bringing him in. We’ll get this figured out in no time. Is it okay if I pick him up and do my exam now?”
With a reluctant nod, you help Jack move Ben onto the exam bed, where he looks so small and so hurt that your tears keep falling despite how often you wipe them away. Ben’s immediately reaching for you, trying to get to your side, and you look to Jack with the most innocent, pained eyes. He touches his stethoscope to Ben’s chest and tells you, “You can stay over here; don’t worry. Are you his mom?”
“Oh, no, not anyone’s mom,” you reply softly, always taken aback by the question no matter how many times it’s asked. Stroking Ben’s wispy hair like he’s your own, you go on, “I’m his nanny. Shoot, his au pair. His mom gets so mad when I forget to call myself that. Anyway, yeah, um, I just take care of him when they’re away, which is a lot of the time.”
He commits that to memory, hating himself for being relieved to know that you don’t already have a mate and pups of your own. It’s a strange swirling feeling in his stomach. Something similar to what he feels when he’s alone with Robby after a fresh batch of students has moved on – a yearning, quiet, needy thing. He swallows hard, swipes a forehead thermometer over Ben’s skin, and tuts, “103.8. That’s no good, little man.” Subtly dropping his hand, he pages for a nurse and tells you, “We’re going to go ahead and start IV fluids since he hasn’t been drinking enough and add some fever reducers to try to get his temperature down so he’s more comfortable. Once he settles some, he’s due for a whole bunch of fun tests. We’re gonna have to admit him tonight to make sure that fever breaks and he can sleep here under observation.”
Ben’s eyes slam up to yours, understanding as much as his tiny brain can as he latches onto ‘sleep here.’ Trying to snuggle closer to you while you fight to keep him on the exam bed, he wriggles and worries fearfully, “Nini stay?”
“He can’t say ‘nanny’ yet,” you tell Jack with the softest smile. You gently run your fingers through Ben’s hair, the gesture clearly to calm you both, and ask Jack, “That’s okay, right? If I stay in the room with him? His parents are in Europe until next week.”
Glancing at your chart to make sure all your paperwork is in order, he replies, “Of course. I’ll have them bring up a cot so you don’t have to deal with the loveseat. They’re awful.”
“That’s sweet; thank you. I know it’s not your job to deal with stuff like that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” As a resident pushes an IV and takes cultures, Ben finally starts to quiet and soften as the fluids hit his system, his sleepiness beginning to take over. Jack tells you sternly, his eyes paternal and warm, “I want you to be extra diligent about keeping yourself healthy the next couple days. Can’t have a lovely thing like you coming down with whatever the little guy has.” Your eyes widen in response to the way the compliment slips from his tongue so earnestly and simply. His face blanches and his neck goes blotchy. Quickly, he stammers out, “Oh, god. I’m so sorry; I have no idea why I just said that. I mean, you are lovely, of course, but-”
“It’s alright, Dr. Abbot,” you giggle, happy to smile for the first time since you’ve been at the hospital. You give Jack a playful nudge and add, “I don’t mind being called lovely by a silver fox such as yourself.”
As his cheeks tinge bright pink, Jack nods courteously, grateful that you’ve given him an out. “Thank you. That’s, ah, that’s very nice of you.”
You snicker and shake your head. “Please; I’m sure patients hit on you all the time.”
The junior doctor who’s tending to Ben snorts, “You have no idea.” Her mischievous eyes flick up to yours with a conspiratorial sort of energy. “Usually it doesn’t fluster him so much.”
Abbot releases a harsh breath and bites back, “Ellis, please.”
“I’m just saying,” she teases lightly, making big amused faces to amuse Ben while drawing his blood and praising him for being brave, “the big bad night shift attending doesn’t usually take care of sweet toddlers with fevers himself.”
Abbot hisses, “Parker.”
She just chuckles to herself and stands up with her collection of swabs and vials. Practically skipping past with amusement, she leans in close to him and teases, “We can smell it on you, gramps.”
You let out a squeak, something like a laugh, and avert your eyes. You hadn’t mentioned it because you’re unendingly polite and would rather die than embarrass a doctor, but, yes, Dr. Abbot is scenting all over you like a teenager with a crush, all raspberry and brunch. It’s not necessarily uncommon for an alpha to stink up a room when they’re with a particularly cute omega, but for an older professional it’s a bit juvenile, maybe. Like laughing a little too loud at every joke or staring at someone’s lips while they talk.
To Jack, though, the realization is like being shoved in the chest. As Dr. Ellis takes a reluctant-but-too-sleepy-to-protest Ben off for some imaging, Jack puts his hand over his face and groans, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. For the compliment and then for this and- God. I haven’t- I’m not even- I’m sorry. That’s the point. Sincerely.”
After biting your lip so adorably it makes Jack’s stomach turn, you sheepishly admit, “It’s really alright, doctor. I’m probably a little too close to my heat to be running around in public; I’m sure it’s affecting you more than it normally would. Don’t worry about it.”
Jack’s brows furrow. You’re affecting him that strongly when he has his nostrils covered and he’s nowhere near being in rut? That’s ridiculous. He must be, like, sick, surely. Or you’re some super omega with magic seduction hormone powers.
Or, worse than it all, you’re something special.
His mind races a bit as he turns away from you, reaches up, and carefully peels off the scent-blocking patch over his nose.
And it’s you.
Shift change can’t come soon enough. Jack’s thrumming his fingers against countertops, clicking his pen enough to make Dana snatch it from his hand, and checking on you and Ben so often it could probably count as an addiction. He tries to be subtle about it but fails miserably, not even realizing how pathetic he’s being until Ellis makes fun of him for it – over and over, at that.
Finally, though, fucking finally, his husband slinks through the doors with his sunglasses on and his earbuds still blasting. He walked to work, which means he woke up early, couldn’t get back to sleep, and stayed antsy until he could justify leaving early. The moment he can smell Jack, his face softens, the morning’s anxiety easing because he knows Jack will have already done everything he can to set the day shift up for success.
This morning, though, Jack walks up to Robby with hurried, serious steps unlike the exhausted, unsteady ones he’s usually met with. He doesn’t skip tilting his chin up to meet Robby’s quick kiss – he never misses that – but he does drop his voice low right away to say, “You need to come with me.”
As he meets Jack’s eager pace, Robby hustles up, catches Jack by his lower back, and chuckles against his ear, “Shit, where’s the fire?”
But Jack doesn’t answer, too possessed with leading Robby up to the pediatric room where you and Ben are still both sleeping. The heavy blinds keep out the early morning light and Jack’s hand hesitates on the door handle. You look so peaceful with your lips gently parted, curled up, totally calm now that Ben’s fever’s come down and the antibiotics are working their magic. During morning rounds, he’s the first doctor to punch the lights on and wake a patient to keep the hospital going and free up beds.
But you?
He hates the idea of waking you.
