You can find my masterlist along with all other info here
Here you can:
~ Send in requests
~ Send dm’s (nothing crass would be appreciated)
~ Comments, likes, and reblogs are also appreciated
I will not accept or write for any requests that include topics of kidnapping, rape, harm, or minor/adult relationships, along with any other disturbing or illegal topics. So please be cognizant when putting in your requests.
Most of my works will include characters from the "Masters of the Air" series, along with some other series/movies.
I mostly write smut and other 18+ content, so any requests relating to that is fine.
Ty loves,
𝓜𝓮𝓻𝓬𝔂 💛
MASTERLIST:
smut = * fluff = ❤️ angst = ✨
Off Campus
Dean Di Laurentis
The Domestic Headcanon❤️
Finding Out You're Pregnant While at Briar U❤️
Off the Record*
Private Island, Public Worship*
Defensive Strategy
I Don't Like How Easy It Is to Lose You❤️
No war, no peace✨
No war, no peace
Garrett Graham
Behind Closed Doors✨❤️
Whatever Comes Next❤️
High Tide❤️
John Logan
Logan teaching you how to skate/play hockey❤️
Comforting Logan when he gets inside his own head about hockey❤️
Say My Name❤️
Savior By Night❤️
Savior By Night Pt. 2❤️
Ghost✨
Miles From Here❤️
The Briar Hockey Boys
How They Handle a Breakup✨
The Briar Hockey Boys as Dads
Euphoria
Nate Jacobs
Inheritance❤️
Masters of the Air
John Egan
• Breeding kink
• Breeding kink pt. 2*
• Pregnancy sex*
• Awoken*
• Reaction to s/o's death✨
• Make You Sweat*
John Egan/Connie Myers (OC)
• Sunscreen*
• If You Ever Need Someone❤️*
• The Day the Sun Came Out❤️
No war, no peace pt. 2 | Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
The cold air from the open doorway drifted across the room, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow ice in your chest.
You had expected him to fight. Dean was a creature of kinetic energy and stubborn pride; he didn’t concede inches on the ice, and he certainly didn’t back down from a confrontation. You had bracingly prepared yourself for more shouting, for him to slam the duffel bag shut, or to use that smooth, manipulative charm to pull you back into his orbit.
Instead, he had just walked away.
The silence that settled over the bedroom was different now. It wasn't the tense, heavy quiet of a ceasefire. It was the absolute, dead stillness of an abandoned building.
Slowly, your knees slid from your chest. Your boots hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. You stood in the center of his room, looking at the half-filled duffel bag on the desk. A stray Briar hockey sweatshirt—his sweatshirt, soft and smelling faintly of the detergent his family’s maid probably bought in bulk—peeked out from the top.
You closed the bag. You didn't zip it. You just stood there, waiting for the sound of his footsteps returning, for the punchline to drop.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
The silence downstairs was absolute now, the heavy bass of the party completely extinguished, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled whistle of the wind against the windowpane.
Driven by a restless, sickening anxiety, you finally walked out of the room.
The hallway was dark. You descended the stairs slowly, your hand sliding along the wooden banister. The living room was a graveyard of red plastic cups, sticky floors, and a stray couch cushion tossed onto the rug.
But Dean wasn't on the couch.
You walked through the kitchen. The back door was shut, but when you glanced toward the front foyer, you noticed the heavy oak door wasn't fully latched. A thin sliver of the freezing night air was cutting through the crack, swirling snow onto the welcome mat.
You pushed the door open and stepped out onto the porch.
The winter air hit you like a physical slap, stealing the breath from your lungs. The snow was falling faster now, fat, heavy flakes blanketing the driveway and the dark shapes of the cars parked along the curb.
And there, sitting on the top step of the porch, was Dean.
He hadn't put on a coat. He was still in the black henley, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His head was down, his blonde hair dusted with white. In his right hand, held loosely between his fingers, was a lit cigarette.
You froze. Dean didn't smoke. He was an elite athlete; he treated his body like a temple, obsessed with his cardio and his stats. The only time you had ever seen him touch tobacco was after a massive championship win, a tradition he claimed he shared with his father.
"Dean?" your voice was barely louder than the falling snow, but he flinched.
He didn't look back at you. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing fiercely in the dark, illuminating the sharp, rigid line of his jaw. When he exhaled, the gray smoke mingled with the white vapor of his breath, disappearing into the storm.
"I lied," he said. His voice was incredibly rough, stripped of all its usual velvet cadence. It sounded raw, scraped thin by the cold and something else entirely.
You took a tentative step forward, the snow crunching beneath your socks. "What?"
"In the kitchen. With that girl." Dean lowered the cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly—a tremor he couldn't hide, no matter how tightly he clenched his fist. "I told you I was angry. I told you I did it to punish you. But that’s a lie."
He finally turned his head, looking up at you over his shoulder.
In the pale light of the porch lamp, Dean looked completely stripped of the myth. His eyes weren't flashing with anger; they were bloodshot, glassy, and intensely focused on you with a desperation that made your throat ache.
"I did it because I’m a coward," he whispered, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips. "You were right. You were completely right. I looked up, and I saw you standing at the top of the stairs, looking at me like you already knew I was going to fail you. Like you were just waiting for the clock to run out on us."
He dropped the cigarette into the snow, watching the light extinguish with a tiny, pathetic hiss.
"And instead of trying to climb up those stairs and prove to you that I could be better… I stayed down there. Because it’s easier to be the monster everyone expects you to be than to try so hard and still not be enough for the only person who actually matters."
He stood up slowly, turning to face you fully. The cold was clearly getting to him; his chest was heaving, his skin pale, but he didn't seem to care. He looked down at his own hands, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear it over the wind.
"Everyone at this school wants a piece of the guy they think I am," Dean muttered, his chest tight. "They want the money, or the car, or the championship ring. It’s easy. It’s a transaction. But you… you looked past all that shit on day one. You wanted me. And it terrified me, because I didn't think there was anything else inside of me worth keeping."
He stepped closer, stopping just at the edge of the porch light’s glow. He didn't reach out to touch you this time. He kept his hands at his sides, completely defenseless, completely open.
"I don't want to go back to the way I was," he said, his voice cracking, a single, heavy tear finally spilling over his eyelashes, tracking a hot line through the melting snow on his cheek. "I swear to God, I don't. But I don't know how to navigate this without you. Every time you pull away, I feel like I'm drowning, and my instinct is just to grab onto whatever's closest."
You stared at him, the anger that had sustained you for weeks suddenly evaporating, leaving behind a profound, aching sadness. You saw him clearly now—not the arrogant playboy, and not the untouchable athlete. Just a boy carrying too much armor, terrified that if he took it off, there would be nothing underneath.
"You can't use me as a life raft, Dean," you said quietly, your own breath fogging the air between you. "You have to learn how to swim on your own."
"I know," he choked out, his shoulders dropping in total surrender. "I know. Just… don't leave tonight. Please. Sleep in the bed. I'll take the couch. I'll take the floor. Just don't let me wake up to an empty house. I don't think I can handle the silence."
You looked at him—shivering, ruined, and completely yours. The hairline fracture in your relationship hadn't healed, and the trust wasn't magically restored. The road ahead looked long, dark, and incredibly fragile.
But as you looked at the boy who had never had to beg for anything in his entire life, currently breaking apart on a snowy porch just to keep you in the same zip code, you knew the war wasn't over.
You stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and reached out, taking his freezing, calloused hands in your own.
"Come inside," you whispered softly. "You're freezing."
Dean didn't say a word. He just let you lead him back into the warmth, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you, locking the winter out.
There was a specific kind of silence that existed between a ceasefire and a surrender. It wasn't peaceful. It was the heavy, suffocating quiet of a battlefield when the artillery stops but the smoke hasn’t cleared—the kind of silence where you stay flat on your back in the mud, holding your breath, waiting to see if the next sound is a medic or a firing squad.
That was exactly how the bedroom felt.
The digital clock on Dean’s nightstand glowed a sharp, neon green: 2:14 AM. The numbers cast a sickly hue over the piles of discarded clothes, the silver championship ring glittering on his dresser, and the empty space on the mattress beside you.
You were awake. You had been awake for three hours, staring at the ceiling of the off-campus house, listening to the muffled, bass-heavy thud of music vibrating through the floorboards from downstairs. The hockey team had won their mid-season matchup against Harvard tonight. Naturally, the house had mutated into a sweaty, beer-slicked haven for half the campus before the third period was even over.
Dean had asked you to come down. He had wrapped his massive, heavy arms around your waist from behind while you were brushing your teeth earlier that evening, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder, smelling of expensive cologne and victory. “Come celebrate with me, sweetheart,” he’d murmured, his voice that low, velvety purr that usually turned your knees to water. “Show off for me.”
But you hadn’t gone down. You had stayed upstairs, claiming a headache, because lately, looking at Dean Di Laurentis in a room full of people felt like trying to look directly at the sun. It burned. It reminded you that no matter how tightly he held you in the dark, the rest of the world still remembered him as the untouchable, silver-spoon god of Briar University—the guy who used women like disposable cups and never drank from the same one twice.
A sudden shift in the noise downstairs signaled the party was finally fracturing. The front door slammed. Laughter echoed in the driveway.
Then came the heavy, slightly uneven thud of footsteps ascending the stairs.
Your chest tightened, a familiar, toxic shot of adrenaline hitting your bloodstream. You closed your eyes, adjusting your breathing to a slow, rhythmic pattern, pretending to be asleep. It was a defense mechanism you’d mastered over the last month. If you were asleep, you didn't have to talk. If you didn't have to talk, you didn't have to fight.
The door clicked open.
The scent hit the room before he did: expensive vodka, stale beer, winter air, and a faint, floral undertone that definitely didn't belong to you.
Dean moved through the darkness with the innate grace of a predator who knew the terrain. He kicked off his shoes, the heavy thud of his boots hitting the closet door. He didn't turn on the light. He didn't need to. He slid his jeans down, leaving them in a puddle on the floor, before crawling onto the mattress.
The bed sagged violently under his weight. Instantly, the heat radiating off him rolled over you. He reached for you automatically, a muscle-memory reflex developed over months of sharing this bed. His large, calloused hand slid over your hip, pulling your back flush against his chest. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply.
"I know you're awake," he whispered. His voice was thick, rough around the edges from shouting over a sound system and drinking top-shelf liquor.
You didn't move. You kept your eyes shut. "Go to sleep, Dean."
"You didn't come down," he muttered, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until there was no air between you. "Tucker asked where you were. Logan asked. I looked like a fucking idiot walking around my own house alone."
"You're never alone in a room full of people, Dean," you said quietly, finally opening your eyes to stare at the dark wall. "I'm sure you found plenty of company."
The tension in his frame was instantaneous. His muscles turned to granite against your back. He didn't pull away, but the warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp rigidity.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
"Nothing."
"Don't do that," he snapped, shoving himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. In the dim green light of the clock, his sharp jawline looked jagged, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Don't do that passive-aggressive bullshit. If you've got something to say, say it."
You turned over slowly, looking up at him. The gray light caught the faint silhouette of his shoulders. He looked magnificent. He always did. That was the tragedy of it.
"I don't have anything to say," you lied, your voice cracking slightly. "I'm tired."
"You're not tired. You're punishing me," Dean said, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You've been punishing me for weeks, and I don't even know what the fuck I did."
