Synopsis: At your first wedding anniversary with Dean, you gift him a piece of something he had but thought he'd never get again. AKA, the missing best man speech he never got.
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
Word count: 3k words
Content: SPOILERSS! Grief, mentions of death, hurt and maybe comfort if you squint? Light swearing.
Notes: BEAU MAXWELL IS MY SHAYLA AND THIS IS THE ONLY TIME IM GONNA ACKNOWLEDGE THAT HE'S DEADđ. Writing this has been a challenge for me, but it's also been cathartic. Some of this came from imagination, and some of it came from my own experience. Thank you for reading. All constructive criticism is appreciated, encouraged, and thank you everyone for the engagement!! It means so much <3
Dean had been insufferable all week.
âI got you the best gift ever.â he says at the breakfast table one morning.
You didnât even look up from your coffee. âYou donât know what my gift for you is.â you say.
âI donât need to.â he said smugly. âIâve won this.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou sound very confident.â
âI am.â he doesnât even bother hiding it.
âYouâre going to absolutely love me.â he says in a sing-song voice.
âYouâve become unbelievably unbearable in just one year.â you say with fake exasperation lacing your voice.
âIâve earned the right to be unbearable!â he defends.
You smile despite yourself.
âWeâll see.â
Your first wedding anniversary wasnât anything extravagant. Neither of you had wanted that. Just the people that mattered to you guys were there. Your closest friends and family.
The venue itself was fancy, scattered with round tables everywhere with a fancy ivory tablecloth and fancy cutlery.
People drifted between conversations, old stories resurfacing.
Someone inevitably bought up all the honeymoon disasters.
Someone else bought up the time you and Dean didnât talk to each other for two whole days because you were supporting opposing football teams.
You laughed so hard you almost spilled your drink. You caught Deanâs eyes on you from across the room, happy to see you enjoying.
Eventually came the gifts.
Dean went first, obviously.
He placed a velvet box in front of you with the air of a man that had bought the sun and moon for his wifeâs gift.
âOpen it.â he said excitedly.
You did. Inside was a necklace.
The necklace featured a simple gold chain, but with a rectangular resin piece, encasing a small, pressed flower plated in gold. The pendant also had a gold border shaped like intertwining vines, your and deanâs initials curled together in elegant gold script, in a beautiful gold colour, making this the most valuable piece of jewellery youâd ever owned.
You gasped. âDean, this is- this is beautiful!â you exclaimed.
He was kneeling in front of you. âThe flower is from your wedding bouquet.â he says softly.
You feel your eyes well up with tears. âDeanâŚâ you start. âThis is the best gift anyone has ever given me.â you pull him up and into a hug, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
âI hate how good you are at this.â you admit.
âI had help from Hannah.â he mutters.
âI donât care.â you look up and kiss him. The room applauds.
You turn around so he can help you wear it before he kisses your neck and guides you to sit back down.
Dean sits back in his chair and leans back, a smug smile taking up permanent residence on his face.
âNothing beats that.â he boasts.
âOh?â you question, excitement making your stomach churn.
Once everyone had settled, you stood up. You picked up a remote for the huge projector and connected your phone to it.
âThis is my gift for you,â you say, nervous as well as eager for this.
âA slideshow?â Dean raises an eyebrow.
âNope.â
âA speech?â he asks.
âNope!â
His expression morphs into one of horror.
âYou wrote me a song?â
You hit him with the remote. âNo, idiot!â
âThank GodâŚâ he sighed. You glare at him before picking up a mic.
âLades and gentlemen.â you begin, and all conversations come to a soft halt.
âToday, weâre celebrating one year of us.â you look around at the room- at all the people that have been there for you during different stages of your life.
Your eyes pause at the table with Hannah, Garrett, Logan, Grace, Tucker, Sabrina, and little Jamie. They continue moving until they reach the family table. Your parents, Deanâs parents⌠and Beauâs. Dean absolutely insisted that they have a place at that table, and you werenât going to refuse.
âOne year is a long time. And when people talk about our marriage, they always talk about the big moments.â you smile.
âThe moments that made us, us. But there are also the people that got us hereâŚâ
A pause. Deanâs smile fades slightly, but not because heâs worried. It fades because he knows that tone, and heâs listening.
