slow burn Coriolanus Snow x reader, slight Felix Ravinstill x reader
Chapter 17: Jubilee
The Gamemakers' viewing gallery buzzed with quiet conversation as you sat back in your chair, one elbow propped lazily against the polished armrest. Below, the arena stretched across the massive screens while Lucky Flickerman carried on with his broadcast, his booming voice echoing through the chamber.
"...and let us not forget," Lucky said dramatically, "the remarkable devotion Lucy Gray Baird showed to Jessup Diggs. Remaining by his side until his very last breath. Such compassion. Such loyalty. One might expect that sort of selflessness from a Capitol girlâbut from a district tribute? Well, that's something worth remembering."
A chorus of approving murmurs rippled through the room.
You resisted the urge to groan.
Instead, you leaned farther back, crossing your arms as another notification flashed across the sponsorship board.
Sponsor Donation Received.
Then another.
And another.
Money poured into Lucy Gray's account faster than the attendants could announce it.
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt.
"Oh, for God's sake," you muttered beneath your breath.
It wasn't Lucy Gray.
Not really.
If anything, you admired what she'd done. Standing beside Jessup until the end had taken courage. More courage than most people in this room possessed.
No.
What bothered you was that she bothered you at all.
That somehow this girl from District Twelve had managed to crawl beneath your skin without even trying.
You hated that every time her name was spoken, your attention sharpened.
That every time Coryo looked at herâ
You stopped yourself before finishing the thought.
Ridiculous.
She was his tribute.
Nothing more.
You told yourself that every few minutes, yet it never seemed to stick.
As if unable to stomach another second of Lucy Gray's praiseâor perhaps the flood of sponsors she continued receivingâPup Harrington suddenly lurched forward.
"Better get Lamina her breakfast!"
The declaration earned a few scattered laughs as he began ordering an absurd amount of food for his tribute.
Bread.
Cheese.
Dried meat.
Water.
Anything he could think of.
No one even bothered trying to outbid him. Lamina was the only tribute currently visible in the arena, making it an effortless opportunity for Pup to show off.
You sighed.
Typical.
Your gaze drifted across the semicircle of mentors until it settled on Coryo.
He had slipped back into his seat after the interview, shoulders straighter than usual, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck.
Anyone else would've thought he looked composed.
You knew better.
Something was wrong.
Not dramatically wrong.
Just...
Off.
His smile had disappeared almost the instant the cameras stopped rolling. His jaw remained tight. His eyes stayed fixed on the arena, though you doubted he was truly watching it. Curiosity tugged at you.
You almost considered walking over.
Not because you were worried.
Certainly not.
You simply wanted to know what had unsettled him.
Curiosity had always been one of your greatest flaws. Before you could decide whether indulging it was worth the effort, a commotion broke out around the room. Your attention snapped back to the screens.
Lamina.
She clung to the steel beam high above the arena, looking worse than she had the day before. Pale. Exhausted. Every movement seemed painfully deliberate, as though her body had begun to betray her.
Your eyes shifted.
Reaper.
Clemensia's tribute.
He crossed the arena with surprising purpose until he reached the enormous Panem flag planted near the center. Without hesitation, he drove his knife through the heavy fabric. Gasps echoed throughout the viewing gallery.
Someone cursed.
Several Capitol officials shot to their feet.
The sacred flag of Panem billowed violently as Reaper hacked away at it, carving off a section nearly the size of a blanket. The outrage in the room was almost theatrical.
"He's desecrating the flag!"
"Surely they'll stop him!"
"But how?"
No one seemed to have an answer. He was already in the Hunger Games. What punishment could possibly outweigh that? Your gaze wandered toward Clemensia as Lepidus hurried over to shove a microphone beneath her face. Even after all these weeks, something about looking at her made your skin crawl. She carried herself as though nothing had changed.
As though she hadn't nearly died.
As though Dr. Gaul's snakes had never sunk their venom into her skin.
But they had.
You could still see it.
Not in obvious scales or monstrous features.
Just...
The way her movements seemed too smooth.
Too careful.
The strange stillness in her eyes whenever she wasn't speaking. Like something cold-blooded had settled beneath her skin and never quite left.
"What do you make of your tribute's behavior?" Lepidus asked.
"Well," Clemensia answered coolly, "it's a foolish move, isn't it? Who's going to sponsor him now?"
"Not that it matters," Pup called over. "You never feed him anyway."
"I'll feed him when he earns it."
âAnyway, I think youâve got that covered today.â
Pup frowned in confusion.
"I do?"
Clemensia simply nodded toward the screen.
Reaper had returned beneath Lamina's beam.
The two exchanged what looked like a silent negotiation before he tossed the folded piece of the flag upward.
She dropped him a loaf of bread.
The first attempt failed.
Then another.
Eventually, after several tries, Lamina managed to catch the cloth and rewarded him with a chunk of cheese.
The room buzzed with commentary over what it all meant.
You found yourself losing interest almost immediately.
People would spend the next hour debating whether it had been strategy, rebellion, or simple desperation. You couldn't bring yourself to care. Your eyes wandered away from the screen once more...
...back to Coriolanus Snow.
The broadcast returned to the studio with Lucky Flickerman already wearing his signature grin.
"And now," he announced, throwing his arms wide, "I think it's only fair we hear from someone who's been watching the Games from a very different perspective."
His eyes landed on you.
"Our very own junior Gamemaker."
A polite round of applause filled the studio.
You rose gracefully from your seat, smoothing the front of your dress as you approached. Lucky met you halfway, Jubilee a depressed bird in the midst of battling mange, perched wordlessly on Luckyâs wrist looking thoroughly unimpressed by the attention.
"Go on, Jubilee," Lucky encouraged, scratching beneath the bird's beak. "Show everyone what you've learned."
The parrot blinked lazily and in the most exhausted voice imaginable, croaked,
"Hello, beautiful."
The audience laughed warmly.
"There she is!" Lucky exclaimed triumphantly. "I knew she'd say it eventually."
You smiled at the bird.
"I believe she has excellent taste."
That earned another ripple of laughter.
Lucky grinned.
"I couldn't agree more."
He gestured toward the arena playing across the screens behind you.
"You've had a front-row seat to all of this. Working alongside the Gamemakers, seeing decisions unfold before anyone else... tell us, has it been everything you imagined?"
You considered the question for only a moment.
"I don't think anyone could have imagined these Games."
A murmur of agreement spread through the audience.
"Every day seems to bring something unexpected."
"So you're enjoying yourself?" Lucky asked.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
"I've found it fascinating."
"Fascinating?"
"The Games are constantly changing. Just when everyone believes they've figured them out..." You glanced briefly toward the arena. "...something surprises them."
Lucky nodded enthusiastically.
"That's certainly been true this year."
"I think that's part of what keeps everyone watching."
A few appreciative murmurs drifted through the studio.
Lucky folded his hands dramatically.
"Now, before I let you escape..."
Your smile didn't falter.
"...I have to ask about something the audience has certainly noticed."
Of course he did.
"You and President Ravinstill's son seem to have become rather well acquainted."
"You've been seen together more than once."
You gave a soft, polite laugh.
"Felix is an old friend of mine."
"Oh?" Lucky asked, delighted.
"He has a gift for making everyone around him feel at ease."
"That's a very diplomatic answer."
"I was raised to give them."
The audience laughed, and even Lucky let out an amused bark.
"So you're saying we're not getting any exciting secrets today?"
"I'm afraid not."
"What a shame."
"I'd hate to disappoint."
"Oh, I think you've disappointed half the Capitol."
You smiled sweetly.
"Then I'll simply have to make it up to them another time."
Lucky placed a hand over his heart.
"Now that's a promise the audience will remember."
More laughter followed.
"Well," he said, turning back toward the cameras, "she's graceful, charming, and somehow even more mysterious than when she walked over here. Ladies and gentlemen, another round of applause!"
The applause followed you all the way back to your seat.
You smiled for exactly as long as the cameras remained pointed in your direction. The second they swung away, the smile disappeared.
God.
You hated being on camera.
It wasn't stage fright. You'd been raised for public appearances, endless charity galas, formal dinners, and Capitol functions where every smile was rehearsed and every sentence measured. You knew exactly where to stand, where to look, how to laugh at the appropriate volume.
That didn't mean you enjoyed it. It felt like being dissected. Every expression watched.Every word weighed.
You sank into your chair with a quiet sigh.
"And someone," you murmured under your breath, glancing toward Lucky across the studio, "really ought to put that poor bird out of its misery."
Jubilee looked positively despondent.
Its feathers stuck out at odd angles despite Lucky's endless attempts at smoothing them, and its eyes carried the thousand-yard stare of a creature that had simply accepted its fate.
You almost pitied it.
Almost.
Your thoughts drifted back to the interview. Of all the things Lucky could have asked...
Felix.
Really?
What did that have to do with the Hunger Games? Nothing. It was Capitol gossip dressed up as entertainment. You supposed that was enough for Lucky Flickerman.
Still...
Felix wasn't going to appreciate your answer. Not that you'd said anything wrong. Quite the opposite. You'd been perfectly gracious. Perfectly charming. Perfectly vague.
Exactly as you'd intended.
But you also knew Felix well enough by now to know that if the roles had been reversedâ
If someone had shoved a microphone beneath his face and asked about youâÂ
He wouldn't have hesitated.
"She's my girl."
Or perhaps something even more possessive. The thought made you wrinkle your nose. You weren't entirely sure how you felt about that. You'd spent the better part of your life believing you understood people.
Felix had complicated that.
You hadn't seen him in nearly twenty-four hours. That alone felt unusual. Lately, he had become something of a permanent fixture in your days.
Lunch.
Walks through the Capitol.
Dropping by the laboratory under increasingly flimsy excuses.
Waiting outside meetings.
Appearing precisely when you were about to leave somewhere.
Like a particularly well-dressed shadow.
Last night, you'd been meant to have dinner together. It had been the last time you'd seen him. He'd smiledâthat easy, handsome smile that won over practically everyoneâand said only two words.
"Call me."
Not if you have time. Not I'd love to hear from you.
Just...
"Call me."
You hadn't.
Partly because by the time you'd finished with work, you were exhausted.
Mostly because of the way he'd said it.
As though it weren't a request. As though it were expected. You had gone home instead. If only becauseâ
Who exactly did Felix Ravinstill think he was? The President's son, your mind answered immediately.
You suppressed a smile.
Your relationship with Felix was...
Odd.
The entire Capitol saw the polished version of him. The charming heir. Effortlessly handsome. Well-spoken. The sort of young man mothers adored and fathers approved of before he'd even opened his mouth.
He knew exactly what to say. Exactly how to smile. Exactly how to make people feel as though they were the only person in the room.
And, to be fair...
Most of the time, he was exactly that man. Kind. Generous. Attentive.
If you asked for something, he found a way to make it happen. Flowers arrived before you'd realized you wanted them. Reservations appeared without asking. Books you'd merely mentioned in passing somehow found their way to your doorstep. He was endlessly accommodating. Sometimes to a fault.Â
It was only once you'd grown closer that you began noticing the cracks beneath all that polish.
They were small.
Easy to miss.
The way his smile tightened whenever another man held your attention for too long. The questions disguised as casual conversation.
"Who was that?"
"You've known him long?"
"He seems rather interested in you."
Always delivered pleasantly.
Always with a smile. Yet somehow...
Not questions at all.
You'd begun to realize that Felix was a jealous man. Quietly. Possessively. Not enough to cause a scene. Enough to make his presence known. You should've found that alarming.
Perhaps any sensible girl would have.
Instead...
It stirred something warm and low in your stomach. Not because you enjoyed jealousy itself. But because it reminded you of something else.
Someone else.
Your jaw tightened.
Coriolanus.
The very thought of him was irritating. You refused to examine why. The two of them couldn't have been more different.
Felix bent.
Coriolanus pushed back.
Felix agreed.
Coriolanus challenged.
Every conversation with Coriolanus felt like striking flint against stone. You argued. Competed. Tested one another. Neither of you willing to surrender the final word. He irritated you more than anyone alive.
And somehow...
He made you feel more alive than almost anyone else. It was infuriating. Felix didn't do that. He steadied you. Coriolanus unsettled you. Perhaps that was why Felix's little command from yesterday lingered in your mind.
"Call me."
It wasn't like him.Â
Or perhaps...
You were only now beginning to meet the real Felix.
The thought was strangely...
Interesting.
You couldn't decide whether you admired the audacity...
Or intended to punish him for it.
Either way...
You had very little doubt you'd be hearing from him before the day was over.
el's thoughts: i feel like this is so ooc... and it's kinda bothering me, but once i finished it i couldn't figure out how to write it differently... so i hope it's enjoyable either way haha
kaz brekker masterlist
The news came quietly.
No fanfare. No planning. Just a missed period, a hidden test in their private quarters, and Y/N sitting on the edge of the clawfoot tub in the dim bathroom of the Slat, staring at the result as her hands trembled.
Tears pooled in her eyesânot out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief and awe. Sheâd never thought she'd have this with him. With Kaz. Not just the king of the Barrel, but the boy she'd known since childhood, the boy whoâd built walls taller than any in Ketterdamâand slowly, painfully, let her through them.
Pregnant.
She was pregnant. With Kaz Brekkerâs child.
Heâd never touched anyone skin-to-skin. Not without pain. But he touched her. Her face, her arms, her hips. He held her at night with bare hands like heâd trained himself just for her. And nowâ
He was going to be a father.
She didnât plan to cry, but when she stepped out of the bathroom, clutching the test, Kaz immediately looked up from his desk like he felt her shift in energy.
Kaz stared down at it, expression unreadable for a beat too long.
His brow furrowed. âY/N?â
She didnât speak. Just walked over, slowly, and handed him the test.
She nodded, lip trembling. âI didnât mean for it to happen this way, Kaz. I justââ
Before she could finish, his gloved hand reached out to grip hers, and the otherâbareâfound her cheek.
He didnât speak right away. Just looked at her. The ghost of something rare tugged at the corners of his mouth. âWe keep it between us. For now,â he said, voice low. âKetterdam doesnât get this part of you. Of us. Not yet.â
She nodded, and he pressed his forehead to hers.
It was the only part of the Barrel where he ever felt safe.
~
A month later, her baby bump was still hidden beneath her fitted waistcoat and silk blouse, but Kazâs eyes always found her figure in a crowd. Watching. Calculating. Guarding.
Y/N had been laughing at the Crow Club bar with Jesper and Inej, a rare easy moment in a world that never stopped spinning. Wylan was somewhere sketching, Nina was dancing with her drink, and for once, she felt like she could just breathe.
Until he came stumbling in.
Drunk. Loud. New to the city, judging by the way he looked at her like she was anyone but Kaz Brekkerâs wife.
Jesper noticed it first. His shoulders stiffened. Inejâs hand inched toward a dagger.
The man swayed forward with a grin. âHeard about you,â he slurred, eyes raking over Y/N in a way that made her stomach churn. âThe Queen of the Barrel, huh? Gotta say, not what I expected. YouâreâŠsofter.â
Y/Nâs smile dropped. âWalk away. Now.â
But the man didnât listen. Instead, he reached forward, slow and unsteadyâhis hand moving toward her stomach.
The entire room froze.
Because the sound of Kaz Brekkerâs cane striking the floor echoed like a thunderclap.
Click. Tap. Click. Tap.
The crowd parted instantly, tension slicing through the club like a knife through silk.
Kaz moved with terrifying calm, his face unreadable, gloved hand tight around his cane. But the hand not holding it?
Bare.
Y/N swallowed as he reached her, that hand slipping around her waist, then possessively over her stomach. The drunk man paled.
Kazâs voice was low, venomous. âYou must be new.â
The drunk man stumbled back. âIâI didnât know she was with you, I didnât knowââ
âYou knew who she was,â Kaz said sharply. âYou knew enough.â
With a sharp gesture of his cane, the Dregs guards were on the man in seconds. He was dragged out by his collar, yelling, screaming, until a punch to the gut shut him up for good. The sounds of his beating were muffled by the music restartingâbut no one in the Crow Club dared look at Y/N the same after that.
Kaz kept his hand on her stomach. He didnât speak to anyone. Just guided her to the booth in the corner like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
~
Y/N was asleep when Kaz left the room.
He stood at the door for a moment longer than usual, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing. One of her hands rested over the soft swell of her stomach, and Kaz felt something stir in his chest he still didnât quite have words for.