You stared at him, the silence stretching out between you like a barbed-wire fence. There was no war. You hadn't screamed at him. He hadn't broken up with you. But there was no peace, either. Just this. This endless, agonizing cold war.
The cracks hadn’t formed overnight; they had spider-webbed slowly, tracing the fault lines of who Dean Di Laurentis used to be.
Before you, Dean didn't do relationships. He did marathons. He did weekends in New York, penthouse suites, and a rotating door of beautiful, nameless girls who were more than happy to be a footnote in his gilded life. When he chose you, everyone at Briar had held their breath, waiting for the punchline. You had believed him when he said he was done with that life. You had believed him because when Dean looked at you, it felt like the entire world narrowed down to a single point.
But confidence is a fragile thing when it’s built on the shifting sands of a playboy’s reputation.
The shift had happened three weeks ago at a mid-week mixer. You had walked out of the bathroom to find Dean cornered against the kitchen counter by two girls from the lacrosse team. He wasn't pushing them away. He was leaning back, that lazy, devastating smirk plastered on his face, his eyes hooded as he took a sip of his drink. He was performing. He was being Dean Di Laurentis, the myth, the legend. One of the girls had reached out, her fingers lingering on the collar of his shirt, laughing at something he said.
He hadn't stopped her. He had looked up, caught your eye across the crowded kitchen, and the smirk had faltered—but he hadn't moved away either. He had stayed right there, trapped in the amber of his own vanity.
Since then, the poison had set in. Every time he picked up his phone, every time he stayed out late with the team, every time a girl giggled a little too loudly in his vicinity, the ghost of his past stood between you.
"You smell like perfume," you whispered into the dark bedroom, the words finally slipping out before you could stop them.
Dean stiffened. "It's a party. People bump into each other. I was poured into a booth with ten different people after the game."
"It's always a party, Dean. And it's always someone else's perfume." You sat up, pulling the duvet up to cover your chest, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable under his scrutiny. "I'm just tired of wondering."
"Wondering what?" he asked, his voice rising, a dangerous edge of frustration cutting through the alcohol. "Wondering if I'm cheating on you? Is that what you think of me? After everything? After months of me giving you every single piece of myself, you still think I'm just waiting to jump into bed with the next girl who smiles at me?"
"I think you miss it," you said, the truth cutting through the air like a knife. "I think you miss how easy it was when you didn't have to care about anyone's feelings. I think you miss the validation of a room full of girls wanting you, and I think you let them get close enough to remind yourself that you still have it."
Dean sat up completely, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubbed his hands over his face, a long, harsh breath rattling in his throat. When he pulled his hands away, he didn't look at you. He stared at the floor.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he muttered.
"Don't I?" You felt a tear slip down your cheek, hot and humiliating. "Tonight. Tell me you didn't let someone touch you tonight, Dean. Tell me you didn't play the part."
He didn't answer right away. And in that hesitation, the world crumbled just a little bit more.
"I was drunk," he said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "Some girl from the sophomore class was toasted. She stumbled into me by the keg. She started talking, leaning into me. I didn't… I didn't invite it."
"But you didn't move," you finished for him, the realization settling into your chest like a block of ice. "Because it feels good, doesn't it? Having them look at you like that."
Dean turned his head, his gray eyes flashing with a sudden, volatile anger. "Yeah, it feels good! You know why? Because at least when I'm downstairs, people look at me like they actually want me there. I come up here, and you look at me like I'm a monster. You look at me like I've already broken your heart, so what the fuck is the difference if I do or I don't?"
The words hit you like a physical blow. You flinched, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
"Is that your excuse?" your voice trembled. "You're going to slide back into your old habits because I'm not cheerful enough for you? Because I'm insecure about the fact that my boyfriend used to treat women like sports cars?"
"I don't want an excuse because I didn't do anything wrong!" Dean shouted, finally losing his temper. He stood up, towering over the bed, his chest heaving. "I didn't kiss anyone. I didn't take anyone upstairs. I came up here to be with you. But you're so convinced I'm going to ruin this that you're ruining it yourself!"
The argument broke something. Not a clean break, but a hairline fracture that made every step afterward agonizing.
The next morning was a masterclass in avoidance. Dean left for early practice before the sun was fully up, leaving the bed cold and the house smelling of regret. You spent the day in the library, staring at the same page of a textbook for four hours, the words blurring into a meaningless jumble of black ink.
By the time Friday night rolled around, the atmosphere in the off-campus house had shifted from a cold war to an absolute blackout.
There was another gathering—there was always another gathering. The Briar hockey house was a revolving door of noise. You had tried to stay in your room, but the isolation was eating you alive. You needed water. You needed to prove to yourself that you could walk through his world without shattering.
When you reached the bottom of the stairs, the heat of the crowded living room hit you like a wall. The air was thick with the scent of cheap vodka and sweat.
You saw him almost immediately.
Dean was leaning against the archway leading into the dining room. He had a red plastic cup held loosely in one hand, his head tilted back against the wood frame. He looked devastatingly handsome—wearing a black henley that showed off the broad expanse of his shoulders, his blonde hair perfectly disheveled.
And he wasn't alone.
There were three girls huddled around him. One of them, a stunning brunette with legs that went on for miles, was laughing hysterically at something he’d said. She was standing entirely too close, her forearm resting against Dean’s chest.
Your breath caught in your throat. You waited for him to step back. You waited for him to do what he’d promised—to show that he was yours.
Instead, Dean took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd over the rim of his cup. He looked reckless. He looked angry. And when his gaze finally landed on you standing at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes hardened.
He didn't move away from the brunette. In fact, he leaned in a fraction closer, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle and press her hand flat against his collarbone.
It wasn't a betrayal of the body—not yet. But it was a betrayal of the truce. He was weaponizing his past, using the exact thing that tore you apart to punish you for doubting him. He was proving that he could go back to the old Dean in a heartbeat if he chose to.
The noise of the party faded into a high-pitched ringing in your ears. You couldn't breathe. You turned on your heel and walked straight back up the stairs, your feet moving on autopilot until you slammed his bedroom door shut behind you.
The lock clicked into place. It was a pathetic little piece of brass, completely useless against a guy who could probably kick the door off its hinges if he wanted to, but it was the only barrier you had left.
It was nearly 3:00 AM when the doorknob rattled.
You were sitting on the window sill, your knees pulled up to your chest, watching the snow begin to fall outside. The party downstairs had finally died out, leaving the house in that hollow, haunted quiet that always followed a rager.
The knob rattled again, harder this time.
"Open the door," Dean’s voice came through the wood. He sounded exhausted, the anger replaced by a heavy, slurred fatigue.
You didn't move. "No."
"Open the fucking door, sweetheart. I'm not doing this right now." A heavy thud indicated he had leaned his forehead against the paneling. "Come on. Just let me in."
"Go sleep on the couch, Dean. Or go find the brunette from the kitchen. I'm sure she has space for you."
A long silence followed. For a second, you thought he might actually leave. Then, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the room. Dean had used a paperclip on the external lock—an old trick he’d used a thousand times when his roommates locked themselves out.
The door swung open.
Dean stood in the doorway, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw covered in a dark layer of stubble. He looked entirely undone. The black henley was wrinkled, and the smell of alcohol was overpowering. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, but he didn't approach the window. He stayed by the threshold, looking at you like you were a stranger.
"You're packing your things," he noted, his voice flat. He was looking at the duffel bag sitting open on the desk, half-filled with your clothes.
"I can't do this anymore, Dean," you whispered, looking out at the snow. "This isn't a relationship. It's an interrogation. I'm constantly waiting for you to slip up, and you're constantly trying to prove that you can."
Dean closed his eyes, his head dropping back against the wall. "I didn't touch her."
"You let her touch you. To hurt me." You turned your head to look at him, the tears finally flowing freely down your face. "You used her to punish me for being hurt. Do you have any idea how cruel that is?"
"I was angry!" he burst out, his eyes flying open, raw and bleeding with an emotion he rarely let anyone see. He took three long strides across the room, stopping just inches from where you sat on the sill. He reached down, grasping your wrists, his grip tight but not hurting. "I am so fucking angry because I don't know how to fix this! I stopped going out. I stopped talking to people. I gave up everything because I wanted you to see that I was serious. And it’s still not enough!"
"Because you haven't changed the way you think, Dean!" you cried out, pulling your wrists from his grip. "The second things get hard between us, you run right back to the validation of random girls. You use them as a shield so you don't have to feel rejected by me. If you really changed, you wouldn't need them to feel like a man."
Dean flinched as if he’d been struck. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking incredibly pale in the dim light of the room. His hands fell to his sides, his fingers twitching against his thighs.
The silence that followed was absolute. The finality of it pressed down on the room, heavy and suffocating.
"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. The anger was gone, leaving behind something far worse: total defeat. "You think I'm that hollow?"
"I think you're terrified of being vulnerable," you said, your heart breaking into a million jagged pieces as you spoke the words. "And I'm terrified of being the one who gets destroyed when you decide it's too hard."
Dean looked at the half-packed duffel bag, then back at you. He didn't try to touch you again. He didn't launch into another defense. For the first time since you’d met him, Dean Di Laurentis had nothing to say.
"Fine," he whispered.
He turned around and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.
You sat on the window sill for a long time, watching the snow blanket the campus in a deceptive, pristine white. Downstairs, you heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.
There was no shouting. There was no slammed door. There was no war, and there was certainly no peace. There was only the long, freezing winter ahead, and the terrible realization that sometimes, loving someone wasn't enough to save them from themselves.
The rhythmic thump-thump of the tires over the highway seams was the only sound filling the cabin of Logan’s car, layered beneath the low, acoustic playlist humming from the speakers. Outside the windows, the familiar Massachusetts landscape had long since bled into the rolling hills of a neighboring state, the trees stripped bare by the late November chill.
In the passenger seat, you shifted, pulling Logan’s oversized knit sweater tighter around yourself. It smelled like him—warm spice, leather, and the faint trace of hotel soap.
Logan kept one hand lax on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the open road ahead. But his thumb was rhythmically tracing circles over the back of your hand, which rested on the center console beneath his.
"You okay?" you asked softly, turning your head to look at his profile. The fading afternoon sun caught the sharp line of his jaw, softening the usual intense look in his eyes.
"Yeah," Logan said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He glanced at you briefly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he looked back at the road. "More than okay. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how this is the first time in four years I haven't spent the Wednesday before Thanksgiving dreading the next morning," he admitted. The honesty was quiet, lacking his usual deflective humor.
You squeezed his hand. You knew the weight he carried. Everyone at Briar University saw John Logan as the ultimate package—the star hockey player, the handsome, easygoing guy who could charm anyone. But you knew the boy underneath. You knew about his father’s suffocating expectations, and more painfully, you knew about his mother.
This year, his mom was in a rehabilitation facility a few states over. When the holiday break approached, Logan had been a mess of silent anxiety, caught between the guilt of not being able to have a "traditional" family holiday and the dread of spending it alone in an empty hockey house while everyone else went home.
Then, you had stepped in. You suggested a road trip. Just the two of you, a cozy rented cabin, a small turkey breast you’d figure out how to roast together, and absolutely no expectations.
"I was talking to Garrett before we left," Logan said, breaking the silence again. "He asked if I was bummed about missing the annual team dinner tonight. Tucker usually makes this insane deep-fried turkey, and the house gets completely trashed."
"And? Are you bummed?"