With a shaky breath, Jack meets his own husband’s eyes, tells him all about last night, that moment really just a few hours ago now, and then says, “It’s time for his morning workup. You’ll understand if- I need you to- I don’t even know how to explain myself right now. Just come in here with me, okay? You’ll know. I’m sure you’ll know.”
Tentative, soft, he nods. “Alright, of course. No problem.” Early in a relationship, this kind of intense behavior would be met with suspicion, concern, confusion. But now, with more than a decade of expertise in the strange field of Jack Abbot, Robby knows better than to do anything but what he asks without question. He tucks one of Jack’s too-grown-in curls behind his ear and prods quietly, “Just give me a quick heads up on what I’m in on, though, would you? Because, from here, it looks like a pedes case getting ready for discharge.”
Jack cracks a stupid sort of smile. “I know I’m being nuts, alright? But just take a deep breath when we’re through the door, okay? Because I think she’s- I think she’s supposed to be ours, Michael. I’ve never felt anything like it – and I need you to feel it too.”
Robby tilts his head to the side, any thoughts rushed away. Ours. Conceptually, he knows what Jack means. They’ve discussed it before. But Jack’s never looked so goddamn serious about it. Like there’s not a single question in his mind. If you’re not theirs, then you must at least be his. That makes Robby’s heart rate spike a bit, but he decides not to entertain the thought. He decides, as he has ten thousand times, to trust Jack with the fragile stitched-up thing of his heart.
As Jack pushes open the door and carefully slides the dimmer lights on, you stir to consciousness and so does Ben. When you realize the two of you have actually managed to sleep soundly after such an awful evening, your scent flares happily.
Robby’s world shifts just like Jack’s had.
His breath catches in his throat when you smile at him.
Shortbread.
Butter and vanilla and sugar.
Flooding from your skin, so thick and delicious it makes their heads spin.
Jack and Robby’s scents have always fought one another. Robby – black coffee, no cream, roasted so dark it’s past bitter. Jack – raspberry, bright, effervescent, tongue-coating sour. They don’t make sense together. Every kiss a clash. But with your scent mingled in, something gentle that matches them each individually and meets in the middle, it all blends into something that clicks into place. It’s not just Robby’s rough winter night and Jack’s bright spring sunrise. It’s a summer evening that lingers on and on, warm, ripe, rich. Fireflies in cupped palms and laughter on whiskey tongues and homemade thumbprint cookies dipped in swirling hazelnut heat until they’re perfectly soft. A complicated mouthful finally balanced.
Immediately after they leave the treatment room, Robby drags Jack down a hall and corners him against a wall with a borderline heaving chest. Voice raspy and needy, he presses his forehead to his husband’s and checks, “You feel this- this crazy? Like nothing makes sense anymore?”
Jack swallows hard and tries to focus on the rough scent from Robby’s neck. Usually it calms him, but his head is still spinning from the way your presence mixed with theirs into something so much more simple and true. He reaches up and twines his fingers in the short hair at the back of Robby’s neck and replies slowly, “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. Fuck. What are we supposed to do? Should we-”
“We shouldn’t,” Jack agrees as he nods like he means it. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he sees you in the hall, away from Ben’s inquisitive eyes, questioning a nurse with serious concerned eyes. He melts all over again. Looking back at Robby, he sighs, accepting it, “But what if we did anyway?”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
Summary : A weekend at a lake house with your unfaithful boyfriend and his friends was already your idea of hell. But when he betrays you again, Gator Tillman, the last person you should turn to, is exactly the bad decision you need.
TW : smut with very little plot, cheating (not reader), oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, Dom!Gator, use of slurs.
Words : 3.7k
A/N : I KNOW i have a general taglist somewhere but I just can't find it anymore 🫣 if you wanna be tagged in all of my future one shots let me know again 😩
You knew the weekend was going to be shit before you even got there. Three hours trapped in a car with your boyfriend complaining about your music, the snacks you'd bought, and the fact that you'd made him leave twenty minutes later than he'd wanted had pretty much killed whatever optimism you'd had left. “Fucking finally.” Mason muttered as the lake house came into view.
The house belonged to the father of one of Mason's friends. It was big, isolated, surrounded by trees, with a wooden deck overlooking the lake. The kind of place that probably would've been peaceful if it weren't currently occupied by twelve people you didn't particularly like. Mason had barely parked the car before he was out, slamming the door behind him and heading straight towards the group gathered outside the house.
You sighed loudly, got out of the car and opened the trunk. Two duffel bags, a cooler, and the massive suitcase Mason had insisted you share because apparently bringing separate luggage was ‘stupid’. You grabbed the handle and pulled, but it got caught underneath one of the bags. “Come on, you piece of shit.”
“Need help ?” You looked over your shoulder, Gator Tillman, one of your asshole boyfriend’s asshole friend, stood a few feet away, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. You sighed again.
“I’ve got it.”
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
“Fuck off Gator.” He grinned and walked over before you could stop him, reaching into the trunk, and pulling the suitcase out with one hand. Okay, out of all of Mason's asshole friends, Gator was probably the least unbearable, which wasn't exactly a compliment. You'd known him for a few years now. He was arrogant, loud, and had an irritating habit of acting like every room belonged to him the second he walked into it, but he'd always been decent to you. He'd never joined in when Mason's friends made jokes at your expense, never treated you like you were just some annoying girlfriend who'd somehow gotten invited into their group.
“Where you guys staying ?”
“Upstairs.” He grabbed the handle of the suitcase and followed you into the house. You could already hear everyone outside, shouting and laughing over music playing from somewhere near the lake. You led Gator upstairs and pushed open the bedroom door. “This one.” He carried the suitcase inside and dropped it near the bed. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” You expected him to leave but he didn’t, instead, he leaned against the dresser. “You good ?” The question caught you off guard, clearly you weren’t expecting him to ask you that.
“Yeah. Why ?” He stared at you.
“Cause you look fucking miserable.”
“Wow. Thanks.” He shrugged.
“You always look like you wanna kill somebody when Mason's around.” You crossed your arms, getting defensive now.
“I said I'm fine Gator. Mind your business.”
“Okay.” That was it, no pushing and no stupid questions. Gator nodded once and headed towards the door as someone was shouting his name from downstairs. He looked back at you. “You coming ?” You closed your eyes for a second and sighed before following him downstairs. And as you stepped outside into the noise, the music, and the group of people you were apparently supposed to spend the next four days with, you had one very clear thought : this was going to be fucking hell.
By the second day, Mason had spoken to you for maybe twenty minutes total. He'd spent the entire morning drinking with his friends, the afternoon playing some stupid game near the lake and the evening sitting around the fire with two girls one of his friends had invited at the last minute. One of them kept touching his arm but Mason didn't seem bothered, you were though.