He stepped out quietly, closing the door with care, and made his way downstairs to the Slatâs common room. It was late, but the Crows kept odd hoursâJesper and Wylan were curled on the couch, Inej was at the table polishing her knives, and Nina was half-asleep in the chair near the fire.
The warmth in the room contrasted the cool weight of the words Kaz had come to share.
Jesper noticed him first. âYouâre up. Everything alright?â
Kaz nodded once, slowly. He stepped into the center of the room, gloved hands relaxed at his sides. There was no cane slam, no dramatics. Just him, standing in the quiet.
âI need to tell you something,â he said, and every head in the room turned toward him.
He met their eyes one by one. âY/N is pregnant.â
Jesper blinked. âWaitâwhat?â
Kaz didnât waver. âSheâs pregnant. We found out about a month ago. We decided to keep it between us for a while.â
Nina sat up straighter, her expression softening. âHow is she?â
âTired,â Kaz said. âA little overwhelmed. But⊠good.â His voice gentled even further. âSheâs happy.â
Wylan smiled, warm and genuine. âAnd you?â
Kaz paused. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. âI didnât think Iâd have something like this. Not with the way I am. But sheâs changed what I thought I knew about myself. And now, sheâs carrying something we never imagined weâd get to have.â
Inej looked at him with something close to quiet awe. âYou trust her that deeply.â
âI always have,â Kaz said. âEven before I understood thatâs what it was.â
Jesper looked between them all, then gave a soft laugh. âYouâre going to be a dad.â
There was something different about hearing it said out loud. But Kaz didnât flinch or brush it off. He let the words hang in the air.
âI am,â he said. âWe both are. And it means everything to me.â
Silence lingered againânot out of shock, but out of the rare, beautiful quiet that only came when something sacred was being shared.
Wylan tilted his head. âWhy now? Why tell us tonight?â
Kaz glanced toward the stairs. âSomeone touched her today. Someone who didnât know betterâor didnât care to. And for a moment, it reminded me that this city may respect her, but it doesnât always protect her. I wanted you to know what sheâs carrying. I know you already look out for her. But nowâŠâ
He trailed off, not needing to finish.
Nina stood and crossed the room, placing a gentle hand on his arm. âWeâll be there for her. For both of you.â
Jesper grinned. âIâm already picking out tiny suits. No one can stop me.â
Kaz finallyâfinallyâlet a faint smile ghost across his face.
âI donât expect anything from you,â he said. âJust⊠be who you already are. Thatâs more than enough.â
Inejâs voice was soft. âYouâre going to be a good father, Kaz.â
He didnât respond right away. But he looked toward the hallway, toward the place where she was resting, and said, more to himself than to them:
âIâll try.â
And with that, he turned and walked back upstairsâquieter now, lighter in step.
Requested by: anon Forever tag: @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr,  @sweetheartlizzie07,  @floatlosers,  @vviolynn,  @evilcr0ne, @melsunshine, @ilocuras24
Summary: The Bridgerton family are a well known Grisha family. When the crows infiltrate the grand palace, they are met up with the Bridgerton's. For any chance of escape, Kaz must act like a gentleman. Taken back by the Bridgerton seeing right through him.
Kaz Brekker had it all planned out. Till the very last detail. Yet that plan wouldnât hold ground much longer.Â
Jesper scratched the back of his head with his gun. Expression contracted with a sense of trying to understand. âJust again was it left, left, right, right left or left, left, right, left, left?â Jesper lowered his gun, rubbing his sleeve over it. Pausing with a soft gulp at Kazâs cold stare.
Making him sheepishly chuckle, placing his gun at his hip. Kazâs gaze drifted to Inej. Inej swung her arm around his neck, pushing him down. âLeft, left, right, right, left!â Stating rather forcefully out. Giving him a soft pull at his ear. âGet it right.â Hissing in his ear. Glancing briefly over to Kaz. Knowing if Jesper messed this up, it would be on her too.Â
âGot it.â Jesper answered in a raspy voice. Coughing when her arm gave his throat more breathing. âI knew that.â Mumbling to himself whilst adjusting the neckerchief. Kaz pulled out his pocket watch. Taking one good glimpse at it before putting it back.
Without a warning, he began to walk. Inej and Jesper hurried after him. Turning his collar up to the cold, Kaz hid most of his face. Glancing subtly to the side of the palace. A man came walking out, carrying crates. Kaz paused, turning his posture away. Tipping his hat lower to his nose.Â
Waiting for the man to leave. Taking a spin on his heel, towards the door. Brushing it open with his hand. Swiftly sneaking inside. Jesper glanced left and right, before bending through his knees. Nudging with his head to his joined hands.
Inej tilted her head slightly with a huff. Running up to him, foot setting on his hands. Feeling the hoist of Jesperâs hands, sending her higher up. Keeping her body in line, she backflipped in the air. Landing gracefully on top. Looking over the edge, sending Jesper a thumbs up.Â
He let his index finger touch his thumb, hoop ringed with half a smile. Puffing loud, he hurried through the same door Kaz went. Noticing some crates by the door, he picked them up. Carrying them whilst whistling.
Following the way of the room and corridors. Hurrying up the fleet of darkened stairs. A narrow corner of spiraling stairs leading up to the higher levels. Crouching down just at the corner by Kazâs side. Kaz felt the bump against his elbow. Making him look back. Eyes staring confusingly at the crates.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Kaz shout-whispered to Jesper who sighed loudly. Setting his hand on the crates. âBlending in.â Responding with such casualty. Kazâs jaw tensed, knuckles rubbing against the leather of his gloves. Cane in his hand, he tapped Jesper punishingly at his hand.
âAuw.â Jesper called out, rubbing it with pouted lips. Only needing one look, Jesper knew enough. Cut it out and stick to the plan. Jesper moved the crates behind him on the stairs. Shuffling a bit closer to Kaz. âSo, left, left, right, left, left, correct?â Saying with a huff.Â
Kazâs knuckles rubbed more against the leather fabric. Clenching his fist too tightly. Glare hardening, not in the mood for mis-steps. âJoking.â Jesper called out with a charming chuckle. Kaz rolled his eyes at him, crawling forwards.
Jesperâs chuckles added on, staying low in pursuit. Standing up straight when they ventured into the halls at the western wing of the palace. Keeping their gaze low when staff brushed past. Too occupied to take notice of them. Kaz smiling underneath his hat.Â
Passing one of the large windows, Jesper lingered upon the neighing of horses. Staring outside. Two carriages riding up to the palace from the side. Coming to a halt. âJes!â Kaz whispered loudly. Joining his side, taking a glance of himself.
Eyes drawn to the carriage. Taking notice of each and everyone getting off. âThe Bridgertonâs!â He muttered underneath his breath. âYou mean THE Bridgertons?" Jesper wanted verified. âDo you know any other well praised Grisha family?â Kaz responded with a hint of sarcasm.Â
Before all Bridgertonâs stepped out of the carriage, Kaz turned his posture away with a huff. Tapping his cane loudly against the marble flooring. âIsnâtâŠisnât this going to complicate everything?â Jesper questioned, jogging after Kaz. âNot even the slightest.â Kaz said back over his shoulder. Jesper swallowed nervously, keeping up.Â
Door men bowed upon your arrival. A fierce family of Grisha. Anthony had the lead, siblings strutting behind him. Staff aligned at each side of the hallway. Hyacinth blowing them a playful kiss with her hand. One of the men caught up on it, curling up a smile.
Immediately clearing his throat upon the hard glare from Colin right behind her. Another set of doors opened to the main ballroom. Citizens of Ravka making way for your family. Bowing deeply out of respect. Anthony led you all straight to the throne. King Nikolai upon it. The king got up, meeting up with Anthony with a handshake.Â
The kingâs eyes went to his siblings bowing or curtsying for his grace. Lifting your gaze up, you noticed the kingâs eyes on your sister Daphne. Curling up a smile, you nudged her gently. Pointing it out with a subtle eye motion. Daphne shaking her head lightly for you to knock it off.
Eyes catching the stare of Nikolai in a brief second. A member of the staff approached the king to whisper to him. Quickly you grabbed your sisterâs arm. âYou simply must dance with the king.â Saying closely to her. âY/n.â Daphne let out in shock.Â
âWhat is that about the king?â Hyacinth bumped herself to the other side of Daphne. âNothing.â Daphne responded, pushing both of you away from her. Hyacinth turned to you for an explanation. You simply raised your brows in delight, keeping her playfully in the dark.
Annoyed, she puffed her cheeks. A tray walked past, your brother Colin plucking two glasses from it. Offering one to you. Smiling at each other, you clinked the glasses. Taking a sip, away from each other. âWill you dance, sister?â Colin asked after having licked his lips from the drinkâs taste.Â
âOh no.â You let out breathlessly with a chuckle. âNot half these men could tempt me for a dance.â Raising your glass at the crowd. âNot even them?â Your brother saying close to your ear with a smile. Hinting further ahead at a small crowd of men. With barely a smile, you stared back at them.
A hint of sarcasm in your posture. Answering his question by taking a sip. Colin laughed loudly. Colinâs eyes twinkled with delight when one of them dared to come over anyways. Sighing loud, you turned to him, offering your glass to him. He accepted it with a delightful smile.Â
âMiss Y/n Bridgerton.â The man let out with a bow. âMay I have this dance?â Asking politely. Granting him a sarcastic smile, you moved your hands away from each other. The man choking on his breath, struggling to move.
Swaying your hands, you orchestrated his movement. His leg swinging up, taking a u-turn, the rest of his body following. Letting the blood in his veins flow in the movement you wanted him. Like a puppet on a string, you orchestrated his movements. Having no control over himself. Sending him off with a few good paces.Â
Nearly walking right into a small crowd. Hearing them yelp surprised, leaping out of the way. Upon a good distance, you lowered your hands. Brushing them down your skirt. Colin offering you your drink once more. âI believe youâve forgotten something, sister.â He let out.
Letting his fingers swirl over his glass. The content swirling in a motion. Lifting his hand, the content flew upwards. With a simple hand gesture the liquid found a way to the man. Showering him in wetness. Shuddering with groans and grunts, the man stormed off.Â
Colin and you laughing loud. Clinking your glasses together in delight. Hearing the clearance of a throat, made both of your eyes widen. âAre you two at it again?â Anthonyâs firm voice clear with agitation. Bringing the glass to your lips, you turned away.
Colin turned away as well, moving for an escape. Anthony grabbing both of you firmly by your arms. Shoving you to the side. âWhat must the king think!â He scoffed out. âWe were only having a bit of fun.â You responded with a soft sigh. âThis party is dreadfully boring.âÂ
âThe party doesnât need to be fun.â Emphasizing on the âneedâ. âWe must simply be poised.â Giving an extra tug at your arms. âNo more games or Iâll burn you.â Anthonyâs glare hardening between the two of you. âNothing Hyacinth canât heal.â Colin responded with a teasing smile.
Anthony tensed his jaw, forcefully letting go of you. Colin and you joined hands, taking a run for it. Knowing Anthony was only bark but no bite. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Francesca joining his side. Locking arms with him, soothing him to calmness with her gestures.Â
Colin laughed loud, giving your body a good tug so that you twirled underneath his arm. Rejoining his side, smiling mischievously. After a while Colin and you parted. Finding some old acquaintances in the crowd.
Having no delight in meeting them, you wandered around. Taking notice of all your siblings. Eloise and Benedict in conversation with king Nikolai. Seeing the king glance numerous times at your sister Daphne who occupied herself with Gregory and Hyacinth. Francesca and Anthony observing from the side-line.Â
Exhaling softly, you let your hand brush against the fabric of your skirt. The door to the hallway was a smidge open. Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes went to your eldest brother. Seeing he wasnât paying much attention to you.
Your absence for a few minutes wouldnât be too bad, would it now? Eager to escape the dance for a while, you made your way over. Slipping through the opening. Wandering around as you knew the grand palace well. Invited over several times by the king now.Â
Curiously you just wished to take some distance from the ball. Going up the stairs with a hastened step. Pausing before a statue. Bowing to the statue of a handsome young man. Laughing at yourself for being so silly. Continuing your path, you ventured deeper into the grand palace.
Trying to find something to tease Nikolai later with. Passing by a door, you re-counted your steps. Looking curiously inside through the creak it was open. Curling up a smile at the back of a man. Pushing the door open, you came leaning against the frame.Â
âHow curious taking something that doesnât belong to you.â You spoke. The man peeked over his shoulder to you. Glancing down, you noticed him sneaking something in his pocket. Turning his face away from you, you moved closer.
âNot even nervous?â Hinting at his calm heart beat. Feeling a presence close behind him, he turned around. Slightly shocked by how close you actually were. âOr soâŠâ You spoke, curling up a smile. Taking notice of his heart beat that had spiked up.Â
Kaz set his hands down on the table behind him, leaning into it. âI was seeking solitude, as were you I presume?â Gesturing at you. Tapping your lips, you hummed loudly. âIâm sure the king has many great things that could spark jealousy.â You responded, quirking your eyebrow up at him.
Kaz let out a dry chuckle, bringing his gloved hand in front of your face. Holding a necklace between his fingers. âYou got me.â Letting the necklace dangle between the two of you. âI was curious about the kingâs jewels.â Twirling the necklace around his fingers before placing it back behind him.Â
âNow tell me what is Miss Bridgerton doing away from the dance?â Grabbing the edge of the table beside him once more. âCatching boys like you in the act.â You responded with a snarky comment. Kaz snorted loudly. You took notice of the cane by his side. Curling up a smile. âShall I escort you back to the dance?â You suggested.
Kaz waved his hand with a shake of his head. âThatâŠthat isnât necessary.â Responding. âOh, but your friends would be looking for you, mister Dirty hands.â Tossing a wink at him. Kazâs eyes widened, grabbing his cane tight. Gesturing for him to start walking, he groaned annoyed. âI can always orchestrate your body?â You suggested, wiggling your fingers upwards.Â
Kaz removed him from the table, moving closer to the door. You cleared your throat, joining his side. âA gentleman always offers a lady his arm, is it not Mister Brekker?â Pointing his manners out. Kaz tossed his cane a bit up, catching it right underneath the crowâs beak. Quirking your brow up, you glance up at him.
âInventive.â Saying when you placed your hand on the crowâs beak. Kaz limped forwards, keeping his cane up for your support. Smiling teasingly, you guided him down the stairs. Tugging at the cane, you forced him to follow your lead. Leading him right into the crowded ballroom.Â
Kaz swallowed as you noticed his heart beat going slightly upwards. He as well as you noticed the many guards moving around. Let alone your family was capable enough to get him in chains. Clearing his throat, he turned towards you.
âA dance, miss Bridgerton?â Lowering himself to a bow. âAre you using me as a distraction?â You replied dramatically with a gasp. Kaz perked up a smile. Gracefully you moved your hand to his, keeping it hovering above his. Joining his side, he guided you towards the dancers.Â
He took a tentative notice of those behind you when you curtsied. He bowed in response, making sure to keep his gaze around. Wanting to know every guardâs position. Even your siblingâs positions. Knowing well enough which ones to avoid.
Kaz and you stepped forwards, palms up. Barely touching. Stepping around in a circle. Noticing his gaze was constantly elsewhere, you gestured with your hand behind your back. Kazâs muscles contracted, turning towards you. âEyes on me, Mr. Brekker!â Stating your interest clearly. Kaz smirked.Â
Turning away from each other to rejoin one more. Hands above your head, barely touching. Inches away. âIâll give you my full attention, miss Bridgerton.â He answered, smirking. He knew what you were capable of as a heartrender. The deadliest of the Bridgertonâs. Hinting with your eyes, you were satisfied with his answer. taking the top of his cane that he had raised to twirl.Â
âJes!â Inej hissed out, coming from the shadows. Jesper choked on his drink. Gushing up to his face. Lowering the glass, he dried his face with the back of his hand. Inejâs glare hard on him. âI was just enjoying some refreshments.â He spoke with a sigh.
Inej glanced around. âI have cleared a path. Where is Kaz?â Questioning for he must be here by now. Jesper scratched his head, looking around. âThere!â Calling out with a point. Inej getting on the tips of her toes to look. âDancing?â Jesper added with confusion.Â
Inejâs eyes widened. âWith a Bridgerton. He is being held captive.â She let out quietly. âDoes he?â Jesper responded with furrowed brows. âHead for the door. Iâll handle this.â She ordered. Keeping a low profile, disappearing into the crowd.