Logan pulled the car into a scenic overlook lane, bringing the vehicle to a smooth stop. The view stretched out over a valley painted in twilight hues of purple and deep orange. He turned off the engine, the sudden quiet of the car making the space between you feel incredibly intimate.
He unbuckled, shifting his body in the seat so he was facing you completely. He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.
"Not even a little bit," Logan murmured, his blue eyes searching yours. "For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving has just been a reminder of everything that’s broken. Either my dad was drinking and screaming about hockey, or we were pretending everything was fine when my mom was clearly unraveling. Last year, I spent the day trying to block it all out."
He took a sharp breath, his thumb sweeping across your cheekbone. His eyes grew shiny, a rare wave of raw sentimentality breaking through his usual cool exterior.
"But sitting here with you? Driving to a place where nobody expects anything from me, where I don't have to be the fixer or the caretaker… it’s the first time I’ve ever felt what a real holiday is supposed to feel like. Normal. Safe."
Your heart swelled, a lump forming in your own throat at his vulnerability. "Logan…"
"I'm serious," he interrupted gently, his voice cracking just a fraction. "I don't think I've ever properly thanked you. For not running away when things get heavy. For looking at all the messy, complicated baggage I carry and just… holding my hand through it. You gave me an escape, but more than that, you gave me a home. Right here."
You reached up, placing your hand over his where it rested on your cheek, leaning into his warmth. "You don't ever have to thank me for that, John. I love you. The messy parts, the hockey parts, all of it. I want to be wherever you are."
A breathtakingly beautiful smile broke across Logan's face, the tension completely melting from his shoulders. He leaned across the console, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss.
It wasn't like the hurried, breathless kisses you shared in the hallways at Briar, or the passionate ones behind closed doors. This kiss was slow, deep, and heavy with a reverence that made your toes curl. It tasted like promises and felt like a profound relief. He poured every ounce of his gratitude, his love, and his relief into the way his lips moved against yours.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming a little shallow in the quiet car.
"God, I'm a lucky bastard," he whispered, a chuckle vibrating in his chest.
"Yes, you are," you teased softly, opening your eyes to see him grinning. "But so am I."
Logan kissed the tip of your nose before finally reluctantly pulling back into his seat. He restarted the engine, the heater roaring back to life to ward off the freezing twilight air.
"Alright," Logan said, putting the car back into drive and checking his mirrors, though his eyes kept darting back to you with an undeniable spark. "According to the GPS, we're about forty minutes away from the cabin. What are the chances you let me skip the cooking duties tonight and just worship you instead?"
You laughed, the sound bright against the darkening sky outside. "We have a whole pie to bake for tomorrow, Logan. You're on prep duty."
"Aye, aye, captain," he smirked, his cocky, playful energy returning, but his fingers remained tightly locked with yours, anchored together for the rest of the drive.
Warning(s): Fluff, mild body insecurity/anxiety, Garrett being an absolute sweetheart.
The invitation had been taped to the fridge for a week, a glossy cardstock reminder of your impending doom: The Annual Briar Hockey Kickoff Pool Party.
To anyone else, it sounded like the event of the semester. Sun, music, free alcohol, and a house full of elite athletes. But to you? It felt like a public execution.
You stood in front of the full-length mirror in Garrett’s bedroom, staring at your reflection in your swimsuit. The fabric dug in slightly at your hips, and every perceived flaw, every soft curve, and every insecurity you usually hid beneath oversized sweaters felt magnified under the harsh bedroom lighting.
Everyone there is going to look like a Sports Illustrated model, your brain whispered. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb.
A wave of sudden, suffocating panic washed over you. Your throat tightened, and before you could stop them, hot tears spilled over your eyelashes. You quickly sat on the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in your chest.
You didn't hear the door click open, but you definitely felt the shift in the room when Garrett walked in.
"Hey, beautiful, Tucker is downstairs honking his horn like a maniac because—" Garrett stopped dead in his tracks. The easy, cocky grin vanished from his face, replaced instantly by pure concern. He dropped his gym bag to the floor with a heavy thud. "Hey. Hey, what's wrong?"
In a second, he was on his knees in front of you, his large hands gently prying your wrists away from your face. His gray eyes scanned your tear-stained cheeks, full of a fierce, protective worry.
"I can't go," you choked out, your voice small and thick with embarrassment. "I can't go to the party, Garrett. You should just go without me."
Garrett frowned, his thumbs softly wiping away the tears tracking down your cheeks. "What do you mean I should go without you? I don't want to go without you. Did someone say something? Did Tucker open his mouth? Because I will punch him, I don't care if it's preseason—"
"No! No, no one said anything," you interrupted, looking down at your lap because looking at his perfect, sculpted chest—already shirtless and clad in boardshorts—was making you feel infinitely worse. "It's just… the swimsuit. And the party. Everyone is going to look perfect, Garrett. The hockey girls, the cheerleaders… and then there’s me. I just don't feel good. I feel… big. And soft. And I don’t want people looking at me and wondering why you're with me."
The room went dead silent.
For a terrifying second, you thought you had annoyed him. But when you finally dared to look up, Garrett wasn't annoyed. He looked completely heartbroken.
"Is that really what you think?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register.
You shrugged miserably, a fresh tear escaping.
Garrett let out a long breath, leaning forward so his forehead rested against yours for a brief, grounding moment. When he pulled back, his hands moved from your face down to your waist, his palms warm against your skin. He didn't pinch, he didn't adjust—he just held you, his grip firm and steady.
"Look at me," he commanded softly. You met his gaze. "You are hands down the most beautiful person in every single room you walk into. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your boyfriend and it’s my job. I’m saying it because it’s a fact."
"Garrett—"
"Nope, shut up, I’m talking," he interrupted, a faint, tender smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You think I give a shit about what anyone else at that party thinks? Half of those guys are idiots who couldn't find a book in a library, let alone dictate what’s attractive. And the girls? They aren't you. I don't want them. I want you."
His hands slid back up to cup your face again, forcing you to take in the absolute sincerity radiating from him. Garrett Graham was a lot of things—cocky, competitive, a golden-boy captain—but he never lied to you.
"Every single inch of you is perfect," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips before snapping back to yours. "If anyone dares to look at you and wonder why I’m with you, it’s because they’re wondering how a guy like me scored someone so completely out of his league. Because that’s the truth. I’m the lucky one here."
Your breath hitched, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally starting to unravel under the sheer weight of his devotion. "You really mean that?"
"With everything I've got," he said fiercely. He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It tasted like mint and felt like safety. When he pulled away, he gave your waist a playful little squeeze. "Now, if you want to stay home, we will stay home. I’ll text Logan and tell him we’re out, and we can order a pizza and watch whatever terrible reality TV show you want. I don’t care about the party. I just care about you."
You looked down at your swimsuit again. It didn't magically change, and the insecurities didn't completely vanish—that's not how anxiety works. But looking at Garrett, seeing the absolute worship in his eyes, made the voice in your head feel a whole lot smaller.
You wanted to go. You wanted to see him be the captain, wanted to laugh with his friends, and honestly? You wanted to wear the damn swimsuit.
"Can we… can I wear one of your oversized button-downs over it? Just for a bit?" you asked quietly.
Garrett’s face lit up with a brilliant, blinding smile. "You can have my entire wardrobe. Hold on."
He bounced up, walking over to his closet and tossing a lightweight, unbuttoned white linen shirt onto the bed. "Here. It'll look hot on you anyway."
You let out a wet laugh, wiping your eyes one last time as you slipped your arms into the shirt. It smelled entirely like him—mahogany, cedarwood, and clean laundry. It draped down past your hips, giving you the perfect amount of comfort.
"Better?" Garrett asked, walking back over and wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, looking at your joint reflection in the mirror. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his chest pressed flat against your back.
You looked at the two of you in the glass. He looked big and protective; you looked safe and held.
"Better," you whispered, turning your head to kiss his cheek.
"Good," Garrett smirked, his usual playful arrogance returning now that he knew you were okay. He nipped playfully at your earlobe. "Because you look incredible. And honestly, I’m probably going to spend the whole night trying to keep my hands to myself, so really, you’re the one causing the problems here."
"Oh, shut up, Graham," you laughed, shoving his chest playfully as you grabbed your sunglasses.
"Never," he grinned, taking your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours as he led you out into the afternoon sun.
The Hawaiian sun was entirely different from the sun back home. It didn’t just warm you; it practically wrapped its arms around you, smelling of salt water, hibiscus, and the faint, ever-present scent of aviation fuel from the nearby base.
You sat on the edge of a weathered wooden picnic table, swinging your legs and trying not to look too impatiently at the airfield. You had been in Oahu for exactly three days, using up every last bit of your saved pennies and vacation time to visit Danny. Two years of long-distance letters, brief long-distance phone calls that crackled with static, and aching loneliness had all led to this week.
"Hey. Beautiful."
You turned so fast your sundress whipped around your knees.
Danny was walking toward you, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag. He had his flight suit stripped down to his waist, the white undershirt highlighting the deep tan he’d picked up since being stationed at Wheeler Field. His dark hair was a messy, windswept mop, and his lopsided, boyish smile was intact. The exact smile that had made you fall head over heels for him two years ago.
"You're late, Lieutenant Walker," you teased, though you were already sliding off the table to meet him halfway.
"Blame the P-40, darlin'. The carburetor was giving me hell," Danny said, his soft Southern drawl wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. He dropped the rag and caught you by the waist, lifting you right off your feet.
You laughed, burying your face into his shoulder. He smelled like grease, sweat, and the crisp outdoor air, and to you, it was better than any expensive perfume. When he set you down, he didn't let go. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, his hazel eyes scanning your face as if he still couldn't quite believe you were actually here, in the flesh.
"I missed you so much," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.
"I missed you more," you replied against his mouth. "Are you finally off duty?"
"Fresh out of chores," Danny grinned, giving your waist a gentle squeeze. "And I’ve got a surprise for you. Go get your cardigan. We're going for a ride."
Danny’s surprise involved a borrowed, slightly beat-up Willys Jeep and a winding drive away from the base, up into the lush, green hills overlooking the ocean. The wind whipped your hair into a wild nest, but you couldn't care less. You looked over at Danny, who was navigating the dirt road with one hand on the wheel, humming a faint big band tune under his breath. He looked incredibly handsome, having quickly changed into a clean button-down shirt.
Eventually, the Jeep sputtered to a halt near a cliffside clearing. Below you, the Pacific Ocean stretched out like a massive sheet of crushed blue velvet, reflecting the brilliant pinks and oranges of the approaching sunset.
"Danny, it’s beautiful," you breathed, stepping out of the Jeep.
"Not as beautiful as you," he said automatically. It was a line Rafe probably would have delivered with a smooth, practiced wink, but Danny said it with such earnest, blushing sincerity that it made your heart ache.
He walked over to the back of the Jeep and pulled out a small wicker basket. "Brought some sandwiches from the mess hall. They ain't fancy, but the view makes up for it."
You sat together on a wool blanket spread over the grass, watching the sun dip lower. For an hour, it felt like the rest of the world—the looming threat of war, the strictly structured military life, the distance that usually separated you—simply vanished. It was just you and Danny, laughing about his latest mishaps with Rafe, talking about home, and holding hands so tightly your fingers turned white.