He had already cheated once, and you forgave him. It wasn’t easy or quick, but eventually you did, telling him that there wouldn’t be another chance. He promised there wouldn't need to be, but you should've known promises didn't mean much coming from him. You left the group without telling anyone, and found a big rock that was far enough from the house that the music became nothing more than a distant hum. You climbed onto it and sat down, pulling your knees towards your chest.
The lake stretched out in front of you, and you stared at it until your vision blurred, one tear slipping down your cheek.
“Thought I'd find you here.” You closed your eyes.
“Jesus Christ.” Gator climbed onto the rock beside you.
“Nice to see you too.”
“What do you fucking want ?” He sat down next to you.
“Nothing.”
“Then go away.” You looked at him but Gator was looking straight ahead, letting silence settle between you. After a few minutes, he spoke again.
“Mason’s a fucking idiot.” Your jaw tightened.
“Oh so you’re coming all the way here to tell me how shitty my relationship is ?”
“I wasn't gonna say shitty.” You gave him a look, and he was looking straight back at you this time. “I was actually gonna say pathetic.” God, you wanted to hit him.
“You’re such an asshole. And you wonder why I don't wanna talk to you.” You stood up but Gator grabbed your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you from leaving.
“Sit down.” You stayed standing and Gator sighed. “Come on.”
“No. You come over here while I'm clearly upset and start insulting me…”
“I’m insulting him.”
“It doesn't feel like it.”
“Why ?”
“Because I'm the idiot who stayed.” Gator went quiet, and you hated that you had said it. “Forget it.”
“No. I'm saying you're not the idiot.”
“You literally just called my relationship pathetic.”
“Because it is.”
“Fuck you Gator.” He stood up too, facing you now.
“You wanna know what I think ? I think you know exactly what he is. And I think you keep waiting for him to turn into somebody else. But he fucking won’t.” Your throat tightened.
“You don't know anything about us.”
“Oh I know enough. I know he cheated on you. I know he talks to you like shit. I know he leaves you alone every time we go somewhere. I know you've spent two days following him around hoping he'll notice you're here.”
“Fuck you.” The tears were threatening to fall again and you noticed how his jaw tightened.
“You deserve better.” The words came out so simply that you didn't know what to say. Then, Gator ruined it. “Seriously. It's getting embarrassing to watch you like that.” You laughed.
“God, I fucking hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” The smugness in his voice made something inside you snap. You climbed down from the rock, flipping him off and walking back towards the house. Behind you, you heard him laugh. Fucking asshole.
The next afternoon, everyone went swimming but you stayed inside. Mason didn't ask why. You watched him leave through the kitchen window, a towel thrown over his shoulder, and one of the girls from last night walking next to him, the same one who kept touching his arm.
You sat on the couch, scrolled through your phone, tried watching television. After almost forty minutes, you got annoyed with yourself. Why the fuck were you hiding inside ? You hadn't done anything wrong. You decided to go upstairs and change into your swimsuit before heading towards the lake.
You could hear everyone before you saw them, they were laughing, screaming, playing loud music. You stepped out from between the trees and stopped. At first, your brain didn't understand what you were looking at. Mason was near the dock, his hand on someone's waist and her arms around his neck. The girl from last night, his tongue halfway down her fucking throat.
Everything inside you went still. You'd always imagined what you'd do if it happened again, probably scream and cry, maybe hit him, throw something at him. Instead, you just stood there, watching for maybe three seconds before something inside you finally snapped. That was it, all the feelings you had for him disappeared instantly. You weren’t going to take the disrespect anymore, so you walked back towards the house, opened the door and went upstairs, pulling the suitcase from under the bed. You started throwing clothes inside as the bedroom door opened.
“You know, I hate to say I told you so.” You spun around, Gator stood in the doorway.
“Then fucking don’t. Not now, Gator.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Get the fuck out.” He stepped into the room instead, watching you throw your clothes into the suitcase.
“You should've left him a year ago.” Your hands froze for a second as you slowly turned around.
“Can you shut the fuck up for five minutes ? I just caught my boyfriend cheating on me and somehow you still manage to make this about how right you are.”
“I am right.” You grabbed another pile of clothes as Gator watched you. “I think you should get even.” You laughed.
“Of course you'd say that. That's such a fucking Gator thing to say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean ?”
“It means normal people don't immediately suggest revenge.”
“Normal people are boring then.” You zipped the suitcase, or at least tried to, a sleeve was caught in it. Gator walked over but you slapped his hand away when he reached for it. You yanked the sleeve free. “You know he’s probably gonna come in here, gonna apologize and tell you it didn't mean anything. And you're gonna go back to him again.” Deep inside you, you knew he was wrong this time, it was over and done with.
“I hate you.” Gator's expression changed slightly.
“No, you don’t. I know you're pissed and embarrassed. And I also know you wanna do something about it.” You stared at him as he stepped closer. “He’s outside right now, his dick probably inside that girl, trying to figure out what bullshit excuse he's gonna give you later. You wanna know what I'd do ? I'd make sure he knew exactly what he lost.” You laughed once.
“God, you're so full of shit.” He grinned, God he was completely fucking insufferable. “You know what your problem is ? You think you're irresistible.” Gator tilted his head.
“Am I not mama ?” You stared at him that stupid fucking grin while thinking about Mason, about that girl, about the past two years, about every time you'd made yourself smaller just to keep the peace. “Could always use me for revenge you know.” You blinked, dumbfounded and he just shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“You’re disgusting Gator, and I genuinely can't stand you.” He just smiled.
“Keep telling yourself that.” You looked at him, then you crossed the space between you, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him. Gator froze for two seconds before his hand found your waist. He kissed you back hard enough to make you stumble, your back hitting the edge of the dresser. Gator pulled back just enough to look at you. “Is this what you fucking need to forget about him, huh ?” His hands reached your back, pulling you even closer to him.
“Shut up.” You said, before grabbing his lips with yours again.
“Fuck, come here, get on top of me baby.” He said as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you with him, making you straddle his lap. You were both still in your swimsuits, your tongues in each other’s mouth. “Let me see your tits mama, I fucking dreamed about them.” His right hand reached behind you and pulled at the strings holding your top together. He undid the knot and once your top hit the ground, both of his hands grabbed at your tits, kneading them. His mouth wrapped around your left nipple, sucking on it.
“Fuck, yes Gator. Harder please.” You moaned, and he groaned at your words.
“Harder ? Damn, I fucking knew you’d be like that, like a fucking slut.” His words sent a jolt in your lower belly, and you started grinding on him while his mouth wrapped around your nipple again, sucking harder. “Fucking hell, keep grinding on my cock baby. I’ve been waiting to finally get my hands on you, to be able to play with you like that.” His right hand reached in your swimsuit bottoms, immediately going through your folds and moaning when he realized how wet you were already. “God fucking damn, I’m gonna treat you so right mama.”