Jesper sighed, drinking the rest of his glass down before getting in motion. Inej moved her shoulders so there wouldnât be any bumps. Keeping herself low, sneaking through the crowd. Quietly pulling out her knife. Approaching closer.Â
Kazâs eyes briefly widened upon spotting Inej. The knife was tight in her grip. Kaz took his cane, giving a man nearby a poke. He stumbled over his feet backwards. Inejâs eyes widened with a gasp, needing to move aside for the man. Back on her track, she neared once more.
Kaz tightening his jaw, pointing his cane forwards, shoving Inej back. Confused, she stumbled over her feet. You turned, brushing past Kazâs side. Feeling the fabric of his vest. Her knife coming dangerously close to your back. Kaz hooked the crowâs beak at the fabric of your dress, pulling to force you into a spin. Hands up, you twirled with a laugh.Â
Cane tugging at another manâs vest, he forced him to stumble backwards. Blocking Inejâs view to you once more. Confused, she threw her hands up. Wondering why Kaz was deliberately boycotting her. Kaz nudged with his head for her to move.
A clear glare in his eyes. Inej grunted quietly, tugging her knife away. Shoving her way through the crowd. Clearing your throat loud to his lagging attention. âMy full attention, miss Bridgerton.â He repeated as a reminder. Satisfied you smiled.Â
Noticing the guards wandering around. Coming closer. You leaned in closer to him. âI guess youâll be seeing me again.â Saying teasingly at him. Kaz furrowing his brows at your words. Hinting at the guards nearing, he stopped. Bowed his head at you before making a run for it.
Slipping through the crowd. Surpassing every guard that was too late to notice him. Re-joining with Jesper and Inej. âDo you have it?â Jesper asked, knowing he had not found it. Kaz nodded, patting his hand on his pocket. expression drained, tapping at nothing.
Tugging his hand in his pocket, it was empty. Let out a husky breath, he turned around. Spotting you. You let the compass drop, holding the chain with your fingers. Blowing him a kiss with your hand.Â
Kaz smirked. âWe have no time!â Inej called out upon the guard that had noticed them. Grabbing Jesper by his shoulder, she pulled him along. Kaz limping after them, a grin spread across his lips. Smart move Miss Bridgerton. Smart move.
Omgoodness! The way you write Kaz so tenderly??? Are you taking requests? If you are, what do you think about one of the rival gangs using Tailor powers to create a doppelgĂ€nger of the reader to infiltrate the crows? They donât know the extent of our relationship with Kaz, so he is confused with the silent treatment and lack of your usual quips. In reality his lover is being held somewhere near the harbour and is in need of help? :) Absolutely no worries if not, have a lovely rest of the month!
â Ëâ⧠đ â§âË â The Harbour of Lies â Ëâ⧠đ â§âË â
Ë.âđ Parings: Kaz Brekker x Reader
Ë.âđ Synopsis: You are replaced, but Kaz grows wary of your actions. He will stop at nothing to find out the truth.
Ë.âđ Word Count: 4,989
Ë.âđ a/n: ahh thank u, I really love to write about Kaz without writing outside of his character too much lolol :)) I am 100% taking requests and loved writing this one!! such a good idea <333 I loved it so much it became the longest oneshot I've ever written đ I'm so sorry it took so long but I hope I wrote it as good as u imagined <33
Ë.âđ warnings: a little angsty (sorry I love some good angst) violence, mentions of torture, kaz going crazy, some kind of drug to make reader sleepy
It was a small fight, you told yourself, hoping to get over the aching pressure building up in your chest. Not even a fight, just an argument.Â
You'd both sleep it off (although you knew you wouldnât get a minute of rest tonight), and in the morning, youâll both have realized how ridiculous you two were being. Youâll wake up, say something to him in passing, and then everything will fall back into your usual steady rhythm.Â
You were just taking a breather. Just a second to collect your thoughts and try not to feel so hurt.
Kaz didnât yell at you. No, he wasnât the type to raise his voice, especially not to you. Regardless of his volume, it was his tone that got to you. The way he said his words to you.Â
For a slight second, barely a fragment of a moment, his tone was cool, calculated, almost cruel. A taunting voice as he said, âAnd Iâm supposed to believe you have the mental capacity to know this?â
You shook your head, trying to get the thoughts out, as if you could physically throw them off.
The night air caressed your face exactly the way you needed it to. For a second, you could have sworn it was Kazâs touch against your skin.Â
For a moment, you could have sworn it was his footsteps approaching you now. You didnât hear the door opening, but you were far too into your head to notice much.
The sound of metal hitting the floor rhythmically had you instinctively hiding a small grin on your face.Â
He had come. Kaz had never come to you after a fight, but it mattered little to you. He was here now.
A hand gripped your shoulder, and for that split second, you couldnât think of anything else but of how wrong it felt. How the touch brought you back to reality, as if ice was being poured over you.Â
Too late, you realized. You had no time to react, not when all your guards had been down, not when you were expecting a touch far different than the violent one you were faced with now.Â
Kaz Brekker didnât come for you. It was not his footsteps approaching, not his cane hitting the floor, and not his calming touch.
Instead, cold hands grabbed you, covering your mouth, keeping your hands behind you. Panic seized throughout you before metal hitting your head was the only thing you felt.
Black spots began to cloud your vision, and it was only a matter of time before your own consciousness had started slipping.
Kaz Brekker had been wondering for the past quarter hour whether or not he should confront you. He knew that if he did not, he would be forced to deal with the consequences of his own actions for the rest of the night.
He wouldnât get an ounce of sleep tonight, that much was sure. It wasnât all that different most of his nights.Â
But this night would be different. He could feel it in his bones, digging into his skin, that something would change tonight.Â
The feeling stuck to his skin the way honey would. He didn't know what it was, and he didnât like it much.
Not sleeping was one thing he was used to. However, you would be occupying his thoughts all night, so it meant that work was something he wouldnât be able to get done, either.Â
He had never been able to do much work when it was you who would cloud his thoughts, which was almost always.
He had wonderedâwhat were you doing now? He had seen you leave through the back door, but had you left to your bedroom already? Or perhaps you were still out in the cold, trying to forget what had happened.
And there it was again, the one thing that kept circling in his mind, over and over againâyou.Â
A sigh not unlike that of a growl escaped his lips. He would go after you, he decided. His mind could not bear another minute with your presence living in his head rather than in his arms.
He was already on his feet before his mind could prevent him from rethinking his decision, rushing through the empty halls.
He would deal with this tonight, and that was that. He would resolve this, and go back to his work.
But when he rested his hand on the knob of the door, doubt began to creep into his mind. Maybe you hadnât even wanted to see him. Maybe you would send him away.
Behind that door is where you would stand. Without allowing himself to think, he opened it, expecting you. Instead, he was greeted with the darkness clouding his vision.
Kaz Brekker was too late. By the time he had gone to find you, you had already left. You were likely already in your room, trying to forget about him tonight.
With a sigh, he went back inside, trying to do the same.
Morning came painfully slow. Kaz Brekker could not stop pondering over the words you would say to him, and the words he would respond back with.Â
You were likely to say something witty, perhaps even a joke. He would respond back carefully, something to make you forget he ever said those cruel words last night.Â
You did not deserve themâhe was only frustrated. He needed some space, and the only way he knew how to get that was by pushing people away.
And it worked, perhaps too well. He own voice repeated in his head, finding new ways to torture himself for what he said to you.
Kazâs thoughts were interrupted by youâalways by youâwalking into the kitchen with a stager. The sight of you being so unsteady deeply unnerved him. It was so unlike your usual graceful movements.Â
One minute passed, and then two. His scowl only deepened as he counted the seconds passing by without conversation.Â
You were still angry with him. This small fact only unnerved him more. He spared a glance at you, only to find you wearing a scowl similar to his.
The sight sent a chill down his spine. This wasnât like you. Surely, it couldnât have been him that had upset you so much.Â
It truly was something he admired about you; you never let his foul mood ruin your own spirit. You were always full of joy and kindness.
âIs there something you need, Brekker?â You asked, your tone cold. He only blinked at you, shoving his nausea down his throat. Your words were sharp, almost calculating. Like you were playing an act for an audience.
Calling him by his last name seemed to put a distance between you that he didnât know how to close.
He thought for a second that it was almost like you were trying to mirror him.Â
Seconds passed by without an answer, and Kaz grew more uneasy by the second. You hadnât looked at him, not once. You continued to stir your drink, seemingly content with the silence.Â
âNothing I cannot do for myself.â He responded, only to give him a few more seconds to stare at your face before forcing himself to walk away.
Your eyes were sunken, as if you didnât get enough sleep last night. If you were tired, he could understand. If you needed space, he could allow that.
It took everything in him to keep himself from studying every microexpression on your face, every movement of your body.Â
Consciousness slipped through you for hours. You couldnât make out much, other than some half coherent words every couple of hours.Â
It was hard to tell how much time had passed. Hours, you were certain. How many, you werenât sure.Â
Time passed quickly when you were injected with a liquid that made you so sleepy you couldnât even remember your own name.Â
It left your brain hazy, your mind all foggy.Â
You had meals and were able to go to the bathroom, and that was that. You slept and slept and slept until your head was pounding.
Sometimes you would lay with your eyes closed, just to be with your own mind for a few minutes. You heard the soft pulling of water somewhere near you. The harbour. You were close to it.
The sound of the waves lulled you to peace, something that you hadnât felt since you left the Slat.
You pulled on the ropes digging into your skin again, but they didnât move a single inch. Loud voices echoed from another room, making you halt and pause.
âBrekker doesnât know a thing. She looks exactly like her⊠You couldnât even tell⊠No, everythingâs fineâŠâÂ
Kaz. The name jumped from your thoughts. You couldnât think straight most of the time, but he was clearer than anything.
Kaz was going to get you out of this mess. You were too weak to do it yourself, and he would know if you werenât yourself.
 Kaz would notice you were gone.Â
You close your eyes, steadying your breathing, collecting your thoughts.
Days passed without a normal conversation from you. You stopped meeting his eyes, stopped walking into his office for nothing more than his presence, stopped acting like yourself.
Everyone felt it. Your spirit had dampened, tainted by something Kaz didnât know how to clean.
Earlier this morning, he had seen you drinking coffee, holding your cup with your left hand.
He had simply brushed it off as training; you had been saying for months how you felt that any skilled person would need to learn how to use both hands equally.
The curious thing, however, was that you put no sugar into your coffee. No sweetener, no cream, nothing more than the bitter taste of caffeine.Â
Jesper had laughed about something then, something so stupid in comparison to you.Â
And you hadnât even spared a glance in his direction.Â
You never said anything when Jesper joked, nothing more than a small giggle and an eye roll, something you didnât bother to do now.
But your eyes had always panned over to Kaz after. You would share a look, one that only you two would notice. A half hidden glance full of mischief and secrets.
Seconds passed, until Kaz realized you wouldnât meet his stare.Â
You simply stood, sipping your drink, and acting as if you couldnât wait to leave. You leaned on one leg, then the other, your eyes darting around the room.
Until your eyes finally landed on Kaz. You two stared at each other for a full second before you looked away.
The boulder on Kazâs heart only became heavier. Your eyes were not the same as they once were. That spark he could have sworn came from the stars was now dim, almost completely removed.
You didnât stare at him as though you were angry, or sad. You stared at him as if you didnât even know him.
The thought weighed on him, trapping him, until the room got too small, too warm, too loud.Â
Panic rose enough for him to grab his cane and walk out of the room.Â
He had no other choice than to walk away from the memories that would haunt him far into the day.
The scent of saltwater was beginning to make your head ache more, if that was even possible.
The air felt sticky, clinging onto you. You couldnât tell if it was humidity or blood on your skin.
Every time you woke up, a new injury found itself on your body. Pain was beginning to feel normal. You couldnât remember the last time you woke up without feeling so much of it.
Your captors laughed easily, talked too loudly. They spilled their words the same way a fool would with their gold.
The Lime Dions. Paid tailor. A double. Their words slid into your ears, all beginning to make sense. They were all fragments to a plan you were starting to piece together.Â
It was clear. They wanted you gone, wanted someone else to wear your skin.Â
Kaz would figure this out, sooner or later.
Problem was, you didnât know how much longer you were going to last.
The shift in your actions sharpened over days. You stood farther from Kaz, keeping an odd distance he tried to close.Â
But the closer he got, the more you pushed away. He could only faintly remember the scent of your lavender shampoo and the soap on your skin.
He would stand outside your bedroom door some nights, waiting for the courage to knock before deciding to walk away.Â
He would stare at your hands in the morning as you drank coffee and would tremble at the thought of placing his hand over yours.Â
He would wonder, over and over again, how he could fix it. How he could fix you.
But things were becoming stranger.
When he asked you a simple questionâsomething he was aware that you knew the answer toâyou stumbled with a quick, âI donât know.â
Kazâs pulse almost stopped. You knew, of course you knew. He wasnât sure why you were pretending as if you didnât.
He had asked only to hear your voice ramble for a few seconds, but your answer made it clear you werenât interested in making small talk.
Your words were always clipped, your soft reassurances were replaced by odd silence. It loomed over you now, hanging like a dark secret.Â
Things became strange. It was as if you lost memories or didnât care to recall them.
âYou noticed it too, right?â Jesper asked, whispering. âSheâs not acting right. Like someone took her and wonât give her back. I donât think sheâs ever been upset for this long.âÂ
The words were truer than Jesper knew. Kaz couldnât explain.Â
There was something wrong with you, horribly wrong. He couldnât explain that you never looked at him that way, never carried yourself with hatred, never called his name with anything but affection.
âAre you still fighting with her?â Jesper questioned half heartedly. âSheâs looking at you like youâre trying to collect her debts.â He mused, a small grin on his face.
A withering look from Kaz was all he received before he decided to wander off.
His eyes tracked over your movement, every twitch of your arm, every breath you took, every glance around the room.
Inej talked mindlessly with you, a small grin on her lips, one you didnât mirror.
âItâs been a long time since we danced, hasnât it?â Inej asked, sitting directly across from you.
âFar too long.â You responded, smiling back at her.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
The word repeated itself over and over in his head. That wasnât your smile, wasnât the way your eyes creased when you laughed, wasnât the way your mouth curved.
Inejâs eyes darted to Kazâs once the words left your mouth.Â
There was one detail you wouldnât have said.
You had never danced with Inej before. You always said you would, always promised, but would forget yourself in drinks or games instead.
The room was becoming too hot, too humid. The smell was starting to drive you crazy. Your wrists were raw, and you were positive you would spill blood if they got any tighter.
So much water around you, and yet your throat was aching from the lack of it.Â
As the days passed by, your captors had gotten lazier and far more violent. They stopped feeding you as much, stopped injecting you every couple of hours.Â
You wish it had lasted longer than a day before they injected you again, just moments before.
You were hungry and thirsty, but you were still aware. You no longer lived half deluded, and could get hours in your own mind.
It would be a couple of hours before your mind forgot itself again.
The floor creaked with every step someone took, always making your heart stop dead in your chest. Muffled whispers were all around you.
âJust a few more days,â a faceless voice chuckled. âBrekker and his crew are getting too comfortable. They let their secrets pour out of themselves.â
It was hard to believe they got anything out of the Crows. They were all mindful of their words, always careful of their tone.Â
If they believed they got more than a couple of useless secrets, then it was clear they didnât know Kaz Brekker at all.
You tried not to think about your double. Tried not to picture her living your life, wearing your face, talking to Kaz the way you did. The thought alone made you nauseous.Â
But you knew Kaz through and through. He would see through her act. He would pick her apart, skin by skin, until the truth bled through her.
The door to Kazâs office slammed open, breaking his thoughts. âKaz,â Inejâs voice was shaky, almost desperate. âI was down by the harbor. Thereâs talk going around. Theyâre saying⊠Kaz, theyâre saying that the Dime Lions bought a tailor to create doubles.â
âThatâs quite an expensive hobby.â Kaz responded, not bothering to look up from the papers scattered on his desk.
âTheyâre not doing it for fun.â Inej grumbled, voice breathless. âTheyâre keeping someone near the harbour. A girl from a well known crew. Someone who looks likeâŠâ Inej met his stare now, unable to finish her sentence.
Unable to think of the horrible reality they might be faced with.
You. Kaz knew it, without her even having to say it. He didnât need her voice to form the thoughts growing in his mind now.
But he could see nowâsee that it was gone because they took you from him.
The warmth you radiated around The Slat, the kindness you showed everyone was gone. Kaz believed it could be because he broke something in you. He thought that his darkness might have spread to you, like the disease it was, and he wanted to punish himself every day for it.