As the sky turned a deep, bruised purple, a quiet fell over the two of you. Danny had gone unusually silent, his thumb tracing rhythmic circles on the back of your hand. He kept clearing his throat, staring out at the horizon as if he were trying to memorize a flight plan.
"Danny? You okay? You're awfully quiet," you noted, nudging his shoulder with yours.
He swallowed hard, turning to face you fully. He shifted so he was kneeling on the blanket in front of you. The sudden seriousness in his eyes made your breath hitch.
"I’ve been thinking a lot," Danny began, his voice a little rougher than usual. "About the last two years. Every time I get up in the air, when everything else is loud and fast, the only thing that keeps me steady is knowing I've got your letters waiting for me on the ground. Knowing I've got you."
"Danny..." Your heart began to hammer against your ribs.
"I know things are uncertain right now," he continued, reaching into his pocket with a slightly trembling hand. "The world's going crazy, and being an army pilot... it means I don't always get to promise tomorrow. But I want to. I want to promise you all my tomorrows."
He pulled out a small, velvet box. When he snapped it open, a simple, elegant gold ring with a modest, sparkling diamond caught the last rays of the Hawaiian sun.
"Two years ain't enough," Danny whispered, his eyes shining with a mixture of nerves and absolute devotion. "I want a lifetime. Will you marry me, darlin'?"
The tears you had been trying to hold back finally spilled over. You didn't even look at the ring; you just looked at him—your sweet, brave, goofy Danny, who loved you with everything he had.
"Yes! Oh my god, Danny, yes!"
A massive, relieved grin broke across his face. His hands were shaking a little as he took your left hand, sliding the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly. Before he could even stand up, you threw your arms around his neck, sending both of you tumbling backward onto the blanket.
Danny laughed, a bright, booming sound, wrapping his arms securely around your back and rolling so he was holding you close against his chest. He kissed you thoroughly, tasting of salt and pure happiness, while the stars began to blink awake over the Pacific.
"I love you," he murmured into your hair, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the entire world. "We're gonna be alright. No matter what comes next, you and me."
And looking up at the sky, wrapped in his arms with the gold ring catching the starlight, you believed him.
The ink on the marriage certificate was barely dry, and yet your entire extended family in Manitowoc was already looking at your midsection every time you reached for a second helping of pot roast.
Major John "Bucky" Egan, a man who stared down German flak for a living, had never looked more terrified than when your Aunt Martha loudly wondered at the reception if she’d be knitting baby booties by Christmas.
Which brought you here: tucked into the passenger seat of Bucky’s prized convertible, the humid June air whipping your hair into a frenzy as the odometer racked up miles away from Wisconsin. The destination? A quiet, secluded cabin on the East Coast where the Atlantic breeze could drown out the sound of expectations.
Bucky kept one hand lazy on the steering wheel and the other firmly planted on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over your skin.
"You’re quiet over there, Mrs. Egan," he murmured, his eyes cutting to you with that trademark, crooked smirk. "Regretting signing up for the long haul?"
"Just wondering if your foot can push that gas pedal any harder," you teased, leaning your head back against the leather. "If we stay in Ohio any longer, I think I’m going to melt."
Bucky let out a low bark of laughter, his fingers tightening slightly on your leg. "Oh, sweetheart. We haven't even hit the real humidity yet. I fully intend to make you sweat before this trip is over."
You felt a flush creep up your neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the summer heat.
By the time you reached the coast, the sun was dropping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and gold. The cabin was exactly what you needed: isolated, surrounded by whispering pines, with a porch that looked straight out onto the restless ocean.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind you, removing the rest of the world from the equation, the atmosphere shifted. The playful, exhausting energy of the road trip evaporated, replaced by something thick and heavy.
Bucky dropped the suitcases on the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. In the dim, oceanic twilight filtering through the windows, his blue eyes looked almost dark.
"Come here," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
You didn't hesitate. You walked right into his space, your hands finding the lapels of his jacket. Bucky didn't waste time either; his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there wasn't a breath of air between you. He smelled like tobacco, leather, and the salty sea air.
"Finally," he breathed against your lips, right before he kissed you.
It wasn't the sweet, gentle kiss he’d given you in front of the priest, or the quick pecks he stole at gas stations. This was hungry. Desperate. The kiss of a man who had been patient for hundreds of miles and had officially run out of supply.
His hands slid down to cup your hips, lifting you slightly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist. He groaned into your mouth, carrying you backward until your spine met the sturdy wood of the bedroom door.
"Bucky," you gasped when he tore his mouth away to bite at the sensitive spot right beneath your jaw. "The... the bags. We should unpack."
"To hell with the bags," he muttered, his hot breath anchoring you to the spot. His fingers were already working on the buttons of your dress, his touch frantic but precise. "And to hell with your aunt, and my dad, and everyone else who wants a piece of us."
He paused, leaning his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he looked down at you. The cocky pilot facade was completely gone, replaced by a raw, fierce devotion.
"I want a family with you more than anything," Bucky whispered, his thumb catching a bead of perspiration at your temple. "But right now? This isn't for them. This is just for us. Understand?"
You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Just us."
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, the familiar, devastating charm of John Egan flashing in the dark. He slid the dress off your shoulders, letting it pool on the floor, his eyes tracking the movement with a hunger that made your knees weak.
The coastal air inside the cabin was warm and heavy, clinging to your skin as Bucky lifted you onto the bed. Every touch of his calloused hands, every slide of his mouth over your skin, felt magnified in the humid dark. He moved with a lazy, deliberate intensity, taking his time to map every inch of you, completely unbothered by the sheen of perspiration building between your bodies.
By the time he finally came down over you, losing himself in the heat of the moment, the rest of the world—Wisconsin, the war, the future—completely ceased to exist. There was only the sound of the crashing waves outside, the heavy, desperate rhythm of his breathing, and the undeniable truth that you were entirely his.
Five months later
The screen door of your family’s Manitowoc home hadn’t even slammed shut before the kitchen brigade went dead silent.
It was late October, and the crisp Wisconsin autumn air was a welcome relief from the grueling summer heat that had chased you all the way to the Atlantic. You walked into the house first, carrying a heavy dish of roasted potatoes, with Bucky trailing just a step behind you, balancing a crate of fresh apples on his shoulder.
Aunt Martha was the first to look up from the stove. Her eyes didn’t travel to your face, or to the new knit scarf you were wearing, or even to Bucky’s crisp leather jacket. Her gaze dropped like a stone straight to your waistline.
You were wearing a soft, wool sweater dress—a concession to the fact that none of your pre-wedding skirts would close anymore. Beneath the thick fabric, the distinct, unmistakable curve of a five-month bump was proudly on display, a perfectly rounded testament to that warm, humid getaway.
Martha dropped her wooden spoon straight into the gravy. "John Egan," she gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks.
In an instant, the kitchen erupted. Your mother let out a high-pitched shriek, dropping a tea towel, while your cousins abandoned the dining room table to crowd into the doorway. Within seconds, you were swarmed by a flurry of perfume, loud cheering, and hands gently hovering near your stomach.
Through the chaos, you caught Bucky’s eye.
The crate was on the floor now, and he was leaning back against the kitchen counter with his hands tucked casually into his pockets. He looked utterly smug. The exact same cocky, self-satisfied grin he wore whenever he successfully landed a battered B-17 was plastered across his face. He caught your wink and offered a slow, deliberate nod, completely soaking in the adoration of your entire extended family.
"I knew it!" your mother cried, carefully enveloping you in a hug that avoided putting any pressure on your midsection. "The East Coast air! I told your father, there’s something in the water out there."
"Oh, it wasn't the water, Ma," your brother chimed in from the hallway, earning himself a sharp smack on the arm from Aunt Martha.
"Hush up, Tommy," Martha scolded, though she was beaming as she turned her sharp gaze onto your husband. She walked right up to him, poking a finger into his chest. "Well, Major. I suppose you can actually fly a plane and keep a timeline. Christmas might be cutting it close, but I’ll have those booties done by March."
Bucky didn't miss a beat. He offered Martha a charming, devastatingly polite bow of his head. "We do our best to execute orders efficiently, Aunt Martha. Though I have to admit, the training was the best part of the mission."
You cleared your throat loudly, your cheeks burning a bright crimson. "Bucky."
He looked over at you, his blue eyes dancing with unadulterated mischief. He walked past your aunts, sliding a heavy arm around your waist and pulling your side flush against his. His large hand immediately found your stomach, his fingers spreading wide across the curve where your baby was growing. The casual possessiveness of his touch immediately brought you right back to that dark bedroom on the coast, to the heavy wood of the door and the promise he had made you.
"What can I say, sweetheart?" Bucky murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed your ear, his voice dropping to that low, rumbling register meant for you alone. "When an Egan sets his mind to making something happen, he doesn't mind putting in the sweat."
If you asked anyone at Briar University who John Logan was, they’d give you the same blueprint: effortless charm, a devastating smirk, and a strict, iron-clad no-strings-attached policy. He was the guy you had a good time with, but you never, ever expected a text back the next morning.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker joked about it constantly. They called him emotionally unavailable. A certified heartbreaker. The guy who simply didn’t have a romantic bone in his body.
But they only saw Logan with the lights on.
They didn’t see him in the dead of night, lying awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling while the weight of the silence in his room threatened to crush him. And they didn't understand the habit he had developed over the last year—a habit that had recently started drawing raised eyebrows from the team.
"Dude, seriously, what are you watching?" Garrett asked, tossing his hockey gloves into his locker. He leaned over, trying to peek at Logan’s phone screen. "Every time we have a five-minute break, you’re glued to that thing. Did you find some underground trick-shot channel or something?"
Logan didn’t look up. He instantly locked the screen, slipping the phone into his pocket with a practiced, fluid motion. "Nothing, man. Just checking some tape."
"Tape?" Dean snorted from two lockers down. "Since when does game tape involve a girl laughing? I heard it yesterday, Logan. It sounded like a chick. Are you keeping a secret hookup from us?"
"No," Logan said, his voice flat. He grabbed his duffel bag and zipped it shut with a sharp yank. "It’s nothing. Drop it."
He walked out of the locker room before they could push any further, leaving his teammates exchanging puzzled glances.
Logan wasn’t lying about one thing—it wasn’t a secret hookup. He didn't do hookups that meant anything, and he certainly didn't do girlfriends. The girls at Briar thought he was playing a game, keeping his walls up to look mysterious and unattainable. They thought he was just a typical, arrogant hockey player saving his heart for the NHL.
They had no idea his heart wasn't his to give away anymore.
Later that night, the house was finally quiet. Garrett was out with Hannah, and the rest of the guys were asleep. Logan sat on the back porch, the crisp autumn air biting at his skin, but he barely felt it. He pulled his phone from his pocket.
His thumb hovered over the photo gallery, navigating to a hidden, locked folder.
He didn't click on a hockey highlight. He clicked on a video dated two summers ago.
The screen lit up, illuminating the dark porch. The video was shaky, filmed from Logan’s perspective. It started on a sun-drenched beach, the waves crashing softly in the background. Then, the camera panned to the side, focusing on a girl running along the shoreline.
You.
You were wearing an oversized Briar University hoodie—the one Logan had proudly given you the day he signed his commitment letter. Your hair was wild and whipped by the wind, and when you realized he was filming, you stopped, turning around to face him with a breathless, radiant smile.
"Logan, stop! Delete that, I look like a mess," your voice echoed from the tiny phone speaker. It was a sound he used to hear every single day, a sound that was once as natural to him as breathing.