âOne year ago today⌠there was someone else that was supposed to be standing next to Dean at that altar.â
Thereâs a sharp change in the atmosphere. A few people sit up straighter. Nobody needs you to say his name.
âSomeone that would have spent the entire morning teasing Dean for crying over which colour tie to wearâŚâ a tiny laugh escaped someone in the audience.
âbut also someone that would have given the most heartfelt speech in the room.â
You pause.
âBeau, his best man.â
The room is so quiet you could hear the birds chirp outside. You smile despite the ache in your chest.
âI know Dean has spent the last year thinking about what he would have said, even though he doesnât admit it.â
You meet his eyes with a soft expression. Not pity in your eyes, but love. Understanding.
âMaybeâŚâ your voice catches. âMaybe he doesnât have to wonder anymore.â
Deanâs expression shifts.
âNo.â he says, voice quiet in a way youâve hardly heard before.
âYes.â you say to him gently.
His eyes dart between you and the huge white projector screen lowering itself on the huge wall. âWhatâŚ?â
The video loads on the screen. It flickers, but then-
Beau.
Young.
Alive.
Wearing his lucky football jersey he was seen in more than anything, curls messier than anyone remembers.
Dean forgets to breathe.
Across the room, Beauâs mom presses both hands on her mouth before a sound can escape.
His dadâs eyes are stuck on the screen. He looks like he canât bear to watch it but canât bear to look away either.
Deanâs mom reaches across the table and takes Beauâs motherâs hand. Neither of them say anything.
The video begins in the off campus house. A younger you is adjusting the camera on the mantel so it doesnât fall while Beau laughs at you.
Hearing that laugh, Dean freezes.Â
Itâs been over a year since heâs heard that voice, heard that laugh. For over a year heâd been terrified that one day heâd wake up and forget that sound. Now it crashes into him with an onslaught of emotions. It was warm, familiar, but made his chest ache all the same.
His fingers white knuckle the edge of his chair. Your fingers immediately find his under the table, and he squeezes your hand so hard it hurts. But you donât say anything.
âYouâre recording this?â Beau on screen teases.
âHey, some day 20 years in the future weâre gonna be looking back at this and laughing.â you say, walking back from the phone and seating yourself.
The venue stills. Twenty years.
You said twenty years in such a sure way, like it was a guarantee. The thought that he might not have even another two years not crossing any of your minds.
âSo, Beau Maxwell.â you begin in the video. âFuture best man. Give us a preview of the speech.â
Beau laughs in that easy going way of his. âNot on camera! Youâre going to use this to blackmail me.â
You chuckle. âThis is something I learnt in a drama workshop I did.â Beau groans immediately.
âRecord yourself giving a speech, so you can watch yourself later and see how you come across. Yâknow, your posture, pacing, body language, yada yada.â you convince him.
Beau rolls his eyes so dramatically that everyone watching the video laughs.
âOkay, wait.â
He stands up and pretends to brush imaginary dust off of his pants. He looks around the room for a second before settling on a random jacket in the hockey house living room- Deanâs, and wears it.
âThis,â he announces proudly. âIs my suit.â
âIf you actually wear that to our wedding,â you begin, threat evident in your voice. âI will actually kick you out, best man speech be damned.â
He ignores you and picks up a glass and spoon from the kitchen, tapping it together, making a pitiful noise.
âOh my god, youâre going to break the glass!â you scold him playfully.
âAll worth it for your wedding,â he says solemnly.
The tension in the hall is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Dean lets out a breath that sounds like the beginning of a sob.
On the screen, blissfully unawaure, Beau clears his throat.
âLadies and gentlemen!â he announces confidently in the empty room.
âSo, apparently Iâm supposed to be giving a speech.â he continues.
You snort on camera. âYou literally begged to be the best man!â
He looks offended. âPlease, I was coerced!â
You give him a no-nonsense look. âYou made a grand show of going on both your knees acting like you were the one proposing to him.â
Beau smirks. âLike I said, I was manipulated.â
You give the camera a deadpan look.
The room erupts in laughter again. Even Dean laughs through his tears, shaking his head.
âWell, Iâve known Dean since ages.â he starts seriously. âIâve seen all his phases, from the time he was convinced that wearing Nike basketball shorts and grinding in the gym daily, even in the winter, just to impress girls, was-â
Heâs cut off by your laugh.