Kaz Brekker relied heavily on his instinct. He had to, if he wanted to survive in the barrel.Â
And he was never wrong. He had known something was wrong; had known there was a lingering darkness that couldnât have come from you.
You were gone. Truly goneâyour presence had been absent from the Slat for far longer than he knew.Â
The realization hit him all at once, making his chest feel restricted, like his heart would stop beating any second without his life source.
He would find you, he vowed. Nothing was going to stop him now, there were no boundaries now that the only line he had had been crossed.Â
You were the last of his humanity, the last thing that kept him from ruining himself in the cruelty that called to him.
He would go after you the same way he had gone after anything he had ever wanted in his life; desperately, violently, and without any qualms of what he would ruin in the process.Â
The only thing that truly mattered now was getting you back the same way you had left.Â
And he would get you back. He would use every tool as his disposal to have you return safely.
Your double walked into the Slat, wrists bound together, head held down. She wore your face, your clothes, but was so unlike you it made Kaz uneasy.
âSaints,â Jesper muttered, shaking the chill off his body. âShe looks exactly like her. Itâs freaking me out.â
Inej folded her arms, eyes sharper than they were a day ago. âNot an exact replica. Her face looks different.â
Kazâs cane tapped on the floor, echoing. Silence followed as all eyes watched him.
âWhat will you do?â Her voice rang out, hollow. âKill me? Torture me? I wonât tell you anything.â
Kazâs throat tightened on itself. He stepped closer, the sound of his gloves tightening on his cane. Every urge screamed at him to punish her, make her pay for using you as a weapon, for wearing your face like a trophy.
But he couldnât hurt her. He knew this, deep in his bones. Not while she was wearing your face.Â
But he couldnât allow her to walk around with something that belonged to you, either.Â
âNo, not kill you.â He mused, standing straight. âThat would be too easy. I donât waste my talents on cheap imitations.â
The words dug into her skin, he could tell. Her face hardened as anger settled in.
âInstead, I will give you a message. I will say this once, and only once. You are to leave Ketterdam, and you are to never come back. Your face will go back to normal. But your habits will stay the same. I know who you are. I know what youâre like. If I ever find you back here, I will come for you. I wonât hesitate to kill you slowly, and Iâll let the woman whose face you're wearing watch. You are never to step foot here again. Do you understand?â
Your double flinched back, shuddering in her skin.Â
Kaz lifted a small dagger, cutting the ropes before meeting her gaze.
âIf you are not gone by midnight, Iâll have you hunted.â
He barely finished his words before she bolted out, rushing until there was no trace of her left.Â
Kaz was left with silence, Inej and Jesper watching him. They didnât have to ask why heâd done itâthey knew.
The warehouse was dim, smelling of fish and salt. Men sat around on crates, talking openly, laughing.
The sight filled Kaz with a rage he couldnât explain. You were here, somewhere, and they had the gall to allow themselves around you.
As if they deserved to live in the same world as you.
His cane scraped across the floors, getting louder by the second. They didnât hear it until it was too late.
They didnât see Inej until she was already there, working her way through them like a ghost.
They didnât see Jesper until his bullets barked through the air, reaching every target he aimed for.
They didnât see Kaz until he struck through them, only one thing on his mind.
There was a door to his left, one that was calling out for him. He wanted revenge, wanted so badly to watch every single one of their eyes as life left them.
But he wouldnât give anyone a chance to take you again. Never again would he let you face such danger.
He rushed through the door, knowing Inej and Jesper could handle anything behind him.
All that he saw was you, sat with hollow cheeks, blood all over you.Â
The anger he had left behind just seconds ago bubbled up into his chest again. He wanted to turn back and torture every man in that room, wanted to watch them beg for their lives as he denied them it.
He kneeled to you, his gloved fingers working at the ropes binding you with quick movement. He let out a soft curse as he realized his gloves were making the task difficult.
Quickly, he shed them off his hands, working the knots until they fell away.Â
They hit the floor with a thud, causing you to finally look up at him. He could tell you were half delirious, not fully conscious.
But then you smiled at him. Your real smile, where your eyes creased, and your mouth curved on both sides.Â
And your eyes, he would have done anything to see them again.Â
He couldnât imagine what you had been through. Your gaze met his, and your eyes sparkled like a fire. Like the stars he had wished to see so many nights. His breath caught in his chest, vibrating with emotions he wasnât ready to name.
âAm I dreaming again?â You murmured, a grin still evident on your face.Â
Something unspoken passed through his chest, carving itself into his heart.Â
âNot this time.â He whispered back. He wanted to touch your skin, just a finger to caress your face. He wanted so badly to allow himself so many things.
âI knew you would come for me.â Your hands trembled as you tried to raise them.
He couldnât touch you, couldnât offer what his chest ached to give, but his eyes burned with the intensity all the same.
âIt took you a while, but I knew you would.â You said, lips curving, even as your voice became shaky.
And for the first time in days, Kaz allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upwards. It was barely a smileâbut so full of emotion it made your heart jump.
âOnly a fool would think anyone could be a copy of you.â
Relief cracked through your heart, until a soft sob left your lips.
Kaz shoved his gloves back onto his hands, before lifting both of his arms under you.
The last thing you felt before sleep called for you was your weight being lifted into the air. You felt so free, so peaceful.Â
The soft breeze felt so good on your skin.
Home. You were going home. The thought made you so happy, a smile was left on your lips as you slowly slipped away.
Kaz Brekker couldnât keep his eyes off of you the entire way back.
He wouldnât allow anyone else to hold you, wouldnât allow you out of his sight.
He spent every moment going over every line on your face, every crease.Â
He allowed himself to run his gloved hand over your face. You leaned into it, even in your sleep.
The water didnât come. But he wouldnât push for now.Â
Requested by: anon Forever tag: @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr,  @sweetheartlizzie07,  @floatlosers,  @vviolynn,  @evilcr0ne, @melsunshine, @ilocuras24
Summary: The Bridgerton family are a well known Grisha family. When the crows infiltrate the grand palace, they are met up with the Bridgerton's. For any chance of escape, Kaz must act like a gentleman. Taken back by the Bridgerton seeing right through him.
Kaz Brekker had it all planned out. Till the very last detail. Yet that plan wouldnât hold ground much longer.Â
Jesper scratched the back of his head with his gun. Expression contracted with a sense of trying to understand. âJust again was it left, left, right, right left or left, left, right, left, left?â Jesper lowered his gun, rubbing his sleeve over it. Pausing with a soft gulp at Kazâs cold stare.
Making him sheepishly chuckle, placing his gun at his hip. Kazâs gaze drifted to Inej. Inej swung her arm around his neck, pushing him down. âLeft, left, right, right, left!â Stating rather forcefully out. Giving him a soft pull at his ear. âGet it right.â Hissing in his ear. Glancing briefly over to Kaz. Knowing if Jesper messed this up, it would be on her too.Â
âGot it.â Jesper answered in a raspy voice. Coughing when her arm gave his throat more breathing. âI knew that.â Mumbling to himself whilst adjusting the neckerchief. Kaz pulled out his pocket watch. Taking one good glimpse at it before putting it back.
Without a warning, he began to walk. Inej and Jesper hurried after him. Turning his collar up to the cold, Kaz hid most of his face. Glancing subtly to the side of the palace. A man came walking out, carrying crates. Kaz paused, turning his posture away. Tipping his hat lower to his nose.Â
Waiting for the man to leave. Taking a spin on his heel, towards the door. Brushing it open with his hand. Swiftly sneaking inside. Jesper glanced left and right, before bending through his knees. Nudging with his head to his joined hands.
Inej tilted her head slightly with a huff. Running up to him, foot setting on his hands. Feeling the hoist of Jesperâs hands, sending her higher up. Keeping her body in line, she backflipped in the air. Landing gracefully on top. Looking over the edge, sending Jesper a thumbs up.Â
He let his index finger touch his thumb, hoop ringed with half a smile. Puffing loud, he hurried through the same door Kaz went. Noticing some crates by the door, he picked them up. Carrying them whilst whistling.
Following the way of the room and corridors. Hurrying up the fleet of darkened stairs. A narrow corner of spiraling stairs leading up to the higher levels. Crouching down just at the corner by Kazâs side. Kaz felt the bump against his elbow. Making him look back. Eyes staring confusingly at the crates.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Kaz shout-whispered to Jesper who sighed loudly. Setting his hand on the crates. âBlending in.â Responding with such casualty. Kazâs jaw tensed, knuckles rubbing against the leather of his gloves. Cane in his hand, he tapped Jesper punishingly at his hand.
âAuw.â Jesper called out, rubbing it with pouted lips. Only needing one look, Jesper knew enough. Cut it out and stick to the plan. Jesper moved the crates behind him on the stairs. Shuffling a bit closer to Kaz. âSo, left, left, right, left, left, correct?â Saying with a huff.Â
Kazâs knuckles rubbed more against the leather fabric. Clenching his fist too tightly. Glare hardening, not in the mood for mis-steps. âJoking.â Jesper called out with a charming chuckle. Kaz rolled his eyes at him, crawling forwards.
Jesperâs chuckles added on, staying low in pursuit. Standing up straight when they ventured into the halls at the western wing of the palace. Keeping their gaze low when staff brushed past. Too occupied to take notice of them. Kaz smiling underneath his hat.Â
Passing one of the large windows, Jesper lingered upon the neighing of horses. Staring outside. Two carriages riding up to the palace from the side. Coming to a halt. âJes!â Kaz whispered loudly. Joining his side, taking a glance of himself.
Eyes drawn to the carriage. Taking notice of each and everyone getting off. âThe Bridgertonâs!â He muttered underneath his breath. âYou mean THE Bridgertons?" Jesper wanted verified. âDo you know any other well praised Grisha family?â Kaz responded with a hint of sarcasm.Â
Before all Bridgertonâs stepped out of the carriage, Kaz turned his posture away with a huff. Tapping his cane loudly against the marble flooring. âIsnâtâŠisnât this going to complicate everything?â Jesper questioned, jogging after Kaz. âNot even the slightest.â Kaz said back over his shoulder. Jesper swallowed nervously, keeping up.Â
Door men bowed upon your arrival. A fierce family of Grisha. Anthony had the lead, siblings strutting behind him. Staff aligned at each side of the hallway. Hyacinth blowing them a playful kiss with her hand. One of the men caught up on it, curling up a smile.
Immediately clearing his throat upon the hard glare from Colin right behind her. Another set of doors opened to the main ballroom. Citizens of Ravka making way for your family. Bowing deeply out of respect. Anthony led you all straight to the throne. King Nikolai upon it. The king got up, meeting up with Anthony with a handshake.Â
The kingâs eyes went to his siblings bowing or curtsying for his grace. Lifting your gaze up, you noticed the kingâs eyes on your sister Daphne. Curling up a smile, you nudged her gently. Pointing it out with a subtle eye motion. Daphne shaking her head lightly for you to knock it off.
Eyes catching the stare of Nikolai in a brief second. A member of the staff approached the king to whisper to him. Quickly you grabbed your sisterâs arm. âYou simply must dance with the king.â Saying closely to her. âY/n.â Daphne let out in shock.Â
âWhat is that about the king?â Hyacinth bumped herself to the other side of Daphne. âNothing.â Daphne responded, pushing both of you away from her. Hyacinth turned to you for an explanation. You simply raised your brows in delight, keeping her playfully in the dark.
Annoyed, she puffed her cheeks. A tray walked past, your brother Colin plucking two glasses from it. Offering one to you. Smiling at each other, you clinked the glasses. Taking a sip, away from each other. âWill you dance, sister?â Colin asked after having licked his lips from the drinkâs taste.Â
âOh no.â You let out breathlessly with a chuckle. âNot half these men could tempt me for a dance.â Raising your glass at the crowd. âNot even them?â Your brother saying close to your ear with a smile. Hinting further ahead at a small crowd of men. With barely a smile, you stared back at them.
A hint of sarcasm in your posture. Answering his question by taking a sip. Colin laughed loudly. Colinâs eyes twinkled with delight when one of them dared to come over anyways. Sighing loud, you turned to him, offering your glass to him. He accepted it with a delightful smile.Â
âMiss Y/n Bridgerton.â The man let out with a bow. âMay I have this dance?â Asking politely. Granting him a sarcastic smile, you moved your hands away from each other. The man choking on his breath, struggling to move.
Swaying your hands, you orchestrated his movement. His leg swinging up, taking a u-turn, the rest of his body following. Letting the blood in his veins flow in the movement you wanted him. Like a puppet on a string, you orchestrated his movements. Having no control over himself. Sending him off with a few good paces.Â
Nearly walking right into a small crowd. Hearing them yelp surprised, leaping out of the way. Upon a good distance, you lowered your hands. Brushing them down your skirt. Colin offering you your drink once more. âI believe youâve forgotten something, sister.â He let out.
Letting his fingers swirl over his glass. The content swirling in a motion. Lifting his hand, the content flew upwards. With a simple hand gesture the liquid found a way to the man. Showering him in wetness. Shuddering with groans and grunts, the man stormed off.Â
Colin and you laughing loud. Clinking your glasses together in delight. Hearing the clearance of a throat, made both of your eyes widen. âAre you two at it again?â Anthonyâs firm voice clear with agitation. Bringing the glass to your lips, you turned away.
Colin turned away as well, moving for an escape. Anthony grabbing both of you firmly by your arms. Shoving you to the side. âWhat must the king think!â He scoffed out. âWe were only having a bit of fun.â You responded with a soft sigh. âThis party is dreadfully boring.âÂ
âThe party doesnât need to be fun.â Emphasizing on the âneedâ. âWe must simply be poised.â Giving an extra tug at your arms. âNo more games or Iâll burn you.â Anthonyâs glare hardening between the two of you. âNothing Hyacinth canât heal.â Colin responded with a teasing smile.
Anthony tensed his jaw, forcefully letting go of you. Colin and you joined hands, taking a run for it. Knowing Anthony was only bark but no bite. Looking over your shoulder, you saw Francesca joining his side. Locking arms with him, soothing him to calmness with her gestures.Â
Colin laughed loud, giving your body a good tug so that you twirled underneath his arm. Rejoining his side, smiling mischievously. After a while Colin and you parted. Finding some old acquaintances in the crowd.
Having no delight in meeting them, you wandered around. Taking notice of all your siblings. Eloise and Benedict in conversation with king Nikolai. Seeing the king glance numerous times at your sister Daphne who occupied herself with Gregory and Hyacinth. Francesca and Anthony observing from the side-line.Â
Exhaling softly, you let your hand brush against the fabric of your skirt. The door to the hallway was a smidge open. Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes went to your eldest brother. Seeing he wasnât paying much attention to you.
Your absence for a few minutes wouldnât be too bad, would it now? Eager to escape the dance for a while, you made your way over. Slipping through the opening. Wandering around as you knew the grand palace well. Invited over several times by the king now.Â
Curiously you just wished to take some distance from the ball. Going up the stairs with a hastened step. Pausing before a statue. Bowing to the statue of a handsome young man. Laughing at yourself for being so silly. Continuing your path, you ventured deeper into the grand palace.
Trying to find something to tease Nikolai later with. Passing by a door, you re-counted your steps. Looking curiously inside through the creak it was open. Curling up a smile at the back of a man. Pushing the door open, you came leaning against the frame.Â
âHow curious taking something that doesnât belong to you.â You spoke. The man peeked over his shoulder to you. Glancing down, you noticed him sneaking something in his pocket. Turning his face away from you, you moved closer.
âNot even nervous?â Hinting at his calm heart beat. Feeling a presence close behind him, he turned around. Slightly shocked by how close you actually were. âOr soâŠâ You spoke, curling up a smile. Taking notice of his heart beat that had spiked up.Â
Kaz set his hands down on the table behind him, leaning into it. âI was seeking solitude, as were you I presume?â Gesturing at you. Tapping your lips, you hummed loudly. âIâm sure the king has many great things that could spark jealousy.â You responded, quirking your eyebrow up at him.
Kaz let out a dry chuckle, bringing his gloved hand in front of your face. Holding a necklace between his fingers. âYou got me.â Letting the necklace dangle between the two of you. âI was curious about the kingâs jewels.â Twirling the necklace around his fingers before placing it back behind him.Â
âNow tell me what is Miss Bridgerton doing away from the dance?â Grabbing the edge of the table beside him once more. âCatching boys like you in the act.â You responded with a snarky comment. Kaz snorted loudly. You took notice of the cane by his side. Curling up a smile. âShall I escort you back to the dance?â You suggested.