"Never," Logan’s own voice responded from the video, sounding younger, happier, completely untouched by tragedy. "You look beautiful, standard."
In the video, you let out a melodious, ringing laugh—the exact laugh Dean had overheard in the locker room. You jogged back toward him, kicking up sand, and threw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his chest while the camera tilted wildly toward the sky.
"I love you, Johnny," your whispered voice came through the speaker, clear as day. "Forever, okay? No matter where we go."
"Forever," his past self promised.
The video ended, looping back to the frozen thumbnail of your smiling face.
Logan closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cold house siding. A suffocating tightness gripped his chest.
None of the boys knew about you. They didn't know that before he ever set foot on Briar’s campus, Logan had already been completely, irrevocably in love. You had been his high school sweetheart, his biggest cheerleader, and the girl he had planned his entire future around. You were supposed to come to Briar with him.
But fate had a cruel, twisted sense of humor.
The summer after high school graduation was supposed to be the best time of their lives. Instead, it became Logan's living nightmare. A rainy night, a slick highway, and a drunk driver who crossed the center line had shattered his world into a million pieces. You were gone before the ambulance even arrived.
Logan had showed up to Briar a month later as a ghost of himself. He poured all his pain, anger, and grief into hockey, turning into the hard, unfeeling player everyone knew him as today. He didn't date because the very idea of holding another girl's hand felt like a betrayal. He didn't let anyone in because the last time he loved someone, she was ripped away from him, leaving a bleeding crater in his soul.
"I miss you," Logan whispered into the empty night air, his voice cracking. It was the only time he allowed himself to break, the only time the stoic facade cracked.
He looked back down at the screen, his thumb gently tracing the digital outline of your cheekbone. He played the video again, just to hear the sound of your laugh ring out in the quiet night, letting your voice anchor him to the only girl he would ever love.
The heavy, terrifying fog didn’t clear up all at once. For hours, it receded in agonizingly slow waves. Every time you drifted into a restless, drug-induced sleep, you would startle awake with a gasp, panic spiking in your chest as your brain reminded you of the hallway and the hands on your waist.
But every single time your eyes snapped open, Logan was right there. He didn’t use his phone. He didn’t fall asleep. He just sat in the dim light of his bedside lamp, his thumb lazily tracing soothing circles over the back of your hand.
Around 3:30 AM, the trembling finally started. Your body was processing the last of the toxin, leaving you shivering violently despite the warmth of the room. Your teeth chattered, a quiet, frustrated sob slipping past your lips.
"Hey, hey, shh. I’ve got you," Logan murmured.
Seeing you miserable and shaking broke something in him. Abandoning the chair, he kicked off his sneakers and climbed onto the mattress, keeping his movements deliberate and completely transparent. He didn't pull you into him; instead, he lay down next to you, on top of the covers, wrapping his massive, heavy arm over your waist like a protective weight blanket.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rumbling vibration close to your ear. "Tell me to move if it's too much."
"No," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Please stay."
You turned into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. The sheer bulk of him—solid, warm, and entirely unyielding—grounded you. The shivering slowly began to subside, replaced by the steady, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.
"I'm not going anywhere," he promised softly, his chin resting against the top of your head. "You're entirely safe in this room. I promise you."
When you woke up again, the room was quiet. The sunlight filtering through the blinds was soft and golden, illuminating the messy, lived-in space of a college athlete—hockey sticks lined up in the corner, a stack of textbooks on the desk, and a framed photo of Logan and his roommates grinning on the ice.
Logan was still beside you, propped up on one elbow. He looked remarkably awake, his dark hair messy, watching you with an expression that was intensely gentle.
"Hey," he said softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "Welcome back."
You blinked, realizing you were completely tangled in his limbs, your hand resting over his heart. You pulled back slightly, suddenly self-conscious. "Hi. Sorry. I didn't mean to crowd you."
Logan let out a low laugh, reaching up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on your jawline for a fraction of a second too long, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Trust me, you’re not crowding me. How’s the head?"
"Heavy. Like a hangover, but... angrier," you admitted, sitting up slowly. The dizziness was mostly gone, replaced by a deep exhaustion.
"That makes sense. You took a heavy hit last night," Logan said, sitting up with you. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed a clean, incredibly soft Briar Hockey hoodie from the foot of his bed, handing it to you. "Put this on. It's warmer than whatever you're wearing."
You slid the hoodie over your head. It smelled exactly like him—clean, masculine, and comforting. It swallowed you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips.
Logan didn’t take you downstairs into the chaos of the hockey house. He knew better. Instead, he left the room for ten minutes and returned carrying a mug of hot tea and a plate of plain toast.
"I told the guys to keep it down," Logan said, setting the tray on his nightstand. He sat back down on the edge of the mattress, handing you the mug. "Garrett and Tucker caught the guy before he left the house last night. Garrett called the campus cops. They have him on camera at the bar downstairs, and they found two extra pills in his pocket."
A massive weight lifted off your chest. Your eyes welled with tears, but this time, they were tears of pure relief. "He's actually caught?"
"He's done," Logan said firmly, his jaw clenching for a brief second before he looked back at you, his eyes softening. "He won't ever be near you again. Briar is throwing him out, and the police are handling the rest."
You took a sip of the warm tea, looking at the notorious campus playboy sitting on the edge of his bed, patiently waiting for you to eat.
"Why did you stay up with me all night?" you asked quietly. "You could have just called an ambulance, or left me with a girl from the party."
Logan looked down at his hands, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck. He looked up, his gaze locking onto yours with total sincerity.
"Because the second I saw you in that hallway, I knew I wanted to be the one who looked after you," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "And honestly? Looking at you right now in my hockey hoodie... I know I made the right call."
You smiled, the last remnants of the night's terror finally fading away into the warm morning light. "I'm really glad you did."
Logan’s smile widened, a flash of that classic, dimpled charm breaking through his exhaustion. He reached out and gave your ankle a playful, grounding squeeze through the thick comforter.
"Alright, enough of the heavy stuff for a second," he said, his tone shifting into something lighter, easier. "If you’re going to be wearing my official Briar Athletics gear, you need to know the rules."
You raised an eyebrow, leaning your hands against the warm ceramic of the mug. "Oh, really? There are rules to wearing an oversized sweatshirt?"
"Strict ones," Logan said solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. "Rule number one: you are legally obligated to watch at least one game from the glass. Rule number two: if Garrett tries to steal your toast later, you have to stab his hand with a fork. He lacks boundaries."
A genuine laugh bubbled out of your chest—the first real, unburdened sound you’d made since yesterday. Hearing it made Logan freeze for a split second. His eyes dropped to your lips, a soft, incredibly satisfied look washing over his face, before he caught himself and met your gaze again.
"I think I can handle rule number two," you said, pulling the long sleeves over your hands until only your fingertips peeked out. "As for rule number one... I might need a personal tour guide. Hockey rules confuse me."
Logan looked deeply, dramatically offended. He placed a heavy palm over his heart. "Confuse you? The beautiful simplicity of icing and power plays? Clearly, your education has been severely lacking. Don't worry. I’m a very patient teacher."
He shifted a little on the mattress, drawing one leg up onto the bed so he was facing you completely. The casual intimacy of the morning was setting a new, slower rhythm between you. The sharp, jagged terror of the night before was finally dissolving, leaving behind something quiet, warm, and heavy with anticipation.
"Let’s start with a baseline test," Logan murmured, leaning his elbow on his knee, his face just a foot away from yours. "Who is your favorite Briar hockey player?"
"Well," you teased, looking up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. "I hear Miller has a great slap shot. And Garrett is the captain, right? That’s pretty impressive."
Logan scoffed, a competitive glint entering his eyes, though the massive grin on his face gave him away. "Garrett’s a hog. And Miller misses the net fifty percent of the time. Try again."
"Hmm." You looked back at him, letting your gaze linger on the sharp angle of his jaw, the messy dark hair, and the intense, protective warmth in his eyes. The playful banter faded just enough for the underlying tension to rise to the surface. "I think my favorite is the guy who pulls late-night security shifts."
Logan’s expression softened instantly. The cocky athlete receded, leaving behind the boy who had held your hand for four hours in the dark. He reached out, his thumb gently brushing against the side of your neck, just above the collar of his hoodie. His touch was incredibly light, a tentative question rather than a demand, sending a pleasant shiver straight down your spine.
"Good answer," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register. "He’s a big fan of yours, too."
He didn't rush it. He didn't lean in for a kiss or try to close the distance too quickly; he just kept his hand resting gently against the side of your neck, his thumb tracing a slow, comforting line along your jaw. He was letting you set the pace, making sure you knew that every boundary was entirely yours to draw.
"You still tired?" he asked softly.
"A little," you admitted. "Just... drained."
Logan nodded understandingly. He shifted back against his pillows, stretching his long legs out and lifting his arm in an invitation that didn't feel forced. "Come here. Just rest for a bit. We don't have to go anywhere yet."
You didn't hesitate. You slid over, resting your head against his broad chest once more. He wrapped his arm around you loosely, his fingers tangled in the oversized sleeve of your hoodie, just holding you close as the sun climbed higher outside. You still had a headache, and the day ahead would involve talking to campus security, but pressed against Logan's side, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart, you knew you had all the time in the world.
I Don't Like How Easy It Is to Lose You | Dean De Laurentis x Reader
Warnings: Minor head injury/concussion scare, brief hospital setting, typical Dean-level dramatic pining.
The thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t do quiet.
He doesn’t do subdued, he doesn’t do hesitant, and he sure as hell doesn’t do scared. Dean navigates the world with the absolute certainty of a guy who knows the universe bends to his whims. If he wants something, he gets it. If he wants to win, he wins. He commands whatever room he walks into with a flashy grin and a devastating amount of charm.
But sitting in the sterile, fluorescent-lit waiting room of the Princeton community hospital at two in the morning, Dean looks terrifyingly small.
It had been a freak accident. A stupid, chaotic, typical Briar University party moment. Some guy from the lacrosse team had thrown a wildly misplaced, drunken pass with a stray lacrosse stick in the backyard. You had just been standing by the patio steps, laughing at something Garrett said, when the heavy end of the stick caught you right along the temple.
You’d dropped like a stone.
Dean had been across the yard, flirting with a sophomore, but the second he heard your name yelled in panic, everything else ceased to exist. He’d carried you to his car himself, refusing to wait for an ambulance, his hands shaking against your skin for the first time in his life.
When you finally blink your eyes open, the pounding in your skull feels like a baseline bass drum at a rave. The room is dim, the only noise the rhythmic, comforting beep of a heart monitor.
"Hey," a rough voice breathes from the darkness.
You turn your head—instantly regretting the movement—and find Dean sitting in a plastic chair pulled so close to your bedside his knees are brushing the mattress. His hair, usually styled to perfection, is a wild, messy nest where he’s clearly been running his hands through it for hours. His expensive leather jacket is wrinkled, tossed over the back of the chair.
"Hey," you croak, your throat feeling like sandpaper. "Did anyone get the license plate on that semi-truck?"
Dean doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smirk. He just reaches out, his large, warm hand sliding carefully over yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
"Concussion," he says, his voice unusually gravelly. "The doctor said it's mild. You need a few stitches near your hairline, and you're staying overnight for observation. But you're okay."