âI canât do this if youâre laughing!â
âIâm not saying anything!â you protest.
He shakes his head.
âOkay. Again.â
âIâve known Dean forâŚâ his brows furrow and he looks intensely concentrated.
You ask him in the most strained tone ever. âAre you trying to calculate how long itâs been since you guys have been friends?â
Next to you, Dean mutters "Not long enough."
Beau gives a guilty smile, which is met by a cushion you throw at his face.
âOw! You broke my nose!â he clutches at his face dramatically. âThatâs the moneymaker!â
âAre you going to give the speech, Maxwell, or should I tell Nick to start writing his own speech?â
He glares at you. âHere I was going to talk about how kind you are.â He glances at the camera. âBut sheâs also incredibly annoying.â
His face lights up like he just came to a realization.
âThatâs why you and Dean are perfect for each other!â
Dean's eyes break away from the screen and he gives you a soft kiss, conveying all the gratitude he felt to you for giving him this.
On screen, Beauâs just standing there, mouth open, like heâs discovered the secret of the universe when another pillow is thrown at his face. He retaliates and throws it back, his quarterback skills making sure the pillow hits your arm. You try to throw it back, but somehow end up knocking down the phone.
When the phone is back upright, you back away and sigh.
âOkay. Again.â
Beau groans. âIf I do it properly, can we go back to watching TV?â
âDeal.â you agree.
He cleared his throat dramatically.
âLadies and gentlemen.â he announces confidently to the nearly empty room.
âDean has been an important person in my life ever since high school.â
âI was with him when he put diesel in his petrol car.â he smiles fondly at the memory.
âWhen he fell for his first pyramid scheme. Or when he bought a whole shipment of redbull before deciding he didnât like it.â
The room laughs, remembering all of this.
âAnd somehow, heâs made it to adulthood.â he looks at you.
âHeâs also managed to find someone else that puts up with his antics.â Beauâs smile softens.
âI always knew Iâd be standing next to him when he got married.â
Dean lets out a loud sob at that, but no one says anything. Even Garrett looks teary eyed.
Dean had kept Beauâs empty spot at the wedding. An empty chair next to you both at the reception. No one had questioned it.
âSo did almost everyone who knew us since high school. Granted, they thought weâd be standing right next to each other and Iâd be reciting vows instead of giving a speech, but that honour has been reserved for our lovely piranha here.â
A knot develops in your throat at that familiar nickname, while the room laughs.
âAfter meeting you, Dean became soft in a way I never thought Iâd see.â He pauses.
âHe started saying lovey dovey shit like-â he pauses and looks at you with a panicked expression. âFuck, can I say shit?- Fuck, I canât say fuck either can I?â
He takes one look at your murderous expression and continues his speech.
âWhile I do miss pre-domesticated Dean, the Dean that was up for any bad idea without saying âIâll have to check with my girlfriendâ first, I donât miss wondering if he was ever going to be happy.â
You smile.
Beau directs his next words to you.
âMeeting you has changed him in a lot of ways, yeah, but Iâm glad they did.â Beauâs voice becomes a little quiet.
âHe still drives me insane, butâŚâ
âGone are the days I was worried that he wouldnât find true happiness.â
Dean bows his head. Beau never got to find his.
Dean would spend the rest of his life wishing he could somehow trade places with him, just once.
Just long enough for Beau to know this kind of happiness too.
âIâve seen so many versions of him. Iâve seen the loud Dean.â Beau starts listing off.
âAngry Dean.â
âDean when he refused to believe that he was in love.â
He smirks. âThat one was painful to watch.â
His voice becomes sincere. âBut Iâve never seen Dean as happy as he is with you. As carefree, or as peaceful as you make him.â
Beau looks at you in the video.
âSo Iâm honoured to be the one that Dean chose to help him with a new version of himself- him on his wedding day.â
Dean wipes away his tears, and leans into you. You wrap your arms around him in a way thatâs become familiar over the past few years.
Heâs looking at the screen with an intensity that borders on desperation, like if he memorizes everything Beau does, he wonât lose another piece of him when this video ends.
You in the video start crying as well.
Beau groans. âYouâre getting emotional!â
âAm not!â you say, wiping away a tear.
He points at you accusingly. âStop crying.â
âMind your own business.â you retort.
âDelete this video.â he protests.