Kaz waved his hand with a shake of his head. âThatâŠthat isnât necessary.â Responding. âOh, but your friends would be looking for you, mister Dirty hands.â Tossing a wink at him. Kazâs eyes widened, grabbing his cane tight. Gesturing for him to start walking, he groaned annoyed. âI can always orchestrate your body?â You suggested, wiggling your fingers upwards.Â
Kaz removed him from the table, moving closer to the door. You cleared your throat, joining his side. âA gentleman always offers a lady his arm, is it not Mister Brekker?â Pointing his manners out. Kaz tossed his cane a bit up, catching it right underneath the crowâs beak. Quirking your brow up, you glance up at him.
âInventive.â Saying when you placed your hand on the crowâs beak. Kaz limped forwards, keeping his cane up for your support. Smiling teasingly, you guided him down the stairs. Tugging at the cane, you forced him to follow your lead. Leading him right into the crowded ballroom.Â
Kaz swallowed as you noticed his heart beat going slightly upwards. He as well as you noticed the many guards moving around. Let alone your family was capable enough to get him in chains. Clearing his throat, he turned towards you.
âA dance, miss Bridgerton?â Lowering himself to a bow. âAre you using me as a distraction?â You replied dramatically with a gasp. Kaz perked up a smile. Gracefully you moved your hand to his, keeping it hovering above his. Joining his side, he guided you towards the dancers.Â
He took a tentative notice of those behind you when you curtsied. He bowed in response, making sure to keep his gaze around. Wanting to know every guardâs position. Even your siblingâs positions. Knowing well enough which ones to avoid.
Kaz and you stepped forwards, palms up. Barely touching. Stepping around in a circle. Noticing his gaze was constantly elsewhere, you gestured with your hand behind your back. Kazâs muscles contracted, turning towards you. âEyes on me, Mr. Brekker!â Stating your interest clearly. Kaz smirked.Â
Turning away from each other to rejoin one more. Hands above your head, barely touching. Inches away. âIâll give you my full attention, miss Bridgerton.â He answered, smirking. He knew what you were capable of as a heartrender. The deadliest of the Bridgertonâs. Hinting with your eyes, you were satisfied with his answer. taking the top of his cane that he had raised to twirl.Â
âJes!â Inej hissed out, coming from the shadows. Jesper choked on his drink. Gushing up to his face. Lowering the glass, he dried his face with the back of his hand. Inejâs glare hard on him. âI was just enjoying some refreshments.â He spoke with a sigh.
Inej glanced around. âI have cleared a path. Where is Kaz?â Questioning for he must be here by now. Jesper scratched his head, looking around. âThere!â Calling out with a point. Inej getting on the tips of her toes to look. âDancing?â Jesper added with confusion.Â
Inejâs eyes widened. âWith a Bridgerton. He is being held captive.â She let out quietly. âDoes he?â Jesper responded with furrowed brows. âHead for the door. Iâll handle this.â She ordered. Keeping a low profile, disappearing into the crowd.
Jesper sighed, drinking the rest of his glass down before getting in motion. Inej moved her shoulders so there wouldnât be any bumps. Keeping herself low, sneaking through the crowd. Quietly pulling out her knife. Approaching closer.Â
Kazâs eyes briefly widened upon spotting Inej. The knife was tight in her grip. Kaz took his cane, giving a man nearby a poke. He stumbled over his feet backwards. Inejâs eyes widened with a gasp, needing to move aside for the man. Back on her track, she neared once more.
Kaz tightening his jaw, pointing his cane forwards, shoving Inej back. Confused, she stumbled over her feet. You turned, brushing past Kazâs side. Feeling the fabric of his vest. Her knife coming dangerously close to your back. Kaz hooked the crowâs beak at the fabric of your dress, pulling to force you into a spin. Hands up, you twirled with a laugh.Â
Cane tugging at another manâs vest, he forced him to stumble backwards. Blocking Inejâs view to you once more. Confused, she threw her hands up. Wondering why Kaz was deliberately boycotting her. Kaz nudged with his head for her to move.
A clear glare in his eyes. Inej grunted quietly, tugging her knife away. Shoving her way through the crowd. Clearing your throat loud to his lagging attention. âMy full attention, miss Bridgerton.â He repeated as a reminder. Satisfied you smiled.Â
Noticing the guards wandering around. Coming closer. You leaned in closer to him. âI guess youâll be seeing me again.â Saying teasingly at him. Kaz furrowing his brows at your words. Hinting at the guards nearing, he stopped. Bowed his head at you before making a run for it.
Slipping through the crowd. Surpassing every guard that was too late to notice him. Re-joining with Jesper and Inej. âDo you have it?â Jesper asked, knowing he had not found it. Kaz nodded, patting his hand on his pocket. expression drained, tapping at nothing.
Tugging his hand in his pocket, it was empty. Let out a husky breath, he turned around. Spotting you. You let the compass drop, holding the chain with your fingers. Blowing him a kiss with your hand.Â
Kaz smirked. âWe have no time!â Inej called out upon the guard that had noticed them. Grabbing Jesper by his shoulder, she pulled him along. Kaz limping after them, a grin spread across his lips. Smart move Miss Bridgerton. Smart move.
summary/request: âIâd love if you could do a fic where Kaz and the reader are slowly working on his skin to skin aversion in a pace he controls and makes him comfortable and maybe work up to like hugs/kinda cuddling or kissing for him if thatâs okayâ AND âI am passionate about your writing and your Kaz !! Could you write something very cute and exciting? Like Kaz struggling with his feelings for Y/n for a long time, and for years the trauma doesnât allow him to do anything, but one day when something happens that raises him to the limit, he finally kisses the reader ?? I would love it from your point of view â€ïžâ€ïž love u đđâšâ
warning: mentions of blood, trauma, haphephobia (touch aversion), slightly ooc kaz - i feel like heâs much softer here
word count: 2.2k
A/N: I combined these two requests because they were soooo similar. This was by far the hardest piece to write so far.
Of all the admirable traits Y/N embodied, Kaz treasured her patience the most. He never dreamed someone could actually like him with all his flaws and broken parts. How could a relationship survive without touch? To Kaz it seemed impossible, something that only existed inside his head. But Y/N made it a reality.
When sheâd joined the Dregs and ultimately become a Crow, Kaz found himself enthralled with her. There was something Kaz couldnât figure out that made her so welcoming, so warm. He found himself gravitating towards her even when the thought of liking someone seemed like a death sentence.
Just a few short months after she joined his crew, Kaz found himself basking in her warm presence. It was unlike anything heâd ever experienced. The comfortable silence they enjoyed felt natural, something that was simply destined to be. Kaz hadnât realized how truly alone he felt until Y/N attached herself to him like a parasite. But a welcome one. Sure he had Jesper and Inej, and the Dregs who all held some weird reverence towards him but none of them could hold a candle to Y/N. She was otherworldly.
More often than not, they could be found together in his office at the Club or in his attic at the Slat. When he was around her, he could let his mask drop. She didnât look at him as an idol or a leader. Every time she gazed at him, Kaz felt as though she was staring straight into his very soul, seeing the essence of his being. He didnât feel like he needed to put on a show, be the ruthless criminal he was known for.
Instead, they could sip on their coffees and read books, simply enjoying the comfortable silence. They fit together perfectly like two puzzle pieces, made for each other. Kaz would sit quietly and listen to Y/N rave about whatever book she was reading. Whereas, Y/N would diligently listen as Kaz ranted about his plans, running through every single detail aloud. She was the only one ever granted the privilege of seeing the inner workings of his mind at play. At every heist, every job, Y/N knew every single exact detail for plans A through F.
And the bond only grew, to the point where neither could deny the intense feelings for each other. Y/N confessed of course, laying out her feelings and thoughts on the table. But she didnât mind when Kaz couldnât. Thatâs what he liked about her - she was patient. She didnât need the words said aloud to know what he was feeling. Through his small acts of kindness, he knew she could tell he cared for her. The grin on her face everytime Kaz brought her donuts from the bakery on his way back from Fifth Harbor said it all.
She never poked or prodded him, trying to get Kaz to cross his boundaries when it came to touch. Instead, Y/N silently accepted that touch and Kaz werenât two things that went well together. Y/N didnât ask for him to, but Kaz tried, tried so hard to work through it. Everytime one of his hands reached out, twitching with nerves as it drew close to her skin, but ultimately yanked away, Y/N didnât flinch. She always softly smiled, her eyes twinkling with affection and reassured him, âItâs okay Kaz.â
To Kaz, the most stunning thing of all was the way she saw him. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a monster - someone that didnât resemble the innocent young boy that lived on a Kerch farm. He saw each life his hands had taken, each job heâd done and done well at that. The craving for vengeance driving his every action was visible in his eyes. But somehow, Y/N didnât see any of that.
Whenever Kaz stared into the mirror, Y/N walked up beside him, a soft smile etched onto her face. Sheâd place a finger on the mirror, on top of his reflection, and file through all of his traits. To her, he was a painting, perfectly created, each and every feature placed there intentionally.
First her finger would glide to the reflection of his eyes, âYour eyes are like the ocean, waves rumbling but within you that rumbling is ambition. A drive to succeed, not everyone has that Kaz - youâre special.â
And then it would slide over the reflection of his skin, âSun kissed, itâs like that pale golden rosy glow at sunset. The most beautiful color. And the scars and lines, theyâre stories, the tale of your life.â
Sheâd continue, seemingly endlessly, always finding something good within all the evil. Kaz didnât know how she did it, but by the time she finished, he didnât feel so disgusting anymore. The heavy burden weighing down his shoulders always lightened and his brain didnât feel so chaotic.
When he picked a lock, Y/N didnât see a crime of breaking and entering. Instead, she saw a man gifted with incredible dexterity. When he formulated a plan for a heist, she didnât see a criminal mastermind. She saw someone with a brilliant mind that could solve any puzzle.
She saw Kaz for who he really was, just Kaz. To her he wasnât Dirtyhands or the Bastard of the Barrel - just Kaz. And she let him know that, always repeating it so he wouldnât forget. Kaz never forgot. That was the beauty of her, she was calming and patient and everything Kaz so desperately needed.
But Kaz knew she needed to be touched, to be shown physically that she was loved, cared for. Her lingering glances at couples holding hands in the Crow Club didnât pass him by. Kaz always noticed. It made him feel guilty, but it also motivated him, another ambition that found a way to reign over his mind, sitting beside revenge.
So he set his mind to improving and went about it like he would with any other challenge - he made a plan. Step by step, he promised himself heâd get better for her.
The first step was feather light touches, just barely grazing his fingers over someone. First with gloves, and then without.
One evening, nearly exactly two years after sheâd joined his crew, Kaz initiated the first step. Y/N sat next to him on the couch that was stuffed in his attic. She softly thumbed through a large book she was reading, the old pages treated delicately. Kaz couldnât help but watch her. She was far more fascinating than the sheet regarding the Crow Clubâs profits that he was reconciling. His eyes followed every movement of her fingers as she turned the yellowed pages.
Kaz turned his attention to her other hand that lay in the space between them. Slowly, he inched his hand towards hers, fingers twitching in anticipation. Every thought that stirred in Kazâs mind was wondering how he would happen, what he would feel if he just kept moving closer. Drawing in a deep breath, he steadied himself, calming his racing mind. It was far easier to think of doing something rather than actually doing it. With a gulp, one of Kazâs fingers softly laid itself against Y/Nâs hand.
The air was tense as Y/N froze, staring over at Kaz with a concerned gaze. Itâs not horrible, Kaz thought as he let out a breath he hadnât realized heâd been holding in. Her skin was warm, contrasting sharply with the cold, biting feeling of the ocean that overtook Kazâs body. The two feelings wrestled for control, turning his mind into a bloody war zone.
Y/Nâs gentle voice cut through the noise, âKaz, you donât have to.â
Kaz shook his head, eyes trained on the tiny spot where their skin touched, âI want to, I need to.â
After another moment, he inched forward again, now his entire hand covered hers, his fingers intertwining with hers. Breath caught in his throat, trying to rein in his mind that was running with panic. Itâs okay, itâs Y/N.
From there, Kaz only continued to improve, of course with setbacks scattered generously along the way. At times he wondered if heâd ever be able to best the trauma and anxiety that raged within, if heâd ever be someone worthy of Y/Nâs affection. But she was always there by his side, encouraging consistently through the highs and the lows. Not once did she ever try to push him. Kaz worked at a rate that fit him. Kaz knew he was finally getting better when Y/N reached out and intertwined her hand with his and he didnât flinch. Each âfirstâ was a milestone.
Their first hug came a year later. Kaz stood in the middle of the main floor of the Slat, feeling his face grow pale as he stared at the gorey scene before him. His heart hammered away as he overlooked Inej and Jesperâs bloody and still bodies. Nina fluttered between the two, tending to their wounds and utilizing her small science. Kaz was frozen on the spot, silently watching two of his closest friends fight for their lives. It felt wrong, so wrong, and then he was drowning, struggling to keep his head above the waves of dread and panic.
And then there was Y/N, his lifeboat, the only thing tethering him down to reality. She stepped in front of him, obscuring his vision, and ran her hands delicately over his face, wiping away the blood and grime.
âI did this to them.â Kaz choked out, barely a whisper.
Y/N swiped a few stray hairs away that fell over his face, âNo, no, donât do that Kaz. You drug them home, you saved them.â
Kaz shook his head, eyes trained on the bodies before him. He didnât even look down at Y/N, he was too lost.
She gripped his cheeks and forcefully tilted his head down. Kazâs eyes met hers, they were soft, warm, enveloping him.
âDonât you dare blame yourself, Kaz Brekker.â Y/Nâs voice was soft but stern, every word that left her mouth was spoken with confidence.
Her fingers softly danced along his jawline, skittering over the clenched muscles. But Kazâs body jumped under her touch, willing to do her bidding - willing to relax. Staring down at her, he realized she was his rock. The one steady constant, the one person he couldnât ever imagine leaving him. She always had a smile etched upon her face, one of patience, warmth, and understanding. What would I do without her?
Without a second thought, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. Heâd grown accustomed to touches but this was something else. Kaz felt at peace wrapped in her arms, the memories that regretfully came along with touch stayed in the back of his mind. For the first time, they didnât push their way to the surface, causing Kaz to be overcome with nausea and dizziness. Instead they stayed buried, where they should be - manageable. He focused every bit of his mind on the warmth of her body and how he could feel her lungs expand and deflate against his chest. It just felt right.
Another year later, two more âfirstsâ occurred, the most important firsts in Kazâs opinion. Y/N spun about his attic, swaying like a leaf in the wind to the melodious music that filled the room. A smile was plastered on her face as she danced like a prima ballerina, beauty and power all combined into one. Kaz was transfixed, hypnotized by her movements.
She reached a hand out towards him, beckoning him to join her as a slower melody began to play. Of course Kaz couldn't say no, so he reached out and took her hand. Together they swayed, Y/Nâs arms wrapped around his neck as Kazâs hands ghosted over her, running from her hips up her sides. Kaz felt like he was touching something heavenly, a piece of the universe right under his hands. It sent his mind reeling, wondering what he could have done to be so lucky.
Y/N smiled up at him, her eyes slowly running over each of Kazâs features. Her eyes glittered like gold in the dim light and they were inviting, tempting Kaz to fall even deeper in love if that was even possible.
As the song came to a close, Kaz pulled her closer and he pressed a kiss to her temple. To anyone else, it would have been a simple, mindless form of affection. But for Kaz it was something more. That kiss meant the world. It was a promise that heâd continue to get better, a promise that heâd do it for both himself and her.
âI love you, Kaz.â Y/Nâs voice was silvery, floating in the air, blending melodiously with the dying music.
Kaz leaned back slightly so he could gaze into her eyes and his heart beat rapidly. Admitting for the first time, he whispered, âI love you too.â
At that moment, Kaz realized the past was the past and he couldnât go back to change things. He couldnât bring Jordie back, he couldnât stop himself from waking up in that sea of corpses. But he could change the future, dictate what was to come. Kaz knew one thing for certain, Y/N was his future and he wanted to experience everything with her.
He would overcome his past, brick by brick, but heâd need time. It was a good thing Y/N had patience.
âââ
Kaz taglist, continued in comments (comment âtag meâ to be added)
description: when john b discovers that his best friend and twin sister are dating against his wishes, he's furious. however, when he catches them in a moment of vulnerability, he can't help but change his mind.