"Dean," you say softly, noting the dark circles under his eyes. "I'm fine. Really. You don't have to look like the world is ending."
He lets out a harsh, dry breath that sounds dangerously close to a choked laugh. He leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress, his grip on your hand tightening.
"It felt like it was," he mutters into the sheets.
You’ve known Dean for a long time. You know the playboy facade, the confident athlete, the fiercely loyal friend. But you've also been secretly, painfully in love with him for the better part of a year, hiding it behind easy banter and casual movie nights because guys like Dean don't settle down for their best friends.
Seeing him this undone shatters something fragile inside your chest.
"Dean, look at me," you coax, using your free hand to gently nudge his shoulder.
He slowly lifts his head. His green eyes are bloodshot, swirling with an emotion so raw and vulnerable it makes your heart hammer against your ribs. The monitor hitches in response, beeping a little faster.
"When you fell," Dean starts, his voice cracking slightly, "you didn't move. For three whole minutes, you wouldn't open your eyes. I was talking to you, shouting at you, and you just... wouldn't answer me."
He takes a deep, shaky breath, shaking his head as if trying to clear the memory.
"I don't like how easy it is to lose you."
The words hang heavily in the quiet room.
"What?" you whisper.
"I don't like it," he repeats, a fierce, desperate edge bleeding into his tone. He stands up, shifting to sit carefully on the very edge of your hospital bed, his gaze locked onto yours. "I spend all this time pretending everything is a game. I pretend that I'm in control, that I can just coast through Briar, coast through life, and nothing can touch me. But tonight? Seeing you on the ground? I realized I'm not in control of anything."
"It was just a freak accident, Dean—"
"No, listen to me," he interrupts, his hand moving from your knuckles to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing just below your cheekbone with agonizing tenderness. "It made me realize that the most important thing in my entire life could be taken away from me in a split second, and I haven't even told you the truth."
Your breath catches. "The truth about what?"
"About how I feel about you," Dean says, the words rushing out of him now, like a dam breaking. "I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for months, and I was just too much of a coward to say it because I didn't want to mess up what we have. But watching you go unconscious tonight? Realizing I might never get to tell you? It almost killed me."
The silence that follows is deafening, save for the sudden, rapid spiking of the heart monitor. Dean glances at the machine, a tiny, genuine trace of his signature smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips.
"The monitor is snitching on you," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours. "Care to give a guy a break here? My ego is taking a massive beating tonight."
"You're an idiot, Dean Di Laurentis," you breathe, a tear finally slipping down your cheek.
He catches it with his thumb. "Yeah? Why's that?"
"Because I've been in love with you since the beginning of junior year. If you had just opened your mouth sooner, we wouldn't have wasted all this time."
Dean freezes, his eyes widening slightly as the weight of your words registers. Then, the tension visibly drains from his shoulders. The heavy, terrified cloud that had been hovering over him since two a.m. completely vanishes, replaced by a warmth that practically radiates off him.
Careful of your IV line and the dull throb in your head, he leans down. He doesn't kiss you—not yet, knowing you're recovering—but he presses a soft, lingering kiss right to the center of your forehead, just below the sterile white bandage.
When he pulls back, his hand remains tangled in your hair, holding you close.
"Well," Dean whispers, his classic, breathless charm returning in full force, even if his eyes are still shining with emotion. "The doctor said I have to keep a close eye on you for the next forty-eight hours to make sure you don't relapse. Which means you're stuck with me. In my bed. Letting me take care of you."
You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face is entirely involuntary. "Is that a threat or a promise, Di Laurentis?"
"It’s a guarantee," he murmurs, leaning his forehead against yours, his grip secure and unyielding. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again."
The bass from the speakers downstairs was vibrating right through the floorboards of John Logan’s bedroom, but up here, the air was finally cool enough to breathe.
Logan leaned against the doorframe of his room, a half-empty red solo cup dangling from his fingers. He loved the guys, and he loved a good Briar University hockey house party, but tonight, the heat and the sheer volume of people were grating on his nerves. He was just about to head back down to find Tucker and Garrett when a flash of movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye.
You were trying to navigate the corridor, but your shoulder slammed heavily into the drywall.
Logan frowned, straightening up. He knew what a drunk college student looked like—hell, he looked like one most weekends—but something about the way you were moving set off immediate alarm bells. Your head was lolling, your knees buckling as if they were made of water, and your hands were scraping uselessly against the wall to keep yourself upright.
Before he could even take a step toward you, a guy emerged from the stairwell. Logan recognized him vaguely—some frat guy who frequented their parties but wasn't part of their inner circle. The guy had a tight, predatory grip on your waist, dragging you forward a little too forcefully.
"Come on, babe," the guy muttered, his voice slick. "Let's find somewhere quiet. You’re fine. Just a little more."
You mumbled something completely incoherent, your head dropping against his shoulder. You weren't hugging him back; your arms were hanging limply at your sides.
Logan’s hockey instincts—the ones that told him exactly when a hit was dirty—kicked into overdrive. He dropped his solo cup onto a nearby table and covered the distance between himself and the pair in three long, commanding strides.
"Hey," Logan said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that usually made opposing players back off the crease.
The guy blinked, looking up, trying to mask his sudden panic with a cocky grin. "Oh, hey, Logan. Great party, man. Just taking my girl upstairs to lie down."
Logan looked at you. Your eyes were open, but they were completely glassy, pupils dilated, unfocused on anything in the room. You looked beautiful, but terrified—trapped inside a body that wasn't responding to your commands.
"She's not your girl," Logan said flatly. He stepped directly into the guy's personal space, using his massive frame to completely cut him off. "And she's not going anywhere with you."
"Bro, chill, she's just had a few drinks—"
"I know exactly what a girl who’s had 'a few drinks' looks like, and this isn't it," Logan snarled, his jaw clenching. He noticed the slight tremor in the guy’s hand, the way he kept glancing toward the stairs. Logan reached out, his grip like a vice as he wrapping his fingers around the guy's wrist, forcing him to let go of your waist. "What did you put in her cup?"
"Nothing! Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"
"Then move." Logan didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his tone was enough.
The guy let go completely, raising his hands in surrender, backing away toward the stairs. "Whatever, man. She's a buzzkill anyway." He turned and practically bolted down the steps, disappearing into the crowded living room.
The moment the guy's support vanished, your knees gave out entirely.
"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Logan breathed, catching you before you could hit the hardwood floor. He scooped you up into his arms effortlessly, lifting you against his chest. You were heavy, a dead weight, confirming his worst fears. You’d been roofied.
He didn't hesitate. He carried you straight into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and turning the lock. The sudden dampening of the party noise downstairs felt like a relief.
He walked over to his bed and gently laid you down on top of the covers. You groaned softly, your eyes rolling back as you tried to blink him into focus.
"Logan..." you slurred, the syllable barely escaping your lips. You didn't really know him—everyone at Briar knew who John Logan was—but seeing his familiar, handsome face seemed to cut through the terrifying fog in your brain just enough to make you feel safe.
"Yeah, it's me. You're safe, okay?" His voice transformed instantly, losing all of its harsh aggression and turning incredibly soft. He sat on the edge of the mattress, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. Your skin was clammy. "I’ve got you. That asshole is gone."
A tear slipped down the side of your face, soaking into his comforter. "Can't... can't move right. Everything's heavy."
"I know. It's okay. It’s going to wear off," he promised, his heart aching at how vulnerable you looked. It made his blood boil all over again thinking about what would have happened if he had stayed downstairs by the keg. "Just breathe. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."
Logan got up for a brief moment to grab a clean washcloth from his adjacent bathroom, running it under cold water. He came back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead and then the back of your neck.
You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," he murmured. He grabbed a bottle of water from his mini-fridge, setting it on the nightstand. "I'm going to text Garrett to make sure that piece of shit gets thrown out of our house, alright? But I'm staying right here."
Logan pulled out his phone, typing a quick, furious text to his roommates:
G, guy in a grey hoodie and snapback just tried to slide something in a girl's drink upstairs. He's heading down. Throw his ass out and break his nose if he argues.
A second later, Garrett replied: On it.
Logan tossed his phone aside and looked back down at you. You had managed to curl slightly onto your side, your breathing shallow but steady. The cold cloth had helped a little, but he knew you just had to ride out the worst of the drug.
He didn't try to touch you inappropriately, didn't try to take advantage of the fact that a gorgeous girl was lying in his bed. Instead, John Logan—the smooth-talking, confident hockey star—just pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He took your limp, cold hand in his own large, warm one, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Just sleep it off, beautiful," he whispered into the quiet room, keeping watch like a guardian line-man. "I've got the night shift."
The late-night quiet of Garrett’s apartment was a rare luxury. Usually, the place hummed with the chaotic energy of the rest of the hockey team, but tonight, it was just the two of you.
Garrett was sprawled across the sofa, his long legs draped over your lap, while you mindlessly traced patterns on his shin. He was halfway through staring at a playbook on his tablet, but his focus had clearly drifted. A soft, lazy smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked up at you.
"One year," he murmured, setting the tablet down on the coffee table. "Can you believe we haven't sickened each other yet?"
"Speak for yourself, Graham," you teased, giving his leg a playful nudge. "I'm surviving on pure willpower."
He chuckled, pulling himself up and tugging you into his side. He wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders, burying his face in your hair. "Sure you are. That’s why you’ve stayed for a whole three hundred and sixty-five days." He kissed your temple, his tone softening. "Happy anniversary, beautiful."
"Happy anniversary, Garrett."
For a moment, the room fell into a comfortable silence, save for the hum of the refrigerator. But milestone dates have a funny way of making you look forward instead of just backward.
"Hey," you said quietly, shifting so you could look at him. "Where do you see us in, say... five years? Ten?"
Garrett blinked, a little caught off guard, but he didn't pull away. The cocky, golden-boy captain persona he wore on the ice melted entirely, replaced by the fierce, grounded sincerity he only ever showed you.
"Five years? Well, hopefully, I’m solidly established in the NHL," he began, his eyes locking onto yours. "But more importantly... I want you there. In the stands. Every single game."
"Is that a permanent fixture?" you smiled.
"Absolutely," he said, without a shred of hesitation. He took your hand, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. "I want the whole deal. If we’re talking future plans, I'm not playing around. I want to marry you."
Your heart skipped a beat. Hearing it out loud, spoken so casually yet so fiercely, sent a warm rush through your chest. "A wedding, huh? Should I brace myself for a massive, media-circus event, Mr. First-Round Pick?"
Garrett groaned playfully, rolling his eyes. "God, please no. My dad would probably try to turn it into a networking event. Let's do the exact opposite. Something intimate. A beach, maybe? Or just a small venue with our actual friends and family. Cheap beer, good food, and zero press."
"Deal," you laughed. "As long as Logan doesn't try to give a best man speech while drunk."
"Oh, he’s definitely banned from the microphone," Garrett agreed instantly.
He pulled you a little closer, his gaze drifting to the window as if he were picturing the life you were sketching out together.
"And after that?" you asked softly. "Where do we build this empire?"
"Wherever the draft takes us first, obviously," he said realistically. "But when the dust settles? I want somewhere with a big backyard. A place where we can actually breathe. Maybe New England, or somewhere with distinct seasons. I want a house with enough room for a massive kitchen—because you know I need to eat my weight in protein daily—and space for..." He trailed off, a slight, uncharacteristic flush creeping up his neck.
"Space for what?" you nudged him.