His thumb found your clit and started rubbing circles around it. Your nails dug into the skin on his back, and he hissed. His mouth found yours again, and you felt his middle finger going inside you. The sudden intrusion made you moan, and he didn’t wait another second before putting another finger inside you, pumping them in and out fast while his thumb still rubbed circles around your clit.
“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy for years, I can’t believe I get to have you like this, squirming on my fingers like a fucking whore.” His fingers went even faster, and the pleasure you were feeling now was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. Your thighs started shaking on his lap.
“Gator … fuck keep going.” You whimpered, looking straight at him. You could see the lust in his eyes, his lips were wet with his saliva and his brows furrowed in pleasure.
“Yeah ? He didn’t know how to touch you like this, did he ? You gonna come for me baby ?” You couldn’t respond, digging your nails even deeper into his skin while he finger fucked you so deep you were already seeing stars. Your thighs were shaking so much he had to wrap his other arm around your waist to keep you from falling. “Come on mama, I know you’re close. Come for me you filthy little slut.” And you did, his dirty words combined with the movements of his hand were enough to send you over the edge. You came hard, clenching on his fingers while he kept fucking you with them, helping you ride out your orgasm.
Your ears were ringing so loud you couldn’t hear anything. After a few seconds, your senses came back to you, and you looked down at Gator, who was placing kisses on the skin between your breasts, while slowly withdrawing his fingers from your pussy. “Fuck baby, I can’t believe I just made you come.” He said, voice rough as he tried to reach for you lips again. You crashed your mouth onto his, and he whimpered again, one of his hand leaving your body to tug his swimsuit down, freeing his cock.
You glanced down, and fuck, he was so pretty. His thick cock a nice shade of pink, while his tip was more red, pre-cum leaking from his slit. You pushed away from his lap, standing up with shaky legs while he stoke his cock lazily. “Get on your knees like a good little whore, I wanna put it in your mouth. I’m so fucking tired of these years pretending I don’t wanna see what you look like with my dick in your mouth.” And you obeyed, dropping to your knees in front of him and opening your mouth wide. He didn’t waste a second before grabbing the back of your head and pushing it towards his cock.
Your lips wrapped around his shaft, already taking him as deep as possible, until you felt the hairs of his happy trail tickling your nose. His free hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there to feel himself pumping inside your mouth. Your started sucking harder, looking up at him through your lashes, he was a mess. Sweating, mouth open, eyes half-closed all while pushing your head on his cock again and again. You couldn’t resist, he looked too fucking good, so your right hand trailed down your body and started circling your clit. He noticed to movement and when he glanced down again to see you with his cock in your mouth while touching yourself, he groaned loudly, brow furrowing again.
“Yeah baby, touch yourself while you suck my cock. Keep yourself all wet for me.” That’s when everything stopped as you both heard the front door slam loudly, and voices echoing through the walls. The others were back inside. Gator pushed your head away from his cock, and you looked at each other, eyes widening. He helped you get up from your knees, picked up your swimsuit top that was laying on the floor and pushed the two of you inside the small bathroom connected to your room.
Once inside, he locked the door behind him and waited a few seconds, making sure no one was coming upstairs. His cock was hard and up resting on his lower stomach. You extended your hand out and wrapped it around him, stroking gently. His head snapped towards you and a smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah ? You want it so bad don’t you baby ?” You nodded, but his hand grabbed your chin hard, forcing you to look at him. “Words. I need words, you’re always so fucking mouthy so use your fucking words.”
“Yes Gator, I want it. I want you to fuck me so hard I’ll feel you for days.”
That’s all he needed, he grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, making you face the mirror while your back rested on his chest. His left hand wrapped around your throat again, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror. You could feel his hard cock pressing against your ass, making you moan. “You ready for me ?” He asked.
“Yes. God yes Gator I’m ready.” And once again, he didn’t need anything else, his left hand stayed on your throat while his right hand pushed against your lower back, forcing you to arch.
“You gotta be quiet baby, cause I’m gonna fuck you pretty hard okay ?” He then grabbed his cock and rubbed the tip through your folds, gathering your wetness. Without any warning, he pushed up inside you, bottoming out in one stroke. You started to moan loudly but his left hand quickly left your throat to cover your mouth.
“Shh. Don’t want the others to hear how much of a whore you are, do you ?” He left his hand on your mouth, so you shook your head. Your hands braced against the counter as he started pounding inside you hard. Your tits bounced with each movement, and you caught him staring at them through the mirror. You felt so full that your eyes started to roll to the back of your head. Gator noticed. “You like that brand new cock for you baby ? Am I fucking you better than him ? Yeah, tell me I’m better than him.” He whispered in your ear, making you clench around his shaft.
His hand left your mouth for a few seconds, giving you the opportunity to answer. “So much fucking better Gator, you’re so good to me right now.” You tried to whisper, but with the way he was pounding into you, you were louder than expected. His hand went back to covering your mouth, making sure the others wouldn’t hear what you two were doing.
“Yeah I am ? So you’re not gonna go chase him after I’m done fucking you right ? You don’t need him baby, you just need me.” Your hands gripped the counter tighter, and you started bouncing back into him. He stopped moving completely for a few seconds, just admiring you bouncing on his cock, eyes locked on your ass where his dick disappeared inside your pussy. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, so hot bouncing on my cock like that. You like fucking your ex boyfriend’s friend like that ? Like a fucking whore ? Never thought I’d get the chance to have you like this.” His hand was still on your mouth so you only nodded, and he started moving again. Your thighs were shaking, so he gathered your arms with his free hand and placed them behind your back.
He removed his hand from your mouth before whispering in your ear. “You gonna be quiet huh ?” You simply nodded, tears forming in your eyes because of how good he was pounding into you. “Good fucking girl.” He then grabbed both of your arms with his hands, pushing them behind your back to use them as leverage to fuck into you even harder. You arched your back even more while he thrusted without mercy inside your cunt, the wet sounds mixing with the slapping of his skin on your ass now filling the small bathroom. Your thighs were pressing so tight together, helping you release some of the tension on your clit.
“You needed to be fucked like this right baby ? I fucking knew I could treat you so damn better.” His thrusts were becoming erratic, a clear sign he was getting close. He let go of your arms and reached in front of you to rub your clit rapidly, making you moan. He went for your mouth again, clamping his hand on it to shut you up. “You gonna cum again mama ? Gonna cum on my cock you fucking slut ?” You couldn’t say anything, but your whole body started shaking, and you came once again right as he whimpered in your ear.
“Gonna cum for you too baby. I won’t pull out, I need to know my cum is leaking out of your cunt while you dump your stupid fucking boyfriend.” And after a few more thrusts, he stilled deep inside you, moaning quietly in your ear, goosebumps spreading all over your body. Your felt his cock throbbing inside you while his hot cum spread inside your walls. He rested his forehead between your shoulder blades, riding out his orgasm.