The day John B found out began as a regular morning at the Routledge household. JJ was sprawled across the couch, quietly doom scrolling on his phone. John B was running around the house trying to remember where he put his keys while you hummed quietly in the kitchen, making breakfast for yourself and JJ.
You glanced over at the blonde, catching him watching you with a soft look on his face. You grinned, quick to return your attention to buttering toast as John B stormed into the living area. JJ rolled back over, continuing his doom scroll.
John B, none the wiser.
"Okay, I'll see you guys after work," John B announces, stealing a piece of buttered toast.
"Hey!" You cry. "You said you weren't hungry!"
John B shrugs, toast dangling from his mouth. You roll your eyes at your twin and make a show of grabbing another piece of bread and throwing it into the toaster.
The door slams as John B rushes out and clambers down the porch steps. Both you and JJ stay still, anticipation hanging in the air as you both wait to hear the Twinkie sputter to life.
You were always cautious, always certain that John B was far, far away before the two of you even decided to speak to each other. John B had warned JJ a very long time ago that if he even thought about his sister romantically that he wouldn't hesitate to punch him into next year.
To put it simply, you were off limits.
So, when you and JJ both started developing feelings for each other, it only felt right to keep it from your brother for as long as possible. For the past three months, it had been going just fine.
"I think he's gone," JJ says as you bring over his breakfast for him. "Thank you, pretty girl."
"Welcome," you take a seat next to him, puckering your lips for a kiss.
JJ places his plate onto the coffee table in front of him and leans in. You were only expecting a quick peck, but JJ had other plans. He easily captures your lips in a kiss, sliding a hand to your jaw to deepen it.
You break away, grinning. "You miss me or something?"
JJ chuckled softly and pulls you back for more. His next words are mumbled against your lips. "Maybe. Maybe not."
He grabs the plate from your lap and blindly places it onto the coffee table, not once breaking the kiss. With your now free hands, you slid them over his biceps.
As the kiss grows more heated and desperate, JJ slowly pushes you down onto the couch, hovering over you. You put your hands over his waist, pulling his body onto yours. Soft noises escape you both as you indulge in each other.
JJ grabs the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it up your torso. His finger traces the bottom of your bra, hooking it under a cup before moving his hands back down to your waist, teasing you.
"What the actual fuck."
At the sound of your brother's voice, you shove JJ off you. He tumbles to the ground.
"John B-" You start.
"My sister, JJ?" John B scowls.
"It's not what it looks like, man," JJ defends, picking himself up from the floor.
"Oh, so you two weren't just making out? That was something else?"
"That's not what I mean."
You were more than a hookup to JJ. Much, much more.
"What did I tell you?" John B finally shouts, moving to shove JJ back a few steps. "What did I tell you, JJ?"
"I know, I know but hear me out, okay?" JJ pleads.
"No, JJ. I don't want to hear you out. I'm going to punch the shit out of you."
John B raises his fist but you're already beside him, pulling him back by his arm. "John B, cool it!"
John B finally looks at you with a mix of fury and disappointment. "How long?"
You glance over at JJ, unsure of your next move.
"Don't look at him. Tell me how long. I want to hear it from you."
Your voice comes out small. "Three months."
His eyes pop with a new wave of anger. "You kept this from me for three months?"
"Hey man, get angry at me. Not her," says JJ.
"JJ, I think you should go."
"John B," you say tearfully.
You get that he was pissed but sending JJ back to his dad's over this seemed a little extreme.
Your brother doesn't look back at you as he continues. "Leave, JJ."
"John B, you're being unreasonable," you say. "You can't just kick him out."
"I'm not kicking him out I just need to process this," John B clarifies. "I just need a bit of space. From both of you."
JJ glances at you, the tightness of his jaw softens at the hurt on your face. "I'll be back later, Y/N. Okay? Don't worry about me."
You watch tearfully as he grabs his phone and keys from the kitchen bench. There's a moment where you're both unsure of what was okay to say to each other. JJ stares at you, then at John B. Back to you.
"I love you," says JJ.
"I love you, too."
With that, JJ is out the door.
You watch him leave down the porch steps.
"John B, please," it comes out as a whisper. "He's your best friend."
"Exactly. I know him. I know how he treats girls. I don't want him treating you like that."
"You're being ridiculous," you say, now angry. "I'm my own person and you're not dad. You don't get to decide who can and can't date me."
John B stares at you before he pushes past you and heads back out to the Twinkie.
A soft sob escapes you as he pulls out onto the road.
It had been three days since JJ left and he hadn't come back since. He'd occasionally messaged you, waking you up with a good morning text and sending you to sleep with a goodnight one but he was keeping you at arms length.
John B had barely been home either, spending most of his time at Sarah's or picking up extra work around town. Growing up, John B and you often fought but no fight was ever left unsolved for more than a day, let alone three.
You wanted something, anything from them. Hell, you'd take another screaming match before another minute of this radio silence. JJ and John B were meant to be a two-for-one deal. It hadn't been one without the other for a long time.
"We are getting you out of the house tonight, girl" Kiara says as she lets herself into the Chateau with a six pack of beer. "No more being mopey."
Kiara had been the one person to actually stick around, listening to everything after you told her about you and JJ.
"What if one of them comes back?" you protest, groaning as Kie took your ankle and tried to drag you off the couch.
"I guarantee you that they'll be at the Boneyard tonight. John B has been hanging for a drink," Kiara reasons.
"You've talked to him." Kiara nods. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. A little distant but fine." Kiara throws you a can. "Drinks on me tonight, okay?"
That was enough to convince you.
So the two of your finish the six pack together and get ready for the party. You change out of the pyjamas you've been exclusively wearing and into something cute.
When you arrive to the Boneyard, you try hard to not go instantly searching for your brother or JJ. Instead, you stick by Kiara to talk to a few friends from school.
The conversation happens around you while you search the growing crowd of people for any sight of the boys. It seems as though they were the only two people on the Island not currently present.
Defeated, you try to force yourself to engage with Kie and your friends. Laughing when somebody made a joke, chiming in when a topic concerned you. Trying to ignore the hole forming in your stomach.
Then you saw him. JJ. As though appearing out of nowhere. He was holding a red solo cup under the keg, pouring himself a beer and talking with a few others.
You watched him for a few minutes. He seemed fine. Happy. Completely okay without you. As you debated on walking up to him, a girl beat you to it.
A pretty girl.
JJ greets her warmly, quick to grab a fresh cup and pour her a cup of beer. They laugh together. She stands too close and you realise the reason why JJ had maybe pulled away from you.
You weren't worth it.
Maybe your brother had been right.
You weren't worth the heat from John B. You weren't worth giving up his previous lifestyle for. You weren't enough to keep JJ entertained. You weren't enough.
Tears burned your eyes as you abruptly stood up. "I'm sorry, excuse me."
Kiara called after you but her cries fell on deaf ears.
You kept walking. You walked and walked until you found the front porch steps of the Chateau.
You planted yourself on the bottom step and let yourself cry, the emotional build up of the past few days finally getting its release.
"Baby," a voice called softly from in front of you. JJ.
You don't look up, unable to face him in your state.
"Baby, what's wrong?" JJ asks, kneeling down in front of you. He takes your wrists gently, prying them away from your tear-stained face. His eyes, lit with concern, meet yours, "Kie told me you ran off crying."
You struggle to find your words at first because to be honest, you weren't really sure where to start. You were upset about a lot of things. You were upset with him.
So you swallow hard and find the courage to tell him the truth.
"It's been a really hard few days and I needed you. You barely texted, you didn't call, you didn't ask how I was. Then I show up at this party and see you talking with some other girl like you've already forgotten about me."
JJ takes this in. He nods, gaze never straying from yours.
You lower your voice into a breathy whisper, "Do you not want me anymore?"
JJ's eyebrows furrow and he grabs your face with both hands, "Oh my god. Of course I want you, Y/N. You are the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to me. I mean that. I'm sorry, I've been a dick. To be honest, I thought that maybe I had screwed everything up and I was scared to face it all. I was terrified that I'd lost you and John B. I didn't really know how to handle this."
Fresh tears spring to your eyes but they're not tears of hurt but relief.
"I thought I lost you, Jay," you cry.
"God, no," JJ says, voice thick with emotion. "Y/N, I love you so much. I'm pretty sure I haven't ever loved anyone the way I love you. I'm never leaving you. Not for some random girl, not because your brother doesn't think I'm good enough, not for anything. You're my girl."
JJ then closes the distance between you, his lips press against your gently at first. The kiss is slow, apologetic and passionate. You tilt your head, allowing it to deepen. It becomes desperate, so all encompassing that neither of you hear the creak of the floorboards inside.
JJ pulls away, "From now on, we're going to get through this together, okay?"
"Okay." You agree.
"Do you want some water? Tissues?"
You nod and JJ springs up the steps, opening the front door, "Be right back..."
Standing in the middle of the kitchen is John B.
JJ says his name quietly, it hangs in the air between them.
"Not gonna lie, I still really want to hit you," says John B.
"Fair."
"You really love her, don't you?"
"Yeah. I do."
"Listen, I'm sorry about how I acted before but I was pissed. Really fucking pissed," he pauses, looks at you. "Mostly, I was so angry because I was scared. The last thing I want to do is lose my best friend because, yeah, I will pick my sister every time."
JJ nods, "Yeah, I get it. We should have told you sooner."
"To be honest, I don't really blame either of you. I mean, look at how I reacted." They both laugh half-heartedly before falling into an uncertain silence. Where to go from here? "I still don't like that you kept it a secret from me. That was a shitty thing to do. All I ask is that you take care of her, Jay."
"Of course," JJ agrees instantly. "I would never hurt her."
"You're a good person, Jay. Don't fuck it up."
John B disappears down the hall, leaving JJ to grab the water and tissues as promised, trying not to think about how this was probably the first time anyone has ever called him a good person before.
⥠summary: when you get badly injured during a heist, kaz is forced to drag you out, unsure of whether or not you'll make it
warnings: established relationship, blood, gore kinda
wc: 1.1k
based on this request
The job was a mess from the start. Jesper mistimed the distraction, resulting in you and Kaz getting caught. Wylanâs bombs from plan C never ended up going off, and you still hadnât found the documents Kaz was looking for.
And to top it all off, the owner of the mansion had come home earlier than your timeline had established, sending his guards after you.
About a week ago, you had robbed this same man, slipping easily past his defenses. It seems heâs upped his security since then.
You and Kaz had been in the office when you were caught, going through the rich manâs desk. You werenât exactly sure what Kaz was looking for, one of his worst traits was not filling you in on his full plan, but you were trying your best to help.
âHave you found them yet?â
âIf I had, we wouldnât still be here.â He snapped and you sent him a look. He had the decency to look at least a little apologetic. Finally, he snatched the documents from a false bottom in the desk drawer, shoving them in his pocket, but thatâs when security kicked the door down, blocking the doorway.
Luckily, Kaz had a backup plan. He grabbed your wrists, tugging you out the secret exit through the bookshelf, racing against the thundering footsteps behind you.
You didnât feel the pain at first, the slash across your back sending you stumbling to the ground. They were fabrikators, sharp shards embedded in their fingertips as amplifiers, but acting more like claws.
Kaz turned, eyes widening as he reached for his gun. You donât pay much attention to the fight, bodies dropping to the ground all around you, but you feel the sting now, blood seeping through the back of your shirt.
Kaz slammed one of the guards into the wall, knocking him out with a firm hit when he heard a sharp cry. When he whipped around, you were pinned to the ground, one of the security sinking his claws into your back.
You hear the shot go off and the thud of the body hitting the floor next to you before you're being pulled up by your bicep.
âCome on. We have to go.â You whimpered as he pulled you to your knees.
âAh- Kaz, Kaz, I canât.â Your voice was a few octaves higher, strained in pain.
âYes you can, come on.â He urges.Â
âJust go without me.â
âNo. Thatâs not happening.â He tugs you to your feet, blood dripping down to the ground.
âKazâŠâ
âDonât do this. Iâve got a safehouse not far from here, you can make it.â Your breath was shallowing, back stinging.
Kaz half dragged you to the front door, and before you knew it you were outside in the dark streets of Ketterdam.
âStay with me, schat. Stay with me.â He begged. His skin tingled, overwhelmed by the feel of your skin even through his gloves. He felt chills rising on his body, desperately trying to control himself.Â
By the time the safehouse is in view, his breathing is heavy and your feet are dragging on the ground.
âWeâre almost there, just hang on.â Kazâs limp was pronounced and you werenât sure where his cane went, but his grip was tight around your waist.Â
You were fading in and out of consciousness as Kaz struggled to get the door open, his hand shaking. He dragged you inside, carefully depositing you on the rickety wooden bed in the small room.
He canât think of anything reassuring to say in this moment so he rushes to get the first aid kit. He wouldnât be able to find a healer in time, at least not before stopping the bleeding.
After arranging you on your stomach, Kaz cuts the back of your shirt open, revealing your wounds. Heâs taken aback by how torn up your back is.
Your eyes are closed, skin pale, but youâre still breathing and heâs not sure if youâre awake or not. It doesnât matter right now because heâs scrambling to get the sutures.
One by one, he stitches up each slash across the expanse of your back, your whimpers and cries of pain invading his thoughts. The water is nearly at his chest now, sweat on his brow, his hands shaking. He canât breathe. Heâs going to pass out but if he does, whoâs going to help you?
That thought is the only thing that makes him push through, along with the vivid images of what might happen if this doesnât work.
This is it. She wonât wake up after this. This is the last thing sheâll ever experience and itâll be the pain Iâm giving her. I should have been quicker. I should have foreseen this. I should have planned for this.
The bleeding has stopped and your back is bandaged but youâre unconscious, all of the pained sounds from your mouth gone. Kaz takes a moment to gather himself, heading to the sink to splash water on his face.
His hands grip the basin tightly, his gaze finding you in the mirror. Heâd only known you for about two years and yet, for some reason, you were the person he trusted most in the world.
He held you close to his chest like merchants hold their riches. Neither of you are really sure when you started dating, it just happened. Over time youâd started spending more time in his office, he looked out for you, you shared intimate touches in the shadows of the nighttime.Â
It was like a mutual silent agreement that you were his and he was yours. But now, just when he might lose you, he wished heâd said it out loud. He wished heâd told you how deeply he felt for you. How much he craved your touch, your voice, your quiet reassurances in his ear.
Kaz turned away from his reflection, striding back to the bed where you lay, breathing slowly. Too slowly. What he wouldnât give to have Nina here right now. Ghezen, that hurt to say. He needed help, a healer, a heartrender, anyone.Â
âStay with me, schat. I canât-â His voice broke and he cut himself off, looking down. âI canât do this without you.â He spoke, barely above a whisper.
He had to go find a healer. He was running out of time and he could sit here any longer, as much as he wanted to. Heâd pay whatever they asked, as long as they bring back his girl.
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything â not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didnât count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, heâs walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that heâs navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where heâs going. People naturally move out of his way.Â
âIâm just saying,â Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. âItâs not about the quantity, gentlemen. Itâs about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.â
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. âMutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?â
âFirst of all, her name was Britney,â Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. âAnd second, I didnât use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. Itâs the circle of life, Elton John style.â
âYouâre a menace,â Garrett mutters, though heâs grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
âI am a public servant,â Dean fires back, spinning around so heâs finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briarâs royalty â hockey stars and the football golden boy â and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesnât have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semesterâs tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His motherâs family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
âYouâre going to catch something one of these days, man,â Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. âAnd I donât mean feelings.â
âI am pristine,â Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. âI am a beacon of health and vitality.â
âYouâre a slut,â Logan corrects cheerfully.Â
âI am comfortably sex-positive,â Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesnât break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.Â
âHey, watch it,â Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Deanâs shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.Â
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.Â
Thatâs when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.Â
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. Sheâs wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate â straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.Â
But itâs not the clothes that make Deanâs heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. Itâs the face.Â
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. Youâre hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it canât be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his motherâs best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.Â
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.Â
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasnât jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
âWhoa,â Beau murmurs, having followed Deanâs line of sight. âWho is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.â
âTransfer student?â Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.Â
âI call dibs,â Logan says immediately.
âShut up,â Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.Â
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Deanâs sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.Â
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
Itâs a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.Â
Dean drops his coffee.Â
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesnât even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood â when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they werenât supposed to see.