"Kids," he muttered, looking back at you, checking your reaction. "If you want them, I mean. I want them. Two, maybe? Enough to play a little one-on-one mini-hockey in the hallway."
A soft laugh escaped your lips, your heart swelling. Garrett Graham—the man who spent half his life avoiding his own father's shadow—talking about wanting a family of his own, wanting to do it right.
"Two sounds perfect," you whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "Though if they inherit your competitive streak, we're going to need a lot of band-aids."
"Hey, they’ll inherit your brains, so they'll know when to back down," he countered, a brilliant, breathtaking smile breaking across his face. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "It's scary sometimes, thinking about the future. Everything changes so fast. But when I think about it with you... it just makes sense. You’re the anchor, babe."
"I'm not going anywhere, Garrett," you promised, leaning into his touch.
"Good," he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to yours in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like a promise. "Because I've already planned out the next fifty years, and you're the star of all of them."
Warnings: Brief mention of an unwanted advance (creepy guy at a bar)
Malone’s on a Friday night was exactly what you’d expect: a sweaty, loud, beer-soaked haven for Briar University students trying to forget about midterms. You loved it, usually. But right now, you were trapped against the sticky mahogany of the bar rail by a guy whose blood alcohol content was high enough to strip paint, and who apparently didn’t understand the concept of personal space.
"Come on, beautiful," he slurred, leaning in close enough that you could smell the stale whiskey on his breath. He blocked your exit with an arm planted on the bar. "Just one drink. I'm a nice guy, promise."
"I'm good, thank you," you said for the fourth time, your voice tight as you tried to press yourself backward into the bar. You looked around desperately for your friends, but they were lost somewhere in the sea of the dance floor. "I’m actually waiting for someone."
"Yeah, right. The oldest excuse in the book." He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound, and reached out to grab your wrist.
Before his fingers could make contact, a large, broad-shouldered figure materialized out of the crowd, effortlessly stepping into the space between you and your stalker.
"There you are, babe," a smooth, deeply confident voice complained. "I turn my back for two minutes to get the tap, and you wander off."
An arm wound securely around your waist, pulling you flush against a warm, solid chest. You blinked, looking up to see a shockingly handsome face. Golden-blonde hair perfectly styled in that messy-on-purpose way, a jawline that could cut glass, and piercing blue eyes that looked down at you with a mix of amusement and unspoken reassurance.
Dean Di Laurentis.
You knew him by sight—everyone at Briar knew the hockey team’s resident playboy and silver-spoon defenseman.
The drunk guy blinked, intimidated by Dean’s sheer size. "Who the hell are you?"
Dean didn't even look at him. He kept his eyes locked on yours, a lazy, devastating smile spreading across his lips. "I'm the guy who doesn't like other guys talking to his girlfriend. You got a problem with that?"
Dean turned his head just enough to give the guy a hard, unimpressed stare. It was the look of an elite athlete who spent his weekends body-checking 200-pound men into plexiglass for fun.
The drunk guy held up his hands, muttering something incoherent, and melted back into the crowd.
The moment he was gone, the tension left your shoulders in a massive sigh. "Oh my god. Thank you."
Dean didn't drop his arm from your waist right away, letting you find your footing before he slowly let go, flashing a grin that could melt glaciers. "No problem, sweetheart. Standard defensive play. You looked like you were about to use that cocktail napkin to throttle him."
"I was considering the heel of my shoe, actually," you admitted, offering him a breathless laugh. "But your boyfriend routine was definitely more effective."
"Boyfriend?" Dean chuckled, leaning back against the bar and crossing his arms. The movement flexed his biceps under his tight henley, and you had to actively force your eyes to stay at face level. "Please. That was a toned-down version. If I were actually your boyfriend, I would've been way more insufferable."
"Is that so?" You raised an eyebrow, amused by his immediate pivot to casual arrogance.
"Absolutely," he said smoothly. "I'm Dean, by the way."
"I know," you said, before you could stop yourself. When he smirked, you quickly added, "I mean, you're kind of hard to miss. Briar hockey and all. I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you, Y/N," he purred, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a secret. "And since I just saved you from a lifetime of bad pickup lines, I think the universe dictates that you owe me a drink. Or at least, let me buy you one to make up for the local wildlife."
You looked at him, taking in the easy confidence, the slight tilt of his head, and the undeniable charm radiating off him. You’d heard the rumors, of course. Dean Di Laurentis was a menace to the hearts of the female population at Briar. He didn't do commitment, he didn't do repeats, and he certainly didn't do boring.
But standing here, under the neon beer signs of Malone's, you realized the rumors left out how genuinely magnetic he was.
"Alright, Di Laurentis," you said, leaning against the bar copycatting his posture. "You can buy me a drink. But don't think your boyfriend privileges carry over."
Dean let out a rich, genuine laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Ouch. Cold. I like a challenge."
The next hour passed in a blur that you didn't expect. You had figured Dean would be all slick lines and shallow banter, but he was surprisingly easy to talk to. He asked about your major, actually listened to the answer, and made you laugh so hard you almost spilled your gin and tonic when he did an impression of his coach.
He was attentive, too. Every time someone jostled past you in the crowded bar area, his hand would subtly find the small of your back or his shoulder would block you from getting bumped. It was effortless, instinctual protection.
"So," Dean said, swirling the ice in his glass, his eyes dark and fixed on you. "Your friends abandoned you, you're stuck talking to a hockey player, and it's getting late. What's the play here, Y/N?"
"The play?" you asked, your heart doing a little flutter at the intensity of his gaze.
"Yeah." He leaned in a fraction closer, the noise of Malone's fading into the background. "Am I walking you to a cab, or are we going back to my place to see if my boyfriend skills are as good as I claim they are?"
It was a direct line. Classic Dean. But there was a spark of genuine curiosity in his eyes, a silent question asking if you were down for the ride.
You smiled, stepping just a little bit closer into his space, reaching out to gently straighten the collar of his shirt. "You were pretty good at the fake boyfriend thing, Dean. But I think I'd like to see what you're like when you're not pretending."
Dean’s smirk shifted into a slow, dangerous smile that promised absolutely sinful things. He grabbed your coat from the back of the bar stool and held it out for you.
"Let's go then," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he guided you toward the exit. "Game on, sweetheart."
Dean Di Laurentis did not do things by halves. So, when your doctor finally cleared you for one last travel window before your third trimester, Dean didn't just book a vacation—he rented a private, hyper-luxurious villa in Turks and Caicos, complete with a private infinity pool that bled seamlessly into the crystal-clear Caribbean sea.
Right now, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and molten gold. A warm, salty breeze filtered through the open, floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the master suite, rustling the sheer white linen curtains.
You were standing out on the secluded balcony, wrapped in nothing but a silk robe that Dean had bought you from a boutique on the island. It was left completely open, framing the beautiful, round curve of your pregnant belly. The tropical heat was heavy, making your skin slick with a fine layer of sweat, and your body felt achy and full in a way that had made you feel a little self-conscious earlier in the day.
Then, two large, warm hands slid around your waist from behind.
Dean pressed his chest to your back, his bare skin instantly buzzing against yours. He was wearing nothing but a pair of loose linen trousers, his broad shoulders and hard muscles catching the dying amber light of the sun. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his lips brushing against your pulse point.
"There you are," Dean murmured, his voice a low, lazy rumble that immediately sent a shiver down your spine. "I turn my back for five minutes to pour some sparkling water, and my beautiful wife vanishes."
"Just watching the sunset," you whispered, leaning back against him. His hands moved from your waist, his long fingers spreading out across the swell of your stomach. He traced the roundness with a reverence that was so uncharacteristically quiet for him, it made your heart ache.
"Fucking gorgeous," Dean growled softly, but he wasn't looking at the sunset. His eyes were locked on your reflection in the glass of the balcony door. He stepped sideways, guiding you back into the air-conditioned bedroom, away from any stray breeze, and gently pushed the silk robe off your shoulders. It pooled at your feet.
You instinctively reached up to cover yourself, a sudden wave of vulnerability hitting you. "Dean, I'm huge. I have stretch marks on my hips, and—"
"Hey." Dean’s voice was suddenly firm. He caught your wrists, gently pulling your hands away and pinning them lightly to your sides. His eyes searched yours, dark and burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Look at me. Look at my eyes, Y/N."
You looked up at him, your chest heaving.
"You are the most intoxicating, beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life," Dean said, his thumb tracing the sharp line of your jaw. His gaze dropped to your body, his eyes dilated with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're carrying my kid. You're soft, you're curvier in all the right places, and it is driving me completely insane. Do you have any idea how bad I've wanted you all day?"
Before you could answer, Dean picked you up. He was a professional athlete, and even with the extra weight of the pregnancy, he lifted you like you weighed absolutely nothing. He carried you over to the massive, king-sized bed, laying you down gently against the crisp, high-thread-count white sheets.
Instead of climbing on top of you, Dean settled himself between your legs, staying on his knees so none of his weight would press against your belly. He pulled your knees up, draping your legs over his broad thighs, opening you up completely to the warm island air and his heavy gaze.
"Dean," you gasped, your hands gripping the silk sheets as his fingers gently parted you. You were already slick, the tropical heat and the sheer sight of him making you ache.
"You're so wet for me, sweetheart," Dean purred, a dark, arrogant smirk finally returning to his face. He leaned forward, pressing a slow, bruising kiss to your inner thigh, right up where it met your hip. "I'm going to be so good to you tonight. Just relax for me."
He slid two fingers inside you, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak. Dean started a slow, rhythmic stroke, his eyes locked on your face as you let out a loud, echoing moan. The contrast of the cool air conditioning and the blistering heat of his hands was overwhelming. You arched your hips, your head tossing back against the pillows.
"Please," you whimpered, your fingers tangling in the duvet. "Dean, please, I want you."
"Yeah? You want your husband?" He teased, adding a third finger, stretching you gently, preparing your body with practiced ease. He leaned down, his mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue sliding over you in long, wet strokes that had you crying out his name into the empty villa.
Just as you felt the tight coil of an orgasm beginning to snap, Dean pulled away. You whined in protest, but he just chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound.
He lined himself up at your entrance. His expression shifted, the playful smirk fading into something fiercely possessive. He grabbed your hips, his large hands anchoring you to the mattress, and slowly, deliberately, he drove himself inside you.
You let out a breathy scream, your eyes flying open. Because of the pregnancy, you were tighter, more sensitive, and the feeling of him filling you completely was almost too much to bear.
"Oh god, Dean," you choked out, your hips instinctively rolling against his.
"I know, baby. I know," Dean whispered, his breathing already ragged. He began to move, his thrusts slow, deep, and agonizingly steady. He kept his posture upright, his hands firmly on your hips, guiding your rhythm so it was entirely comfortable for you. Every time he pushed inside, his eyes drank in the sight of your flush skin, the heavy rise and fall of your chest, and the perfect curve of your bump.
The luxury of the villa, the sound of the ocean waves crashing outside, the expensive silk beneath you—it all faded into the background. The only thing that existed was the thick, humid friction of Dean’s body against yours.
He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming a fraction harder, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your entire body shudder.
"Dean, I'm close, I'm gonna—"
"Come for me," Dean commanded, his voice a gravelly, filthy whisper as he leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, finally bringing his chest close to yours without placing weight on your stomach. He kissed you deeply, his tongue mimicking the brutal, perfect rhythm of his hips. "Let me feel how tight you get around me. Come on, Y/N."