After a few seconds, he pulled out of you, and you immediately felt so empty, whining. “I know baby, I’m sorry.” He spread kisses on your left shoulder up to your neck, landing right below your ear. “Hey, I was serious by the way … you’re not gonna go back to him, are you ?” He asked, you could hear the hesitation in his voice.
You sighed, a small smile spreading on your lips. “No, I won’t Gator. I think I found something much better.” He smiled too before grabbing your chin to turn your head, grabbing your lips with his.
“Good. Now let’s go tell this dickhead that you’re dumping him for me.”
Summary: You try to play a prank on your boyfriend but it just ends up with him completely spiraling
Word count: 1.2k
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ This sucks, I'm sorry.
Off Campus masterlist
It was meant to be just a joke, something you saw on a TikTok comment section about ragebaiting your boyfriend, a funny prank to play on Dean before leaving for your girls' weekend with your friends.
"Okay babe, I'm leaving" You walk down the stairs with your bag hung on your shoulder, your friends already waiting outside of the hockey house where they are picking you up from.
Dean's on the couch scrolling through his phone, probably looking at hockey stats but puts it away as soon as he sees you, getting up to kiss you goodbye "Be safe, don't get super drunk if you're going outside, don't drink and swim and don't do anything I wouldn't do"
You chuckle swatting him away as he kisses you after every statement "Sure babe, I'm going now, same rules go for you" You're walking down the porch steps when you turn around "Oh and Dean?" He raises his eyebrows "Block her" You keep walking.
"Block who?" He sounds confused, that makes you chuckle.
"You know who" And you're gone with a giggle he doesn't catch.
You were supposed to get to the lake house you'd rented, settle down and then send Dean a text telling him about the joke, but it turns out that there is no internet in the house and the reception sucks so you and your girlfriends decide to have a phone free weekend.
And while you are having the time of your life with sunshine, drinks, and your best friends, Dean is absolutely losing his mind the whole weekend.
"Who could she be possibly talking about?" The blonde has gathered all of his friends in the hockey house, his phone in the middle of the kitchen counter opened on his list of contacts.
You've never been someone jealous, you have your friends and Dean has his, some of them overlap, the closest ones, but the rest of them you never seem to have a problem with, Dean stopped sleeping with other women the second you came around and hasn't have contact with any of them since so it can't be any of them.
"How about this one, Patty D?" Logan asks as they scroll down the very lenghty list.
"Aunt Patty? D for Di Laurentis" He exhales putting his head down on the counter, it's Saturday night, they should be out partying, but instead they are all trying to figure out the mystery of who you want Dean to block.
"Man, why do you have so many fucking contacts Dean?" Garrett complains "Is that… is that Justin B, Justin Bieber or do have a cousin Justin Bi Laurentis?"
The guys laugh but Dean can't find anything funny any more until he figures this out "That is Bieber"
"Oh my god" Tucker lets out and starts scrolling on his own "How many celebrity numbers do you have bro?"
"Doesn't matter!" He snaps "Help me figure out who I'm supposed to block, she hasn't even texted or called me back, she's actually pissed"
It's late and everyone's tired by the time someone suggests the only 'rational' thing that can be done in a situation like this, because they've exhausted every option, block every single female contact that Dean has on his phone outside of his family members. It actually takes him a few hours of checking and rechecking that he did it.
You get home earlier than planned and have already forgotten about the little joke you played on Dean before you left, your friends drop you off at the hockey house where you're planning on staying tonight and drive away once you're on the porch.
"Oh good you're back" Tucker gives you a big hug "Please don't leave like that ever again"
You give him a confused pat on the back not understanfing why he's being like that "Glad to hear I was missed even though I left for only two days"
"No, seriously, don't go" He begs "That was traumatizing"
You agree with a confused "Okay" And go upstairs to Dean's room where you find him scrolling through his phone, tense posture and hair a mess from running his hands through it too many times "Hi baby, I'm back"
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice "I blocked her"
You're confused once again "Who?"
"I don't know" He shakes his head, his eyes are wide and there's the slightest bags starting to show up under them "But I blocked her, in fact I blocked them all, every single girl's number I had, and I also blocked everyone from Instagram, or well… I'm on that actually, but there's too many and I just…" He puts his phone on his bed and gets up walking to you "Please don't be mad at me, whoever it is, I won't ever talk to them again I swear, if I see her coming my way I'll turn around"
"Dean" You touch his face, he melts into you "Slow down, I have no idea what you're talking about"
"But-" He takes a step back "Before you left, you said to block her, and when I asked who you said to figure it out"
You laugh when it clicks, the prank that you didn't get a chance to tell him about "Dean oh my God" He's looking at you like you're crazy now "Holy shit, I'm sorry oh my God" You can't speak from how much you're laughing.
"Why are you… what?"
"It was a joke" You finally say taking a big breath to try and stop laughing "I saw someone on tiktok do it to their partner and I thought it'd be something funny, I was going to tell you once we got to the lake but we didn't have service and then I forgot about it"
"So you're telling me that the guys and I spent all of Saturday night trying to figure out who this nonexistent girl was? Baby I almost blocked Aunt Patty" He's in complete disbelief and you're starting to feel bad.
"I'm sorry honey" You sit next to him on the edge of the bed "I completely forgot, I should've found a way to contact you and let you know it was just a joke"
"It's okay" He says "But now I have. a lot of people I need to unblock"
"You didn't have to block your entire contacts list baby" You tell him.
"No, you don't get it, I'd throw my phone away if you asked me to" He says in all earnestly, you believe him.
"I don't need you to do all that" You reassure him "Okay, give me your phone, I'll get to unblocking"
He hands it to you "Or… we could just move on with our lives and not unblock anyone" He shrugs "There's no one there I need to talk to anyways"
"Dean, you blocked Hannah" You point out "Your best friend's girlfriend"
"She's always around, if I need something I can just talk to her in person"
"You blocked Mrs. Garcia!" The cleaning lady who has helped his family for forever, probably since before he was even born.
"She barely uses her phone anyways" He waves you off.
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, princess, sweetheart, angel, pretty + no y/n) + rafe climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Rafe had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Rafe dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
Three minutes later it buzzed again.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened Instagram again. Your blocked list was empty. Completely empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚗.
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Rafe let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Princess?”
Silence.
“Angel?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You hear commotion on the other end of the phone—Kelce and Topper walking through the kitchen, talking about who knows what, JJ yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Rafe clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Kelce or Topper can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? I left the tickets like always. Just—give me something. Wish me luck. Tell me to fuck off. Anything.” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Kelce finally nudges him. Rafe ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Kelce asks through a weak laugh, searching for Rafe’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Kelce snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Rafe expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Rafe shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Kelce tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Rafe can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Kelce nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Rafe skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Rafe catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’d taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving the team with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Rafe drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Kelce said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Rafe fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Cameron,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Rafe ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Kelce yells something back in Rafe’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Rafe barks and Kelce grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Kelce nods toward his Jeep to Topper and JJ. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby… That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been here. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those fuckers from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Rafe waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Rafe steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Rafe’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Rafe doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Rafe.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why the fuck would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Rafe’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Rafe lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Rafe finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby. Please.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I… I don’t know how to fix this. But I’ll figure it out.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Rafe blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Rafe.”