âNope!â you say with a wet laugh.
âOkay, I donât know how to end thisâŚâ Beau grumbles.
âD⌠I think youâve found the right person for you. Donât mess this up.â he says seriously.
âI hope, years from nowâŚâ
He pauses.
âSheâs still the first person you call when something happens.â
âThe first person you want to see after a bad game.â
âYou still reach for her hand without thinking.â
He smiles at you again.
âAs someone who used to be Deanâs favourite for a long time⌠I hope you enjoy growing up with him as much as I did.â
There isnât a dry eye left in the room anymore. His father watches the screen with a heaviness thatâs specific to a father hearing his sonâs voice after believing heâs heard it for the last time as a scream.
Dean covers his face with his hands.
He would give anything to argue with Beau about anything again. Anything to lose another bet. Anything to hear him tease him about how whipped he was.
Nobody tells you that, after someone dies, you donât just miss the big moments.
You miss the ordinary ones as well.
The ones you never thought to treasure because they werenât anything special.
In the hockey house living room, Beau holds your eyes for a second.
âBeau⌠that was amazing.â you say breathlessly.
âAnd if y'all ever have kids, you know Iâm going to tell them all the embarrassing shit you did together.â he grins.
âIâll be their godfather Beau.â He looks at the ceiling of the hockey house and smirks. âThe rest of these idiots can have uncle status.â
You laugh. âDone?â
Beau bows dramatically.
âFor now.â he says.
He points at the camera. âIâll save the good stuff for the wedding. I have time.â he says with a self assured grin.
The words hang in the air.
Youâre about to speak again when the sound of a door opening disrupts you.
A blur of sweat and a hockey jersey shoots through the room before sweeping you up in a hug so hard your feet leave the floor.
You laugh and shriek. âDean! Put me down!â
Beau laughs as the rest of the hockey team files into the room post practice, Tucker faceplanting on the couch you were just sitting on.
Garrett opened the fridge and raided it.
Logan shouted something about Deanâs stinky shoes.
Sabrina rolled her eyes at all of the chaos.
Nobody appreciated the moment. They took it for granted, thinking theyâd have thousands more just like it.
He walks over to the phone and picks it up before pointing it towards both of you in an embrace, saying something before ending it.
âTheyâre going to be just fine together.â
The screen fades to black.
Nobody moves. The silence in the hall stretches.
Dean stands before hugging you so tight your blood circulation cuts off.
Thereâs no trace of his smug personality from just 10 minutes ago as he holds onto you.
âThank you.â he says, words holding a lot of weight.
He only lets go of you when he walks over to Beauâs parents. He doesnât say anything.
He drops to his knees besides their table and hugs his mother first.
Sheâs sobbing, holding him in the same way she did at the funeral.
Beauâs father places his hand on Deanâs trembling shoulder.
âI miss him.â Dean says. Such simple yet heartbreaking words.
âIn a way, itâs a good thing.â Beauâs mom whispers in his ear.
At Deanâs confused silence, she explains.
âMissing him means you had someone worth grieving, and I think thatâs beautiful.â
Dean just sobs harder. For a moment, no one can tell where one familyâs grief ends and the otherâs begins.
Disclaimer: I know that in the book, Dean didn't attend Beau's funeral, but I really liked the line and didn't want to remove it.
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockeyâs favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
authorâs note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didnât forget). this is the first time iâve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laughâa soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dressâa highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. iâi have a class to get to, actuallyâ"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liarâit all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friendsâ"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weeklyâbaby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimesterâsame low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114âsorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only staticâa rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heartâthe ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard thingsâcompletely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeksânot because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lipsâa smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stopâhe was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stayâand meant every single word.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched deanâwatched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.ăťă.ăťăâăť.ăťâŤăťăăťă.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college lifeâhe was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
Hi I just wanted to know will you be continuing only a vampire could love you forever ? I love that story so much !!
I started work on it only to be so burn out by things going on in my life. I wanna get it out before summer is over but I hate making promises at the same time but Iâll post a update hopefully soonâ¤ď¸
Are we ever going to get the Bust Your Windows fic?!đ
Iâm gonna be honest babes.. I donât knowđŹ
I start writing it obviously and had the plot in mind and then I didnât like where it was going in my head. But I do kinda wanna rework it because I know people were looking forward to that fanfic. But if I actually start working on it again and figure my shit out I will!