âY/N?â Dean breathes.Â
He doesnât realize heâs moving until heâs already shoving past a group of freshmen.Â
âWhoa, Dean! Where are you going?â Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
âY/N!âÂ
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.Â
Then, your eyes land on him.Â
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.Â
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
âDean?â Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
âHoly shit,â Dean breathes out. âItâs really you.â
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesnât think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.Â
The entire courtyard seems to stop.Â
âIs that ⊠Dean Di Laurentis?â A girl whispers loudly nearby. âIs he hugging someone?â
âLike ⊠romantically?â Another asks in disbelief. âI thought he didnât do public affection.â
âI thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.â
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldnât care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. Itâs a completely foreign sensation for him â touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.Â
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
âLook at you,â he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he canât quite name. âYouâre ⊠God, youâre beautiful. Youâre all grown up.â
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. âYou havenât done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see youâre still as dramatic as ever.â
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. âWhat the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.â He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.Â
âItâs ⊠complicated,â you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. âI transferred. Iâm going to Briar now.â
âYouâre going to Briar?â Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomatâs daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? âSince when?â
âSince about a week ago,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âDean, I âŠâ
âHold on, hold on,â Loganâs voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.Â
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.Â
âDean,â Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. âAre you going to introduce us to your ⊠friend?â
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.Â
âGuys, this is Y/N,â Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. âY/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.â
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. âIt is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned ⊠well, he actually hasnât mentioned you, but his mother has.â
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. âWell, arenât you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?â
âWe grew up together,â you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. âIn Greenwich. We were best friends.â
âBest friends,â Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. âFunny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.â
âSheâs not British, she just lived there,â Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. âAnd I didnât mention her because you degenerates donât deserve to know about her.â
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. âMaâam. Itâs a pleasure.â
âPlease, just Y/N is fine,â you say, your cheeks still flushed.Â
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.Â
âYouâre shaking,â he notes, his brow furrowing. âAnd you didnât answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And donât give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.â
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. Itâs an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Deanâs groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.Â
âMy father,â you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Deanâs eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. âHe ⊠he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.â
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrettâs posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Deanâs entire body goes rigid.Â
âThreats?â Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. âWhat kind of threats?â
âPolitical ones,â you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. âThings got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didnât want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, itâs far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.â
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. âThough I suppose Iâm failing a bit at the blending in part.â
Dean doesnât laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what youâre saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.Â
âAre you safe here?â Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.Â
âYes,â you assure him quickly. âI have ⊠well, I have discrete security. But officially, Iâm just a normal student now. Or trying to be.â
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.Â
âWhere are you living?â Dean asks.
âThey put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,â you say softly. âI was just trying to find the registrarâs office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.â
Dean makes a split-second decision.Â
âYouâre not staying in a dorm,â Dean says definitively.Â
You blink in surprise. âPardon?â
âHe said,â Logan chimes in, correctly reading Deanâs mood and seamlessly backing him up, âthat the dorms are trash. And youâre not staying in one.â
âIâI have to,â you stammer, looking overwhelmed. âItâs already paid for, and-â
âI donât care if the President himself paid for it,â Dean says, stepping closer to you. âYouâre not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. Youâre coming home with me.â
Your eyes go wide. âDean, I couldnât possibly-â
âI live in an off-campus house,â Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. âWith Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. Itâs supposed to be a gaming room, but weâll clear it out. Youâre staying with us.â
âDean,â Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. âAre you sure thatâs a good idea? I mean, weâre not exactly ⊠quiet.â
âSheâs staying with us, Garrett,â Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.Â
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. âHey, Iâm not arguing. Itâs your call. Just warning the lady.â
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. âDean, really, itâs too much. I donât want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-â
âY/N,â Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. âYou are never an intrusion. Youâre family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.â
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know â the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek â is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.Â
âOkay,â you whisper softly. âOkay. If youâre sure.â
âIâve never been more sure of anything,â Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.Â
He turns to the guys. âBeau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker â weâre going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.â
âWait, I didnât agree to be manual labor,â Logan complains.Â
Dean shoots him a dark look.Â
âManual labor is my favorite,â Logan corrects immediately. âPoint me to the boxes.â
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. âCome on, sweetheart. Letâs get you out of this quad.â
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you canât help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.Â
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.Â
Maybe coming back to America wasnât such a bad thing after all.Â
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.Â
âDean,â you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you wonât hear. âPeople are staring.â
âLet them stare,â Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. âTheyâre just jealous because Iâm walking with the prettiest girl on campus.â
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. âYou havenât changed. Still a terrible flirt.â
âIâm not flirting,â Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. âIâm stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.â
âI know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,â you tease gently.Â
Dean barks out a laugh. âThat was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.â
âYou used an entire can of hairspray,â you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. âYou smelled like a chemical hazard.â
âAnd yet, you still danced with me,â he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.Â
âI took pity on you,â you reply primly.Â
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. âSheâs got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?â
âSheâs not a stray dog, Logan,â Garrett groans.Â
âSheâs too classy for us,â Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. âLook at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.â
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. âYou ate cereal out of a frisbee?â
âAll the bowls were dirty,â Logan defends him. âIt was a logistical necessity.â
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. âWhat exactly have I agreed to?â
âChaos,â Dean admits cheerfully. âAbsolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise weâll keep the house clean for you. Iâll personally hire a maid if I have to.â
âYou donât have to do that,â you say quickly. âI can clean. Iâm quite domesticated.â
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. âY/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.â
âHey!â Logan yells from behind.
âIâm serious,â Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. âYouâre a guest. Youâre my ⊠youâre with me. You donât lift a finger.â
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that youâve never heard before. Itâs thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.Â
You finally reach your dorm building. Itâs a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.Â
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.Â
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. âYeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, weâre taking the rest.â
âItâs not that bad,â you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.Â
âItâs inhumane,â Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. âGrab the bags. Letâs go.â
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.Â
âIs this everything?â Dean asks.Â
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. âYes. I havenât exactly had time to unpack.â
âGood,â Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.Â
âYouâre safe now,â he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. âIâve got you, Y/N. I promise.â
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.Â
âI know,â you whisper.Â
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.Â
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.Â
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.Â
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. Itâs vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.Â
âSo, Y/N,â Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. âPolitics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?â
âThatâs the plan,â you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. âInternational relations, specifically. Though right now, I think Iâd settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.â
âIf you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,â Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. âHe once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.â
âIt was a scientific inquiry!â Logan defends loudly from the back. âAnd I was a freshman!â
âYou were a sophomore,â Tucker corrects mildly.Â
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Deanâs head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.Â
âHere we are,â Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and thereâs a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.Â
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.Â
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.Â
âItâs ⊠very big,â you remark politely, stepping further inside.Â
âItâs a pigsty,â Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. âIâm going to murder whoever left their shoes out.â
âThose are your shoes, bro,â Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.Â
Dean doesnât miss a beat. âIâm a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.â
He takes your hand again â a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit â and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.Â
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.Â
âThis was the designated gaming room,â Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. âBut we have another TV downstairs, so itâs basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and weâll bring up a bed from the basement. Itâs a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.â
You step into the room. Itâs spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, itâs cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.Â
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. âDean, I canât ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isnât-â
âStop,â Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.Â
âLook at me,â he commands gently.Â
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.Â
âI am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,â Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. âI know you have security, but I donât care. I need to know youâre safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, youâre just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.â
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isnât just about protecting you; itâs about him needing the reassurance.Â
âOkay,â you whisper, nodding slowly. âOkay, Dean. Thank you.â
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. âGood. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.â
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.Â
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.Â
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.Â
âYou have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,â you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.Â
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. âMy mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.â
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.Â
âDown, boy,â Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. âDonât scar the poor girl.â
âI am a perfect gentleman,â Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.Â
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.Â
âGive her some space to unpack,â Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. âWeâll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?â
âI love pepperoni,â you say softly.Â
âPerfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when youâre ready,â Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still canât believe youâre actually standing in his house.Â
âWelcome home, Y/N.â
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.Â
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.Â
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Deanâs eyes, you realize something profound.Â
For the first time in weeks, you arenât afraid.Â
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you havenât eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.Â
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater â an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.Â
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.Â
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.Â
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.Â
Then he spots you.Â
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.Â
âHey,â he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.Â
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.Â
âThe Queen descends,â Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.Â
âIgnore him,â Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. âEat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.â
âThank you,â you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. âOh, that is heavenly.â
âSee?â Dean says, looking incredibly smug. âAmerican pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.â
âThey donât boil pizza, Dean,â you point out dryly, taking another bite.Â
âWhatever,â he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. âSo, did Beau text back about your schedule?â
Tucker pulls out his phone. âYeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. Sheâs got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.â
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. âEight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.â
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. âDonât worry. Iâll drive you.â
You look up at him, startled. âDean, you donât have to do that. I can walk. Iâm sure you have your own classes.â
âI donât have class until eleven,â Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. âAnd youâre not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on ⊠your situation, you donât go anywhere alone. Understand?â
His tone leaves no room for argument. Itâs the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.Â
âAlright,â you agree softly. âIf youâre sure itâs not a bother.â
âYou,â Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, âare never a bother.â
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.Â
Someone clears their throat loudly.Â
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.Â
âSo,â Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. âChildhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?â
âI used to push him into the mud,â you correct, finding your voice. âRegularly.â
Logan barks a laugh. âI knew I liked her.â
âShe was vicious,â Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. âOne time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.â
âYou were terribly gullible,â you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.Â
âI trusted you!â Dean gasps in mock betrayal. âYou were the diplomatâs daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.â
âDiplomacy,â you counter smoothly, âis just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.â
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. âYouâre lucky youâre cute, Y/L/N.â
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.Â
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.Â
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.Â
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.Â
âI told you,â he says softly. âYou donât clean.â
âDean, itâs just boxes,â you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.Â
âI donât care,â he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.Â
âY/N. Come here.â
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.Â
âTell me the truth,â he says, his eyes boring into yours. âHow bad are the threats?â
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.Â
âThey were ⊠specific,â you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. âLetters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.â
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.Â
âMy fatherâs security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,â you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. âBut they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.â
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesnât touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. âSo they pulled you out.â
âIn the middle of the night,â you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. âI didnât even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.â
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. âIâm terrified, Dean. Iâm trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.â
âHey,â Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.Â
âNo one is watching you here,â Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. âI swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.â
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. âYouâre not violent.â
âI can be,â Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. âFor you, I could be.â
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.Â
âWhy are you doing this, Dean?â You whisper. âYou have your own life. You donât need to babysit me.â
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.Â
âBecause youâre mine,â he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if itâs the most obvious fact in the universe. âYou always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. Iâm not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.â
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.Â
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.Â
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.Â
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.Â
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.Â
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. âYo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? Weâre out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.â
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.Â
âIâm coming,â Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.Â
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. âUh ⊠did I interrupt something?â
âYes,â Dean says bluntly. âGo start the car.â
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.Â
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.Â
âWeâre going to pick up some things for you,â Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. âGet settled. Take a nap. Iâll be back soon.â
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. âOkay.â
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. âLock the door behind me.â
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.Â
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.Â
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.Â
There is simply no other logical explanation.Â
âIâm telling you, itâs not him,â Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. Heâs staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. âLook at him. Just look.â
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. âHeâs reading a textbook, Logan. Itâs called studying. Normal college students do it.â
âDean doesnât!â Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. âDean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasnât brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?â
âThat we donât have to bleach the living room rug anymore?â Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
âIt means his brain has been hijacked,â Logan insists.Â
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. âOr, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and heâs realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.â
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.Â
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. Youâre wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants â a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys â and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.Â
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isnât reading. Heâs just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.Â
âItâs freaky,â Logan mutters. âHe went from being a certified campus manwhore to ⊠a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.â
âHeâs whipped,â Garrett says, though thereâs a fond smile pulling at his lips. âAnd they arenât even dating.â
âYet,â Beau corrects softly. âGive it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.â
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. Youâve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasnât helped your focus.Â
âTired?â Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.Â
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. âA bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when youâre running on four hours of sleep.â
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. âYou need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, Iâll make you tea.â
âI can make it,â you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.Â
âAbsolutely not,â Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. âYou sit. I brew. Thatâs the deal.â
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they werenât just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.Â
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. Youâve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.Â
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.Â
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. âDean ⊠this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.â
âI know,â Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.Â
âHow do you remember that?â You ask, staring up at him in wonder. âI havenât ordered this in front of you since I moved here. Iâve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.â
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. âI remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didnât forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.â
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.Â
âCome on,â Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. âLetâs go to class. I want a good seat.â
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesnât even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.Â
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, itâs already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.Â
âHey, Dean,â a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.Â
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. âI was hoping youâd be here. Thereâs an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could ⊠share notes.â
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with â bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.Â
But Dean doesnât smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.Â
âIâm sitting with Y/N,â Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.Â
âOh,â the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. âRight. The ⊠new girl.â
Deanâs jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. âYeah. My girl. Excuse us.â
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.Â
âYou didnât have to be rude to her,â you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.Â
âI wasnât rude,â Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. âI was honest. I donât care about her notes. I only care about you.â
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Deanâs eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.Â
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.Â
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. Itâs elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.Â
âAre you okay?âÂ
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. Heâs wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.Â
âIâm fine,â you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. âItâs just ⊠very loud.â
âWe can go upstairs,â Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesnât have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. âWe can lock the door and watch a movie. I donât care about the party.â
You stare at him in disbelief. âDean, this is your house. Your team. You canât just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.â
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. âLet them expect whatever they want. Iâve retired.â
âRetired?â You echo, a small laugh escaping you.Â
âYep,â Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. âHung up my jersey. Iâm a one-woman man now.â
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.Â
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.Â
âDeeeaan,â she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. âI havenât seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere ⊠quieter.â
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. Itâs the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. Youâve heard the stories. You know that more than once, heâs hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.Â
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You canât compete with this. You donât want to compete with this.Â
But Dean doesnât even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redheadâs hand from his arm as if sheâs made of acid.Â
âNot interested, Lexi,â Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.Â
âWhat?â Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. âCome on, Dean. Donât be boring. Itâs Friday!â
âI said no,â Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. âIâm busy.â
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.Â
âIâm with her,â Dean states unequivocally. âHave a good night.â
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.Â
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. âYou really didnât have to do that.â
âYes, I did,â Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. âI told you, Y/N. I donât want anyone else. They donât even register on my radar anymore. Itâs just you.â
âDean âŠâ you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.Â
âHey, lovebirds!âÂ
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.Â
âDi Laurentis,â Logan says, shaking his head. âI just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?â
âIâm perfectly fine,â Dean snaps, though he doesnât drop your hand.Â
âHeâs domesticated,â Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. âYouâve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.â
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. âI havenât done anything.â
âThatâs the crazy part,â Logan laughs. âYou literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. Itâs disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?â
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.Â
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammateâs chest.Â
âDo not touch her,â Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.Â
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. âAlright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.â
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Deanâs warm, protective grip, you feel something you havenât felt since you lived in London.Â
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.Â
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.Â
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.Â
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.Â
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.Â
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.Â
âHey,â he says, stopping right in front of you.Â
âHey yourself,â you reply softly, looking up at him. âYou look ⊠intimidating.â
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. âGood. Thatâs the point. But I donât want to intimidate you.â
âYou never intimidate me, Dean,â you say truthfully.Â
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.Â
âHold on,â Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.Â
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. âDean! What are you doing?â
âYouâre not wearing my colors,â Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. âPut it on.â
âDean, itâs your game jersey,â you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. âYou need it to play!â
âI have a spare in my locker,â he dismisses easily. âPut it on, Y/N. Please. I want ⊠I want everyone in that arena to know whose side youâre on.â
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.Â
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now â a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.Â
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.Â
âYeah,â Dean breathes, his voice rough. âThatâs exactly how youâre supposed to look.â
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. âI have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. Itâs next to the glass. Youâll be safe there.â
âIâll be cheering for you,â you promise softly.Â
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think heâs going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.Â
âWatch me, sweetheart,â he whispers against your skin. âIâm going to play for you.â
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.Â
âOh, he is so gone,â Beau cackles, shaking his head. âIf he plays half as aggressively as heâs acting right now, weâre winning a national championship.â
The puck drops, and the game begins.Â
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.Â
But Dean is a revelation.Â
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.Â
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.Â
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalieâs glove.Â
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.Â
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.Â
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.Â
But he doesnât stop at the bench.Â
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesnât look at them. He looks right at you.Â
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.Â
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.Â
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.Â
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.Â
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and heâs wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.Â
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.Â
âHey,â he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.Â
âHi,â you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. âYou were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.â
âYeah?â He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.Â
âThe best on the ice,â you confirm softly.Â
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.Â
âGet a room, Di Laurentis!â Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.Â
âShut up, Logan!â Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.Â
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.Â
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.Â
âI meant it,â Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. âWhen I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.â
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you donât want to be scared anymore. You donât want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.Â
âDean,â you whisper.Â
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.Â
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesnât move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.Â
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.Â
You press your lips to his.Â
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.Â
It lasts only three seconds.Â
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.Â
When you finally open them, you gasp.Â
Dean Di Laurentis â the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters â looks completely devastated.Â
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.Â
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.Â
âY/N,â Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.Â
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he canât quite believe what just happened.Â
âWas that ⊠was that okay?â You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. âI know it wasnât ⊠I know youâre used to-â
âDonât,â Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.Â
âDonât you dare compare yourself to anyone else,â Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. âThat was ⊠Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.â
âIt was just a small kiss,â you murmur, your face burning.Â
âIt was everything,â Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. âYouâre everything. God, Iâm so in love with you.â
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.Â
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. âDean âŠâ
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.Â
âI know,â he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. âI know itâs fast, and I know youâre scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But Iâm yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.â
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.Â
âYou donât have to say it back,â Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. âYou donât have to do anything youâre not ready for. I just needed you to know. Iâm not playing games, sweetheart. Iâm playing for keeps.â
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside â the threats, the politics, the uncertainty â melts away entirely.Â
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesnât wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.Â
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasnât worn off. If anything, itâs only become more aggressively apparent.