“Tell me what the fuck I’m missing, baby,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I’ve always cared about you.”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “Okay… I know. I just… fuck. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Rafe’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s go to The View House.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C’mon,” he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I wanted you there. That’s why I kept asking you to come. I didn’t know it felt like that. I don’t even like half these fuckin’ people, and somehow I made you think they mattered more than you.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Rafe lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you whisper, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just needed you to talk to me. I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Rafe. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Rafe,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“It’s been fucked lately. I know that.” He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it down his jaw before looking back at you. “But how the hell did we get here?”
His eyebrows pull together as he searches your face, trying to make sense of something that suddenly feels obvious. “This summer…” He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Half the time I’d tell the boys no because I wanted to stay with you, and you’d practically push me out the damn door.”
“Rafe.”
“No, seriously,” he insists quickly. “You were always tellin’ me to go. ‘Go hang out with your friends.’ ‘Go be with the boys.’ You kept tellin’ me not to worry about you for five minutes.”
“That was the summer,” you answer quietly.
“…What?”
“That was the summer,” you repeat. “Before hockey started.”
His mouth falls open just enough to catch a breath before it closes again. He stares at you through the window, replaying the last few months so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“I…” His jaw flexes. “Fuck.”
You don’t say anything.
“You stopped tellin’ me to go,” he whispers, finally putting it together.
“Because I shouldn’t have had to anymore.” Your eyes stay locked on his. “I never wanted you to stop being my boyfriend, Rafe.”
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
“It’s just been hockey.” His eyes search yours desperately. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Rafe knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“… Yeah,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Rafe.”
“Done. That’s done, princess.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Rafe bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Rafe. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. No, you’re right… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to the bar instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I stopped loving you. Don’t ever think that. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted. You’re right—you’re right about everything.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Rafe—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I want the woman that tells me when I’m bein’ an asshole… even if I don’t like hearin’ it. I want you. I can handle you. I just need to stop acting like having you means I don’t have to try.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.” His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You hate this color. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I know that,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently over your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’ll be outside at five. I’m so serious. I heard seven. I did—I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Please, baby, just let me in,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth. “Either I’m sleeping out here or I’m coming through the window. Don’t make me sleep on your roof. You know I’m crazy about you. I’m just… I can’t end tonight without holding you.”
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Rafe Cameron.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be good. I swear to God, I’ll be good. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Rafe’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know… I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You shouldn’t have to question where you come in my life. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.” He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask and he tilts closer as you pop open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough.
“I only shoved you out twice, by the way,” you whisper and he rolls his eyes, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk. Your eyes narrow on his, waiting for a response. “Rafe Cameron.”
“I know.” He scoffs, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. “That was dramatic.”
“A little?”
“You know how I get.”
“I do,” you whisper.
“Just didn’t think I was gonna get this again,” he breathes as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back toward the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he sighs, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Rafe’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Rafe kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Rafe trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Rafe…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Rafe’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Rafe wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Rafe pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, princess?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Cameron is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Rafe moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Rafe picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Rafe—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Rafe pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Rafe moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Rafe moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Rafe back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
the world was on fire, and no one could save me but you
(titus danforth x reader)
Titus has always been there to protect you. Your entire life. He'll sleep with you, tell you he loves you, but tells his family he's seeing the hottest new socialite in town. You get sick of it, and hit the apps in a desperate attempt to get over him.
But when the guy you're seeing starts to show red flags that make Titus look like the world's most well-adjusted man, you start to worry that you're about to become a statistic.
OR: the one where you go on a date and don't tell titus, before coming to regret the decision immediately
inspired by a true crime tiktok i saw lmao
warnings: 18+, mdni! evil men (not titus), genuine fears of being murdered, reader makes bad choices in this (don't go on hikes with strange men!), dread, there will be smut and violence in the second part w/c: 3.6k
main masterlist // titus danforth masterlist
Keep your location on at all times.
Tell at least one person where you’re going, and where you’re expected to be.
Don’t ever let them take you to a second location. Risk the injuries to stay where you are.
In the event that you are in a second location, leave as much evidence behind as possible. Hair, nails, jewellery. Take pictures and videos if possible, so your phone becomes an asset.
And most importantly: never trust anyone.
You’ve known Titus Danforth your whole life - you’ve loved him, you’ve loathed him, you’ve done everything in between. As one of the lesser Families, you weren’t subjected to quite the same rituals as him. Your family worked to serve the others. Do the grunt work, and be spared from the hunts and challenges.
Protection and networking with the most powerful people in the world.
Your parents hadn’t planned on you falling in love with the Danforth heir.
As teenagers, the Danforth twins sought you out, as one of the only other people their age at each boring dinner party. Ursula became a confidant, Titus a lover.
He was your first everything.
If it had been up to you, he would have been your only everything.
But the third daughter of a second-tier family was never going to cut it. Not when Titus stands to inherit everything once his father passes.
By your twenties, he’s actively seeing other people. In private, he insists that it’s all for show, to appease his father, but you’re not so sure. You’ve seen the paparazzi pictures - full of the most gorgeous women in the world hanging off of his arm each night.
It eats you alive.
Of course, you still come when he calls.
When he turns up on your door, bloodied and bruised from a tough hunt, you tend to his wounds and kiss it better. When he invites himself into your bed, you let him do it each and every time.
When he tries to teach you self-defence, you laugh in his face.
I don’t do hunts.
You might someday.
Your only shot of that happening would be if Titus marries you. An event which looks less and less likely with each passing day. Sure, Titus has never married - unusual for a Family member well into his thirties - but he’s also made no attempt to solidify whatever it is that he has with you.
Instead, he has rules.
If you won’t learn how to throw a punch, you have to know how to keep yourself safe in a world like this. Even knowing Titus puts you at more risk than most people.
And he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.
*****
You think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Ankles crossed, you glance over at Tony, and try to tell yourself that you know him.
You’ve already been out on three dates, you’ve been in his apartment before, and you’ve seen his Instagram account.
He’s not a catfish.
And yet.
After meeting on Hinge and chatting for a few weeks, he’d taken you out for dinner, and things had looked hopeful. You were out to get over Titus once and for all, while he was ready to get back into dating after his divorce a few years back.
When Titus had asked who you were meeting that night, you’d told him it was a friend from college.