The kitchen is warm, smelling faintly of garlic, olive oil, and the expensive cologne Deanâs been wearing since he got out of the shower. Youâre trying to focus on slicing the cherry tomatoes, but itâs an uphill battle when a certain hockey player treats your back like his personal leaning post.
Deanâs large hands slide smooth and slow over your hips, his thumbs tracing lazy circles against your skin. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.
"Dean, seriously," you laugh, trying to tilt your head away as his lips brush your jawline. "We are never going to eat if you donât let me finish the salad."
"I am helping," he murmurs against your skin, pressuring a soft, lingering kiss right below your ear that makes your shoulders drop. "Iâm providing moral support. And heat. Itâs cold in here."
"Itâs literally March."
He doesnât argue. Instead, he reaches around you, his broad chest pressing flat against your back, aligning his body perfectly with yours. His large, calloused hand covers yours over the handle of the knife. "Fine. Let's speed it up. Watch your fingers, beautiful."
Together, he guides your hand, his movements surprisingly steady and precise for someone who spends his life beating people up on the ice. But Dean being close is a distraction in itself. Every time you shift, you're acutely aware of how softly your curves press into him, and how he only seems to tighten his grip, pulling you flush against him like itâs exactly where you belong.
When the last tomato is halved, you turn around in his arms to face him, leaning back against the counter. "There. Chopping done. Now go stir the pasta sauce."
Dean hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your shorts, tugging you forward until thereâs zero space left between you. He looks down at you, eyes dark and brimming with that familiar, devastating Di Laurentis smirk.
"Sauce can simmer," he whispers, leaning down to capture your lips before you can protest. Itâs a slow, sweet, lazy kiss that tastes like the wine youâve been sipping. He deepens it just enough to leave you breathless, his hands moving up to cup your waist, squeezing gently.
When he finally pulls back, his smirk has softened into something incredibly tender. "You're gorgeous, you know that?"
You roll your eyes, but the blush heating your cheeks gives you away. "Go stir the sauce, Dean."
"Yes, captain," he teases, stealing one last quick kiss from your nose before finally turning toward the stove.
The pasta sauce is bubbling softly on the stove, filling the room with a rich, savory aroma, but Dean has already abandoned his post. Heâs right back where he wants to beâtucked up against your side, his arm slung casually around your waist as you stand in front of the open refrigerator looking for the parmesan.
"Looking for this?" he asks, his voice a low rumble near your ear.
You turn your head to find him already holding the wedge of cheese in his other hand, a triumphant grin on his face. But before you can grab it, he hoists it just out of reach, leaning his hip against the counter and pulling you flush against him by your waist.
"Dean, give it," you say, reaching up, but your chest presses against his chest, and his eyes instantly darken with heavy lid appreciation.
"What do I get?" he bargains, his voice dropping an octave.
"You get dinner!"
"Not an incentive. I'm looking at something much sweeter right now." His eyes trail down your face, dropping to your lips before wandering down to the soft curve of your hips, his hands resting heavily on your waist. He squeezes gently, his thumbs sweeping across your skin in a way that completely derails your train of thought. Dean has never been subtle about how much he loves your body, and the absolute worship in his gaze right now makes your heart do a ridiculous flip.
"You are a menace," you breathe, losing the battle to keep a straight face.
"I'm a man who knows what he wants." He sets the cheese down on the counter behind him, completely forgetting the bribe, and brings both hands up to frame your face. His thumbs rest on your jawline, tilting your head up just right. "And right now, I want you."
He leans down and kisses you again, deeper this time. Itâs the kind of kiss that makes your knees go a little weak, full of a lazy, possessive warmth that belongs entirely to him. Your hands find their way up his chest, tangling into the soft fabric of his shirt as you lean into him, completely giving up on the timeline of the meal.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn't go far. He rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little shallower than before.
"Okay," you murmur, your hands smoothing down his chest. "The pasta is definitely done."
So I somehow survived the year of hell (junior year of college) I really wanna get some writing done this summer but I donât know what to finish cause I keep coming up with ideas, any suggestions? đ
Also Iâve had burn out since last year with not only reading books but also writing, so if I donât post anything new thatâs why. I donât like to constantly tell people that follow me because of my writing that Iâm gonna update not knowing if I am or not.đ¤ˇđ˝ââď¸
Some people mad Carl is liking videos on Instagram thatâs shading KC a little. I mean I donât think thatâs crazy considering the stuff he saw what KC was saying about Aniya in the clips during movie night.