That was the tipping point. Your walls clamped down around him in a violent, cascading climax that had you sobbing into his shoulder. Hearing your undone cries completely broke Dean's restraint. He let out a low, guttural growl, driving deep into you three more times, his muscles locking up as his own release ripped through him, filling you completely as the last of the sunset finally faded into night.
Afterward, Dean didn't pull away. He carefully shifted his body, lying on his side and pulling you against him in a tight spooning position, his front flushed against your back. One of his large arms wrapped around your waist, his hand resting right back on your stomach, his fingers lightly stroking your skin.
"You okay?" he murmured against your bare shoulder, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
"Perfect," you breathed, Tangling your fingers with his over your belly. "Best vacation ever."
Dean chuckled, kissing your shoulder blade. "Told you. Di Laurentis always delivers."
Warnings: NSFW / 18+ Only, explicit smut, oral sex (female receiving/male giving, male receiving), desk sex, praise, dirty talk.
Dean Di Laurentis was a man of many talents, but sitting still for six consecutive hours while staring at the dry, uninspiring text of a corporate law syllabus was definitely not one of them.
"I'm going to set this house on fire," Dean groaned, his voice muffled by the thick, leather-bound textbook he had currently mashed his face into. He was sprawled across the kitchen island, his jaw clenched, a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "I mean it, Y/N. If I have to read one more paragraph about fiduciary duties, I’m burning the whole place down and claiming insurance fraud."
You chuckled from the couch, setting your phone down. It was rare to see the effortlessly confident, usually untouchable Dean Di Laurentis looking so completely defeated. He had stripped down to a pair of loose grey sweatpants, his bare chest on full display, and his usually perfectly styled hair was a chaotic, tousled mess from where he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon.
"Come on, Di Laurentis," you teased, walking over to the island and leaning against the edge. "I thought you were a genius. Aren't you the guy who aces exams without even trying?"
"I am," Dean muttered, finally lifting his head to glare at the stack of highlighted notes. "When the subject matter actually holds my attention. This? This is psychological warfare. My brain is leaking out of my ears."
You hummed, your eyes tracking the sharp line of his jaw, the heavy slope of his shoulders, and the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips. A sudden, wicked spark of mischief flared in your chest. Dean had been ignoring you all day in the name of academic responsibility, and frankly, you were tired of competing with a law book.
"Maybe you just need a better incentive to finish," you murmured, shifting closer.
Dean raised an eyebrow, a familiar, lazy smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips. "Oh yeah? What kind of incentive are we talking about, sweetheart? Because unless you have a cheat sheet hidden somewhere, I don't think—"
He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you dropped to your knees.
From beneath the high lip of the kitchen island, you looked up at him. Dean’s eyes had gone dark, his posture instantly straightening as he watched you disappear beneath the edge of the dark wood.
"Y/N," he warned, his voice dropping an octave, though he didn't make a single move to stop you. "I really need to finish this chapter."
"Keep reading, Dean," you whispered, your hands sliding up his muscular thighs, your palms warm against the soft fleece of his sweatpants. "I'm just helping you relax."
You didn't waste any time. Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats, you slid them down, letting the fabric bunch around his thighs. Dean groaned, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated right through the wooden floorboards beneath you. He was already semi-hard, thick and heavy, pulsing with a heat that instantly made your mouth water.
You gripped his hips, pulling him slightly closer to the edge of the stool, and wrapped your lips around the length of him.
Above the table, the sound of a highlighter caps snapping off echoed through the kitchen. Dean cleared his throat, trying desperately to focus his eyes on the tiny print of his textbook. "The... the doctrine of piercing the corporate veil establishes that..."
You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip of him, sucking him deep into your throat, and Dean’s voice completely cracked.
"Fuck," he hissed, his fingers gripping the edges of the kitchen island so hard his knuckles turned white. He tried to force his eyes back down to the page, his chest heaving as you established a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm. Every time he tried to read a line, you'd alter your pace, using your hand to stroke his base while your mouth drove him absolutely insane.
"The court may disregard... disregard the corporate entity if... ah, shit, Y/N—"
You smirked against his slick skin, intentionally picking up the speed, bobbing your head as you took him as deep as you could. You could hear him above you, panting, his head tossing back as his heels dug into the rungs of the barstool.
"If you keep doing that, Y/N, I am going to fail this exam... and I'm going to make it entirely your fault."
You didn't stop. Instead, you looked up, keeping your eyes locked on his flushed, sweating face as you sucked him hard, swirling your tongue over his ridge until a low, undone whimper escaped his lips.
That was his breaking point.
Dean didn't care about corporate law anymore. In one explosive movement, his hands abandoned the counter. He reached down, grabbing you by your armpits, and literally hoisted you out from under the table with the terrifying, effortless strength of a professional athlete.
"That's it," he growled, his eyes completely wild, brimming with dark, unadulterated lust.
Before you could even gasp, Dean swiped his arm across the kitchen island. Highlighters, expensive textbooks, and weeks' worth of carefully curated notes sent flying, scattering across the kitchen tile in a chaotic mess. He lifted you up, slamming your hips down onto the cool, cleared surface of the island.
"Dean—"
"Shut up," he breathed, leaning over you, his bare chest pressing against yours as he pinned your wrists to the counter. He was completely bare, his hard length pressing against the denim of your shorts. "You wanted to play games? You want to distract me? Look at what you did. Now you have to deal with the consequences."
He didn't give you a chance to answer. His mouth crashed down onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sliding into your mouth with a possessive hunger that made your toes curl. His hands left your wrists, tearing at the button of your shorts with a frantic, desperate energy. Within seconds, your clothes were discarded on top of his law notes.
Dean lifted your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely to his gaze. He looked at you, his eyes roaming over your flushed skin, a dark, arrogant smirk returning to his face despite his heavy breathing.
"Beautiful," he muttered, tracing a finger over your soaking wet core before lining himself up. "You’re so fucking wet for me."
He drove inside you in one deep, unprompted thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a loud, echoing cry, your fingers instantly clawing at his shoulders, your hips arching off the counter to meet him.
Dean didn't hold back. He gripped your hips, using his grip to anchor you as he began to hammer into you, his pace fast and unrelenting. The slating friction of his skin against yours, the loud, wet sounds of your bodies colliding, and the sheer intensity of his gaze was overwhelming. He watched your face change with every hard shove, soaking in every gasp and moan you made.
"Tell me," Dean growled, leaning down to bite at the column of your neck, his hips rolling brutally against yours. "Tell me who completely ruined my focus."
"You... Dean, oh god," you whimpered, your head tossing back against the counter as your orgasm began to build, tight and undeniable. "It's my fault. Please..."
"Good girl," he praised, his voice a gravelly, filthy whisper in your ear. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming shallower, harder, driving you right over the edge. "Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it."
You broke. Your walls clamped down around him tightly as a screaming climax tore through you, your entire body shaking as you hid your face in his neck. Hearing your undone cries sent Dean right over the edge. He let out a low, guttural roar, driving deep into you one last time as his own release hit him, his body stiffening as he came inside you, filling you completely.
For a long time, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged breathing of the two of you.
Dean slowly slid out of you, pulling you into his chest as he collapsed onto the counter beside you, his heart hammering against your ribs. He kissed the top of your head, a soft, genuinely amused chuckle vibrating in his chest as he looked down at the floor, where his ruined, scattered law notes lay forgotten.
"Well," Dean murmured, running a hand through your tangled hair. "I'm definitely failing tomorrow. But honestly? Best study session of my life."
Note: We all know damn well he's not this sweet; season 3 made him practically a saint
The desk lamp was the only light source in the living room, casting a sharp, clinical glow over stacks of bank statements, past-due notices, and legal correspondence.
Nate sat with his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp. The calculated, untouchable armor he had worn all through high school had been stripped away by the harsh realities of the real world. Taking over his father’s business hadn't been a grand inheritance; it had been a handoff of sinking ships, hidden liabilities, and staggering debt. He was drowning in numbers, trying to figure out how to restructure loans before the banks started seizing assets.
A soft rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Nate looked up, the hard, defensive lines of his face instantly softening as you walked into the room. You were eight months pregnant, your hand instinctively resting on the high curve of your stomach. You looked exhausted, your eyes heavy with sleep, wearing one of his old, oversized t-shirts that barely covered the bump.
"Nate?" your voice was a quiet rasp. "It’s past 2:00 AM. Come to bed."
He swallowed hard, instinctively shifting a stack of foreclosure warnings face-down. He didn't want you seeing them. He didn't want the stress of his failures touching you, not now.
"I’ll be there in a minute," he said, his voice deep and strained. "Just... finishing up some inventory logs for the yard."
You didn't buy it. You walked over, the floorboards groaning softly under your feet, and stood right beside his chair. You placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard tension knotted in his muscles.
"You've been 'finishing inventory' every night for three weeks, Nate," you said gently, your thumb rubbing a soothing circle into his back. "Talk to me."
Nate closed his eyes, leaning his head back against your stomach. He let out a long, ragged breath, the weight of the world temporarily lifting just by being close to you. He reached up, covering your hand with his own. His palm felt rough against yours, but his touch was incredibly gentle—a stark contrast to the violence and chaos that used to define him. Marrying you, building this quiet life away from the toxic remnants of his family, was the only thing he had ever gotten right.
"It's just a mess," he confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The debt Cal left behind... it's deeper than I thought. I'm trying to move funds, delay the interest payments, but it feels like every time I plug one hole, three more open up."
He opened his eyes and looked up at you, a raw, rare vulnerability in his gaze.
"I'm supposed to have this figured out by the time she gets here," he said, his eyes dropping to your belly. "I'm supposed to protect you both. I won't let you guys inherit my family's ruin. I won't be like him."
You sighed softly, sliding your fingers through his hair, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. "You aren't him, Nate. Cal ran away from his messes. You're sitting here at two in the morning trying to fix them. There's a difference."
As if on cue, a sudden, sharp kick rippled across your stomach. You gasped lightly, shifting your weight.
Nate’s eyes widened. He immediately stood up, guiding you carefully into the heavy leather office chair he had just vacated. He dropped to his knees in front of you, placing both of his large hands flat against your warm bump. He waited, breathless, until another distinct thump pressed against his palm.
A small, breathless laugh escaped his lips—a sound so rare these days it made your heart ache.
"She's awake," he whispered, staring at your stomach like it was the only thing that mattered in the entire universe.
"She knows her dad is stressed," you murmured, cupping his cheek. His stubble scratched against your palm. "Look at me, Nate."
He raised his eyes to yours.
"We will figure out the money. If we have to sell the yard, we sell it. If we have to downsize, we downsize. I don't care about the Jacobs name, and I don't care about the empire. I just care about us. You, me, and her."
Nate stared at you, the storm in his dark eyes finally beginning to settle. For years, he thought power, control, and fear were the only things that could keep him safe. But looking at you—tired, fiercely loyal, and carrying the future they were building together—he realized that safety looked completely different now.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of your shampoo.
"Okay," he whispered against your skin, his hands still cradling your stomach. "Okay. Let's go to bed."
He stood up, turning off the desk lamp and plunging the room into darkness, leaving the stacks of debt in the shadows where they belonged for the night. Pulling you close against his side, he guided you down the hallway, finally leaving the past behind to protect the only thing that actually mattered.