The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. Titus always gets strange whenever another man is in your life. You didn’t see him for a whole year while you were dating your college boyfriend. Of course, he was on your doorstep the very night that you broke up.
Quite how he knew, you’ll never know.
You’re never going to build something new if he’s hovering over you at all times. Date two with Tony had been at some upscale bar - exactly the kind of place Titus would usually take you. You hate that it makes you like him more.
Date three felt more domestic: a quiet Italian spot downtown where he split his tiramisu with you and told you the truth about his marriage ending. They were on good terms, but after five years together, there was just no spark anymore.
No red flags.
No psychotic exes.
Just a lonely man, looking for companionship. The exact way you are.
"So," Tony had said, setting his wine glass down on the table. "For next time, I’m thinking hike. More of an activity - to see how we gel outside of the wining and dining.”
You’re a little surprised. Tony doesn’t seem like the hiking type. Maybe he’s just trying to appeal to your interests. “Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on which one?”
“Ah, let me surprise you, okay? I know a great one quite nearby. Incredible sunsets.”
An instant alarm goes off in your head, ringing with Titus’s voice. Never let a guy you barely know take you to a second location, let alone isolated woods, without a pin dropped. Unfortunately, your most recent experience with Titus involved watching him stick his tongue down some model’s throat ‘for the sake of appearances’.
You haven’t spoken to him since, despite the many texts and voicemails left.
Titus doesn't get to dictate your safety metrics anymore - not when he’s the one who left you stranded in this emotional limbo.
Patience wearing ever thinner, you consider Tony’s words. “Not even a hint?”
“Wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?”
Over the next week, you tried in vain to get some more information out of him, to no avail. He wouldn’t even tell you what type of terrain it was likely to be.
Sneakers are fine, don’t overthink it.
He’s picking you up at 4:00 AM, so that by the time you drive out to the trail, the sun will be beginning to rise, and you can catch the views from the top.
In theory? Super romantic.
Titus only hikes if there’s the promise of murder at the end of it.
Tony has a normal-person job, and you’d be able to leave all the LeBail business behind you with him. Which is how you end up in his car when it’s still dark, trying to discern where he’s taking you. You’re pretty familiar with all the trails in the city’s vicinity, and this highway doesn’t lead towards any of them.
You’re trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your stomach, making polite conversation until Tony asks, “So, did you tell anyone what you were doing today?”
An answer slips out before you can consider your words. “No.”
Shit. Why did you say that?
“Well, I mean-” You stall a little, unsure of what to say, but suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Think we could stop for coffee on the way? My treat.”
“Nah,” He shrugs. “I’d rather just get there, if that’s okay - we still have a decent drive, and I don’t want to miss the sunrise.”
Your mind races through the geography of the area, desperate to find a logical explanation for this route. None exists. The highway is empty, swallowed by the thick fog of the pre-dawn hours, and his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard looks sharper and colder than it did over tiramisu.
"So," Tony says, his voice abruptly slicing through the quiet. The sudden shift in tone makes you jump. "You never finished telling me about that project at work. The one with the crazy deadlines?”
"Oh. Right," you lie, your throat dry. You force out a brief anecdote of your awful boss, leaving out how you’d rather be having your worst day at work than be here with him right now.
Five minutes tick by. The road narrows. The highway lines fade from bright white to a weathered, neglected yellow. Every instinct is screaming at you to do something. Anything - before it’s too late.
"Hey, Tony?" you say, keeping your voice light, aiming for casual but landing on brittle. "Actually, could we pull over at the next gas station? Or even just a rest stop? I really need to pee. Especially before we start a hike.”
Tony doesn't look at you. His grip on the steering wheel doesn't shift, his knuckles white against the dark leather.
"Nah, we're making great time right now," he says, a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulder accompanying the words. "There’s nothing out here for miles anyway. You can just do it when we get there. It won't be long.”
The dismissal hits you like a physical blow. You can do it when we get there.
You have to let someone know where you are. But who?
You’re not sure that any of your friends are even awake right now. Except…
Titus.
It always comes back to him. You weigh up your options - the smugness when he realises that he has to come and rescue you again. That he can mingle with movie stars and socialites, while the only men that are interested in you turn out to be losers and psychopaths.
When the alternative is death, the decision seems easy.
You slip your phone out of your pocket, and click on Titus’ number. You don’t even tell Tony you’re making a call.
Come on, you think. Please pick up. Please still be awake.
Please please please please please please-
“Hello?”
His voice is groggy and tinged with sleep, and the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
“Mom!” You say immediately, barely sparing a glance at Tony. You’ve already decided that if Tony is as dangerous as you worry he might be, then phoning another man is not a good idea. “I’m so sorry to call so early, but I saw that you’d called last night.”
“What? It’s Titus, kid. Is everything okay?”
Your heart is thumping against your chest as you will him to catch on. “I know! It’s been too long - but I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. Just thought I should tell you that Dad’s gift is ready to be picked up. I was thinking maybe you could get it, since I’m hiking today.”
There’s a moment of dead air on the line, and for one agonising second you worry that he’s hung up, or you’ve lost signal. You stare straight out the windshield, watching the headlights cut through the pitch-black void, praying that the sharp, calculating mind that makes Titus so formidable in the LeBail circle is firing through his sleep-deprived haze.
"Hiking," Titus repeats. The grogginess vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. His tone drops an octave, all business now. "Where exactly are you?"
"Exactly! The weather is supposed to be beautiful," you say, your voice bright, breezy, and entirely unhinged from the terror clawing at your throat. You slide your thumb down the side of the phone, blindly feeling for the volume buttons, desperately trying to click them down so Tony can't catch the low rumble of a man's voice.
"Give me a location," Titus commands. His voice is low, but you can hear the rustle of sheets, the sudden shift of weight as he swings his legs out of bed. "Drop a pin right now if you can. What road are you on?”
“The cell service isn’t great out here, Mom,” You reply, continuing to smile even though your cheeks ache from the effort. “But I’ll try and send some photos! We’re headed east, so I think the views are going to be really great.”
"I can't track your signal," Titus says, his voice cutting through with an urgency that scares you. "The connection is degrading. It's dropping to a single bar. I need landmarks, or you need to get out of-”
“Is everything okay?” Tony interrupts, and you flinch slightly.
“Fine,” You chirp. “Sorry - it’s my dad’s retirement party tonight, and I just needed to tell my mom to go grab his gift.” Turning your attention back to the phone, you swallow. “Gotta go, mom - I’ll call you later? Bye, love you!”
Titus’ voice comes immediately. “Don’t hang up the phone-”
You don’t. Instead, you drop it to your lap, with the screen turned inwards so that Tony can’t see. “Sorry about that.”
Tony’s foot hits the brake, and the sudden deceleration jerks you forward. The car swerves right, leaving the asphalt of the highway behind, replaced by an uneven dirt trail.