Carls face after seeing how KC was talking about Aniya:
Summary: After hooking up in his room, Dean switches into total caretaker mode to give her the sweetest aftercare. When the adrenaline wears off, reader starts overthinking and feeling vulnerable, but Dean notices immediately. He completely talks her out of her head, gives her soft forehead kisses, and wraps her up in one of his big hoodies with a bottle of water until she feels 100% safe and adored.
Paring: Plus size fem reader x Dean di Laurentis
Warnings: Fluff!, mentions of anxiety, Angst,
The laundry detergent always smelled like a mistake. It was too floral, a scent that belonged in a guest bathroom and not on a set of dark green sheets.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling of Deanâs room, listening to the rhythmic, heavy thrum of his heart against your ear. The silence that followed the noise of the last hour was sudden and deafening. For a few minutes, the warmth of his skin and the weight of his arm draped across your waist felt like a shield, keeping the rest of the worldâand your own thoughtsâat a distance. You could still feel the ghost of his touch on your hips, the way he hadnât hesitated to pull you closer, treating your curves like they were the only things in the room that mattered.
Then, the adrenaline flickered out. As the heat began to dissipate into the cool air of the room, the familiar, nagging voice in the back of your head woke up. You shifted slightly, the movement feeling clumsy and too loud. You became acutely aware of the way your skin folded against the mattress, the softness of your stomach pressing into the sheets, and the sudden, irrational urge to cover yourself up. The vulnerability didn't hit you like a wave, it was more like a slow leak, draining the confidence you'd felt while his eyes were locked on yours.
You tried to breathe shallowly, hoping he wouldn't notice the tension locking your shoulders. You didn't want to ruin the moment by admitting that you were suddenly terrified of how you looked in the dim light of the bedside lamp. You just wanted to disappear into the fabric of the bed, to shrink until you were invisible, even while you were held.
"You're thinking too much," Dean murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you felt more than heard. He didn't pull away; instead, he shifted his weight, his hand sliding from your waist to splay flat across the small of your back, anchoring you to the bed. He could tell. He always could tell when you were retreating into that quiet, defensive shell, and the way his thumb began a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin was a silent invitation to come back to him.
He leaned in, pressing a lingering, firm kiss to the crown of your head before sliding down to pepper a few more across your forehead. "Stop it," he whispered, his breath warm against your temple. "Whatever it is you're telling yourself right now, it's wrong. I can practically hear the gears grinding." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression devoid of judgment and full of a focused, intense kind of affection. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no critical scan of your bodyâonly a genuine, grounding warmth that made the air in the room feel thicker, safer.
Before you could voice the doubt, he was moving. The sudden absence of his heat left you feeling momentarily exposed, but he was only gone for a few seconds. He returned not with a question, but with a solution: a heavy, oversized black hoodie that smelled like himâsandalwood and something crisp. He didn't just hand it to you; he gently guided your arms through the sleeves, tugging the thick fabric down over your frame until you were swallowed in a cocoon of charcoal fleece. He lingered there for a moment, smoothing the fabric over your hips with a slow, possessive touch that felt like he was claiming every inch of you as his favorite place to be.
"Water," he noted, glancing at the empty glass on the nightstand. He disappeared again, the sound of his footsteps light on the floorboards. When he returned, he handed you the glass and guided you to sit up, his arm remaining firmly around your shoulders to keep you braced. He watched you drink, his gaze soft and attentive, as if you were the only person in the world who required his absolute concentration. He didn't ask why you were spiraling; he simply existed in the space with you, filling the silence with a steady, unwavering presence that pushed the anxiety back into the corners of the room.
Once the glass was empty, Dean didnât let you slide back into your own head. He took the water from your hand and set it aside, then immediately maneuvered himself back into the center of the bed. He didn't just lie down; he opened his arms, creating a physical invitation that was impossible to ignore. You hesitated for a heartbeat, the fabric of the oversized hoodie bunching around your waist, before you let him pull you back against his chest. He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you, locking you into a hold that felt like a fortress.