"Wow, it’s really dense out here," you say, forcing your voice to stay loud and clear for Titus. "It looks so dark under all these massive oak trees. And that dried-up creek bed back there - is that part of the state park border, or are we on private property now?”
“I own this land with a couple of buddies - that’s why it was such a surprise. Nobody else gets to use these trails, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Great. Your heart sinks a little further.
The car crawls forward another hundred yards before the headlights illuminate a heavy, rusted iron gate blocking the road. A thick chain and a massive padlock hold it shut.
Tony cuts the engine. “Just gotta unlock it.”
He pops the door open, and you consider your chances of making it if you start running now. Probably not great. Through the windshield, you watch his silhouette move into the beam of the headlights, his hands working at the heavy chain.
You whip the phone out of your pocket, bringing up the screen to check the call status, ready to scream a real landmark to Titus.
No signal.
Call failed.
You think you might cry.
All you can do is pray that Titus has enough information to find you. Nails digging into your palms, you force another smile at Tony, as he drives you further into the woods.
After what feels like a lifetime, he pulls into an opening, and you immediately start cataloguing all the information you can.
There’s another truck down at the end - hopefully a vehicle they leave here. Because if it’s not, you potentially have another assailant to deal with. The ground is a pale, hard-packed dirt ringed by towering, skeletal trees that completely shut out the sky. Dead leaves carpet the edges, and directly in the centre of the clearing sits a massive, looming stack of logs. They’re piled easily ten feet high - thick, weathered trunks of pine and oak, rough bark peeling away.
“You bring all the girls up here?” You joke feebly.
“Only the really pretty ones.” He offers a small, boyish grin that, just yesterday, you would have found endearing.
Getting out of the car, you note the direction of the highway. It’s past about fifty metres of woodland, but you hope you could make it in a sprint. Maybe if you catch Tony off-guard. “How long do you think the hike will take?”
“Maybe an hour? Hard to say - but we shouldn’t rush.”
Terrifyingly, the cold Tony of the car ride is gone, and he’s back to date one Anthony. Maybe the LeBail paranoia has finally eroded your sanity, twisting a sweet, outdoor surprise into a psychological thriller. Maybe he really is just a corporate guy who wants to show you a sunrise. Maybe you’ve been mis-reading it all, and actually-
Out of the corner of your eye, peaking out from under the logs, sits a shoe. A New Balance trainer, pale pink, and far too small to be a man’s.
The illusion of Date-One Anthony shatters into a thousand jagged, lethal pieces. The normal job, the Hinge profile, the vulnerable story about his divorce - it was all bait.
"Hey," Tony says, the heavy thud of his car trunk snapping shut behind you. You hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, moving steadily closer to your back. "I grabbed the backpack. You ready to head down the trail?”
If you were to run now, he would undoubtedly catch you. He’s taller, stronger, and far more familiar with this place than you are. Your only option now is to bide your time. “Shall we take a pre-hike selfie? Compare it to the top?”
Your camera is open already, and you snap a few blurry shots of him. If you don’t make it out of this, at least your evidence might stop it happening to other girls.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” He laughs. “We can just do one at the top Ladies first.”
He gestures down the trail, and you have to fight back a wave of nausea. This is it. You’re going to die, all because you wanted to get back at Titus for seeing other women.
What a silly thing to lose your life over.
You’re hyper-aware of each and every footstep, checking for service at every possible second. Still nothing. “I’m actually kind of tired,” You try, one last time. “Didn’t sleep too well-”
“We’re here now.” Tony’s tone invites no conversation.
You turn to keep an eye on the trail behind you, pretending to adjust the collar of your jacket, and the air leaves your lungs completely.
A shadow is moving through the trees. It isn't an animal. It’s a man, wearing a dark canvas jacket, stepping silently off the main dirt track and into the brush, mirroring your pace. The driver of the mud-caked truck.
You have to get out of here. Now.
Biding your time is no longer an option. If you walk any deeper into these woods, you will be sandwiched between them, entirely cut off from the fifty meters of woodland that separates you from the highway.
You don't say another word. You don't make an excuse. You think you might die if you do.
Instead, you pivot on your heel and break into a blind, desperate sprint toward the direction of the highway.
"Whoa, hey! Where are you going?" he calls out, his tone mimicking normal, polite confusion for a split second. But as the distance between you grows, the fake concern twists into a venomous, roaring rage. "Hey! Stop! Get back here!”
You don't look back.
"Marcus!" Tony screams, his heavy footsteps crashing through the brush behind you, terrifyingly fast. "Marcus, she's running! Cut her off! Grab the bitch! I fucking told you she knew something!”
Your lungs burn like hot ash as you charge through the final thicket of briars. The trees begin to thin, and through the tangled branches, you finally see it: the steep, gravel embankment leading up to the highway. You know you only have one shot to get up. Tony is hot on your heels, and any mistakes will mean that you’re not making it out of these woods.
You throw your weight forward, scrambling on all fours, your fingers clawing at the gravel to pull yourself up.
"Get back here!" Tony’s voice is a guttural roar directly behind you.
Just as your hands find the flat edge of the highway shoulder, a hand wraps around your ankle, tugging harshly. His nails dig sharply into your skin, pinning you to the dirt. The sheer terror infuses your muscles with a sudden, feral strength. You twist your body, kicking backward with your free right heel as hard as you can. Your shoe connects squarely with something solid - maybe his nose, maybe his jaw, you don't care.
He grunts, his grip slipping just enough. You wrench your ankle free, scrambling the last two feet over the lip of the embankment and onto the cold, hard pavement of the highway.
You stumble to your feet, spinning around. Tony is already rising over the crest of the hill, his eyes wild, sweat slicking his hair, Marcus just a few paces behind him in the shadows of the treeline. You are trapped on an empty road with nowhere left to run.
And then, a light.
From around the corner, a car appears. It blinds you, but you know that if you can’t get this person to stop, there is no doubt in your mind that Tony and his friend are going to drag you back into the foliage and kill you.
You don’t realise that it’s a Danforth sedan until it screeches to a halt a few feet away, door swinging open immediately.
The moment Titus leaps out of the car, the adrenaline that was keeping your legs moving completely evaporates. Your knees buckle, and you burst into heavy, violent tears, the raw sobbing racking your entire body as the pure terror of the last hour finally crashes down on you.
"Titus, oh my god-"
He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his powerful arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He holds you with a crushing, protective grip, one hand cupping the back of your head, pressing you into his shoulder.
"I've got you," He mutters, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear, thick with what might be worry? You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Titus worried before, even after twenty-five years of friendship. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe."
Safe.
You blink through your tears, looking over his shoulder toward the edge of the embankment where Tony had been standing just a second ago.
The shoulder is empty.
They're gone.
It should fill you with relief, but all you can feel is a complete and utter dread. They're still out there.
mhmmmmm part two perhaps with some smut and titus dealing with tony and marcus?