"I can feel you shaking," he murmured, his voice humming through his chest and straight into your shoulder. He didn't sound concerned or pitying; he sounded like he was simply stating a fact, one he was more than capable of fixing. He began to rub his palms in slow, soothing circles over the fleece of the hoodie, his touch grounding you. "Whatever the voice in your head is saying. The one that thinks you're too much or not enough, you need to tell it to shut up. Because from where I'm sitting, you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
You let out a shaky breath, the tension in your neck finally beginning to give way. You shifted, trying to tuck yourself closer into the crook of his arm, and he responded by tightening his grip, pulling you so close there wasn't a sliver of air between you. He started kissing your temple, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose, each one a deliberate, soft punctuation mark to the silence. It wasn't a performance; it was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watchingâwith a kind of quiet, intense reverence that made the insecurity feel small and insignificant.
"You're so soft," he whispered, his hand sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie to find the bare skin of your hip. He didn't pull away or react with surprise; he just let his hand rest there, his fingers splaying wide to memorize the curve of you. "I could stay like this for hours. Forget the world, forget the classes, just this. You and me and this bed." He shifted his weight, rolling you slightly so he could look you in the eyes. The dim light of the lamp caught the gold in his gaze, and the expression there was so genuine it felt like a physical weight lifting off your chest.
"You're doing it again," he said softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "The thing where you look at me and try to find the catch. There is no catch." He didn't wait for you to answer; instead, he pressed his forehead against yours, closing the gap between you until your breaths mingled. "I love the way you feel. I love every single part of you that you're currently trying to hide under this hoodie. Do you understand me?"
The honesty in his voice acted like a balm, smoothing over the jagged edges of your anxiety. For a while, you just lay there, listening to the clock on his dresser tick and the distant sound of a car passing by outside. The world felt miles away, reduced entirely to the four corners of this mattress and the heat radiating from Deanâs body. You felt your muscles finally surrender, sinking into the mattress as the last of the tension drained out of your limbs. It was a slow, syrupy kind of relaxation, the kind that only comes when you truly believe you are safe.
Dean shifted, pulling you closer until you were practically draped across him, your head resting in the hollow of his neck. He began to hum a low, wordless tune, the vibration rattling pleasantly against your cheek. It was a domestic sound, a sound of complete contentment that didn't belong in a house off campus filled with hockey players, yet here it was, filling the space between you. His hand continued its slow, rhythmic exploration, tracing the line of your hip and the dip of your waist with a focused intensity, as if he were sketching you from memory.
"I'm hungry," he admitted, the sound muffled by your hair. He didn't move to get up immediately; instead, he took a moment to press one last, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and slow. "But the real question is, what are you craving? Tell me everything. Something salty? Something sweet? I'm thinking we order enough food to feed a small army and just stay right here."
The suggestion was a lifeline, a bridge back to the normalcy of the evening. You let out a small, genuine laugh, the sound light and airy, and the way Dean beamed at the sound of it made your heart skip. He looked at you with a pride that was almost tangible, as if your laughter was a prize heâd spent all day working for. He reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from your eyes, his fingertips lingering on your skin for a second too long, his touch tender and unwavering.
"See? There it is," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "That's the look I want. Not the one where you're trying to apologize for existing." He gave your hip a playful, affectionate squeeze before finally shifting to sit up, though he kept one arm draped firmly around your shoulders, refusing to let the connection break. He looked down at you, swallowed in his black hoodie, and a small, smitten smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You look incredible in my clothes, by the way. Don't even think about giving that hoodie back tonight."
You leaned into him, the heavy fabric of the hoodie acting as a soft barrier between you and the cool air of the room. The anxiety hadn't vanished entirelyâit rarely did that quicklyâbut it had shifted from a roar to a distant hum, easily drowned out by the steady rhythm of Deanâs heart. As he reached for his phone on the nightstand, he didn't let go of you, instead guiding you to lean against the headboard so you could see the screen.
"Okay, let's see," he murmured, scrolling through a delivery app with one hand while the other remained anchored to your waist. "Thai? That place with the peanut sauce you like? Or are we feeling like an obscene amount of wings?" He glanced at you, his eyes scanning your face to gauge your appetite, his expression open and attentive. There was something about the way he looked at you,not as a problem to be solved, but as his favorite person in the room. That finally silenced the critical voice in your head.