Itâs a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.Â
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. Heâs leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
âI give up,â Logan says, shaking his head. âI literally give up. I donât know who that man is. Heâs an imposter. A body double.â
âHeâs in love,â Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. âI mean, we knew it was bad, but this is ⊠this is advanced whipped.â
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.Â
âDo you remember sophomore year?â One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. âWhen he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didnât even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.â
âI know,â her friend replies, eyes wide. âAnd now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.â
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. âY/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.â
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.Â
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.Â
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Deanâs relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.Â
âHey,â Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. âWatch where the hell youâre going.â
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. âMy bad, man. I didnât see her.â
âWell, open your eyes, or Iâll wire your jaw shut so you donât have to worry about drinking your little coffee,â Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.Â
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.Â
âDean,â you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.Â
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.Â
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.Â
âIâm alright,â you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. âHe just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?â
The transformation is instantaneous.Â
The murderous rage evaporates from Deanâs eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.Â
âI know,â Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. âI just ⊠I hate when people arenât careful with you, sweetheart.â
âYouâre careful enough for the both of us,â you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. âNow, carry my tea, please. Itâs dreadfully hot.â
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. âWhatever you want, baby.â
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.Â
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.Â
âDid you see that?â Logan says, staring blankly at the door. âShe literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.â
âItâs a superpower,â Garrett murmurs in awe. âSheâs a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.â
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.Â
You are in Deanâs bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you werenât occupying.Â
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees â the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend â and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.Â
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you donât have to.Â
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.Â
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. Itâs champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.Â
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasnât even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.Â
âYouâre blushing,â Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.Â
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. âYouâre staring at me.â
âIâm admiring,â Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. âI canât help it. Youâre the most beautiful thing Iâve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.â
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this â of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure â but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.Â
âDean,â you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.Â
âLook at me, sweetheart,â he commands gently.Â
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought youâd go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.Â
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.Â
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.Â
âSo pretty,â he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. âYou get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks âŠâÂ
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.Â
â⊠and then it spreads down your neck,â he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. âDown your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, donât you, baby?â
âOnly for you,â you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.Â
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.Â
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.Â
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesnât force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.Â
âDonât hide from me,â he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. âI want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.â
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.Â
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.Â
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.Â
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. âGod, youâre perfect. Youâre so fucking perfect.â
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.Â
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.Â
âDean!â You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.Â
âIâve got you,â he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. âIâm right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.â
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.Â
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.Â
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesnât crush you.Â
âTell me this is what you want,â Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort itâs taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.Â
âItâs what I want,â you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. âI want you, Dean. Please.â
That is all it takes.Â
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.Â
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.Â
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. âY/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?â
âNo,â you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. âNo, Dean, it feels ⊠it feels incredible. Donât stop.â
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. âYouâre so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. Iâm going to take it slow. I promise.â
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.Â
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.Â
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.Â
âDean, please,â you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. âI canât ⊠itâs too much.â
âItâs not too much, sweetheart,â he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. âYou can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.â
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.Â
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.Â
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.Â
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.Â
âGod,â Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. âI love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.â
âI love you too,â you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. âYouâre wonderful, Dean.â
âOnly with you,â he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.Â
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.Â
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. Heâs wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.Â
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.Â
You are back in your tailored clothes â a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomatâs daughter.Â
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.Â
âDamn, baby. Looking good,â the guy calls out.Â
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Deanâs bicep to hide.Â
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.Â
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.Â
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.Â
But Dean knows the truth.Â
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.Â
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.Â
âYou okay, sweetheart?â Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.Â
âIâm fine,â you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. âPeople are so loud here.â
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.Â
âDonât worry about them,â he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. âThey donât know anything about you. But I do. And I think youâre perfect.â
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.Â
âYouâre terrible,â you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.Â
âIâm the best,â Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. âAnd you know it.â
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldnât trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.Â
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.Â
âI still think the professor has it out for me,â Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. âI answered the question perfectly.â
âYou compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,â you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. âIt wasnât exactly a perfect academic parallel.â
âItâs about the rise of machines, Y/N,â Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. âItâs deeply metaphorical. He just doesnât appreciate my genius.â
âOf course,â you say, laughing softly. âThat must be it. Youâre a misunderstood scholar.â
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.Â
âI donât care if Iâm a scholar,â he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. âAs long as I get to sit next to you.â
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. Itâs been weeks of this â weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship â and you still havenât gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.Â
âCome on,â Dean says softly, tugging your hands. âLetâs go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-â
Deanâs words cut off abruptly.Â
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.Â
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.Â
âDad?â You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.Â
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomatâs face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.Â
âY/N,â he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.Â
You donât think. You just run. You drop Deanâs hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your fatherâs open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.Â
âDad, what are you doing here?â You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. âIs everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?â
âWe are perfectly fine, sweetheart,â your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. âEverything is fine. In fact, itâs more than fine.â
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.Â
âAmbassador Y/L/N,â Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.Â
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Deanâs massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.Â
âDean Di Laurentis,â your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. âIt has been quite a few years. Youâve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?â
âTheyâre doing very well, sir. Thank you,â Dean says stiffly.Â
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. âDad, please. Tell me whatâs going on. Youâre supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?â
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. âLetâs sit down for a moment.â
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.Â
âThe threat has been neutralized, Y/N,â your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. âCompletely.â
Your breath catches. âNeutralized? How?â
âIt was a joint operation,â your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. âMI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.â
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.Â
âAre you absolutely sure?â You whisper, your voice trembling. âTheyâre gone?â
âThey are gone,â your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. âThe Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.â
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.Â
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.Â
âThank God,â Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. âThank God.â
âIndeed,â your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. âWhich brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.â
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.Â
âI spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,â your father continues, his tone gentle. âThey understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.â
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.Â
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.Â
The color drains rapidly from Deanâs face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.Â
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.Â
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. Itâs only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.Â
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?Â
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.Â
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.Â
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.Â
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.Â
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.Â
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.Â
He wonât meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is â he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.Â
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.Â
You donât want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life youâve found here. You donât want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Loganâs terrible jokes, without Tuckerâs quiet drawl.Â
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you donât wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.Â
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.Â
âNo, thank you,â you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.Â
Deanâs head snaps up so fast youâre surprised he doesnât pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.Â
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. âNo? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.â
âIt is,â you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. âAnd I am grateful they held my spot. But I donât want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.â
âBriar is an excellent school,â your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. âBut it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isnât a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you donât need to hide anymore.â
âIâm not hiding,â you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.Â
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.Â
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Deanâs. âIâm not hiding, Dad. Iâve built a life here. I have friends here. Iâm happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.â
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you â as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.Â
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your fatherâs stern face.Â
âVery well,â your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. âIt is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.â
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. âThank you, Dad.â
âDonât thank me yet,â your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. âMy driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.â
It isnât a request.Â
Dean swallows hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. âYes, sir.â
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your fatherâs town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasnât let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.Â
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents â impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre dâ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.Â
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.Â
He knows how this goes. He isnât stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassadorâs sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.Â
Dean will agree to all of it, because heâd sooner die than hurt you.Â
âSo, Dean,â your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. âPolitical Science. A slight departure from your parentsâ corporate law background.â
âYes, sir,â Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. âI plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And ⊠hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.â
âAh, yes. The Briar hockey program,â your father nods slowly. âYour mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?â
âI have options,â Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. âIâve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.â
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.Â
âSpeaking of Y/N,â your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. âShe has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.â
Dean stiffens. âYes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.â
Itâs a half-truth. You havenât slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isnât about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.Â
âI appreciate your hospitality,â your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. âI also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you havenât attended a single social event without her on your arm.â
Deanâs jaw clenches. He doesnât apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. âShe was threatened, sir. I wasnât going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.â
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Deanâs rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Deanâs hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.Â
âSir,â Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. âI know what this looks like. I know youâre probably aware of ⊠certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.â
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.Â
But your father doesnât look angry.Â
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.Â
âDean,â your father says gently. âI did not bring you here to threaten you.â
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. âYou didnât?â
âNo,â your father chuckles quietly. âMy entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.â
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.Â
âYou think I donât know the boy sitting across from me?â Your father asks softly. âI have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.â
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. âDo you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.â
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. âI remember.â
You look down, blushing slightly. âThat was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.â
âA sudden squall rolled in,â your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. âThe wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.â
Your father looks directly at Dean. âWhen they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/Nâs life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasnât under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didnât drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.â
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. âShe couldnât swim as well as I could. I wasnât going to let her sink.â
âI know,â your father says quietly. âThat is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option â that you were at Briar â I signed the transfer papers immediately.â
Deanâs head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. âYou ⊠you sent her to Briar because of me?â
âI sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,â your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. âI knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I donât need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughterâs heart, and her life.â
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.Â
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasnât good enough for you, is completely decimated by your fatherâs words.Â
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.Â
âThank you, sir,â Dean says, his voice thick and rough. âI wonât let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.â
âI know you wonât, son,â your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. âNow, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.â
Under the table, you squeeze Deanâs hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.Â
He didnât just get to keep the love of his life today.Â
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.Â
But Dean Di Laurentis doesnât do anything by the standard playbook anymore.Â
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadnât expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.Â
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.Â
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.Â
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.Â
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.Â
âSo, this is it,â Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. âThe legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, itâs pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.â
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. âBriar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is ⊠itâs special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.â
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.Â
âShow me,â Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. âShow me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldnât stop talking about.â
âYou bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think Iâm set for life,â you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.Â
âIâm a provider,â he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. âItâs in my nature.â
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.Â
âAnd this,â you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, âis The Turf Tavern. Itâs practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?â
âLead the way,â Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.Â
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.Â
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.Â
âY/N? Is that you?â
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.Â
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.Â
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.Â
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.Â
âEdward,â you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. âHello.â
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. âI had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit ⊠domestic, perhaps, but well.â
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. âI didnât flee, Edward. I transferred. And Iâm doing perfectly fine.â
âOf course you are, darling,â Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. âThough I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-â
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edwardâs wrist mid-air.Â
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.Â
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.Â
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edwardâs wrist like a steel vice. Deanâs expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.Â
âDonât touch her,â Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.Â
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesnât budge an inch. âI beg your pardon?â Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. âWho the hell do you think you are?â
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edwardâs wrist, shoving the manâs arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.Â
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesnât sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscountâs sightline.Â
âIâm the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,â Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. âIâm Dean.â
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. âYour girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a ⊠what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?â
âIce hockey,â you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Deanâs bicep, pressing yourself against his side. âAnd I didnât trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.â
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.Â
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. âIce hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? Iâm surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.â
Dean doesnât get angry. He doesnât raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. Itâs a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.Â
âYou know, Edward,â Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. âYou talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, youâre practically a peasant in a nice jacket.â
Edwardâs jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.Â
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.Â
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. âI study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, Iâm on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.â
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.Â
Dean doesnât give him a chance to recover.Â
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edwardâs existence. âYou ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.â
âYes,â you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. âTake me back to the hotel.â
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.Â
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.Â
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.Â
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.Â
âHave a nice life, Eddie,â Dean deadpans.Â
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.Â
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.Â
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public â it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.Â
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.Â
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.Â
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.Â
âDarling?â Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. âHe called you darling?â
âDean-â you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.Â
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.Â
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.Â
Deanâs large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.Â
âTell me whose you are,â Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. âTell me, Y/N.â
âYours,â you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. âIâm only yours, Dean. Nobody elseâs.â
âFucking right youâre mine,â he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.Â
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.Â
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.Â
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.Â
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.Â
âDid he ever touch you like this?â Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.Â
âNo,â you whisper, shaking your head frantically. âGod, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. Itâs only you.â
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.Â
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.Â
âYouâre so beautiful,â Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. âYou make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.â
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.Â
Deanâs hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.Â
âDean, please,â you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.Â
âIâve got you, baby,â Dean hums.Â
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.Â
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.Â
âThatâs it,â Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. âLet go for me. Show me how much you want it.â
You canât hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.Â
Dean doesnât give you a moment to recover.Â
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.Â
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.Â
âLook at me,â Dean commands softly.Â
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.Â
âI love you,â Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.Â
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.Â
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.Â
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.Â
âDean!â You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.Â
âYou feel so fucking good,â Dean groans, his teeth gritted. âSo tight. Youâre mine, Y/N. Tell me youâre mine.â
âIâm yours,â you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. âAlways yours. Oh god, please, harder.â
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.Â
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.Â
âIâm close,â Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. âBaby, Iâm right there.â
âCome for me,â you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. âDean, please.â
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.Â
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.Â
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.Â
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.Â
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.Â
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.Â
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.Â
âIâm sorry I lost my temper,â Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. âI just ⊠seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.â
âYou didnât lose your temper,â you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. âYou were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.â
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. âGood. He was a prick. And he didnât deserve you.â
âNo,â you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. âHe didnât. But you do.â
Deanâs breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.Â
âI meant what I said,â Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. âIâm your future, sweetheart. I know weâre young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.â
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.Â
âIâm not going anywhere, Dean,â you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. âI love you. I love you more than anything.â
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.Â
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.Â
âSo,â Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. âSince I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?â
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.Â
âYouâre already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,â you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. âNow, shut up and hold me.â
âAs you wish, sweetheart,â Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.Â
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.Â
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
strawberry; kaz brekker ; f! pronouns- kaz and reader had a fight and kaz is really bad at apologizing⊠angst mixed with fluff and kaz trying to be a good bf,,, established relationship đ„čđ«¶đ»
ty bestie ily and congrats on 400!! đ
Not again. Never again.
Kaz Brekker x reader
Warnings- just a tad bit of angst
Notes- Kaz is mean for two seconds, reader knows her worth
Tyyy for the ask babes!! Still scared to write for Kaz cus I don't want to mischaracterize him, but I hope this is to your liking<3
~400 followers celebration
You'd known something was wrong the moment you stepped into Kaz's office. He was sitting against the windowsill, gaze fixed on his hands.
"Everything okay?" You ask.
"Fine." He grunts. He rubs a hand against his bad leg.Â
You can see it's troubling him.
You step closer and sit to the opposite end of the windowsill. You quietly lean your head sideways, "Rough night?"
"I said I'm fine!" The sentence comes out sharper than you'd expect, louder than youâd expect.
You blink once, taken aback by his tone. Because Kaz Brekker did not yell. Not at you
Never at you
You want to scream right back. Tell him his tone isnât right, tell him he doesn't get to speak to you that way
But thereâs also a part of you that knows all too well that he doesn't mean it.
So instead, you swallow the lump rising in your throat and nod once. "Understood." Thatâs all you say.
The click of the door echoes as you walk out, shutting the door behind you.
***
Realization dawns on Kaz the moment he hears the door shut.Â
It'd been one of the worst nights.Â
The job had gone terribly sideways and he'd failed to protect one of the members of his crew. And all he wanted was to sit with you, watch you hum quietly to yourself as you read.
But the weight of everything, the shame, it had caught up to him and he'd lashed out at you.
It doesnât take him long to find you, for he knew the spot you'd like to go to after the hard days.Â
He ignored the pain in his leg as he walked over to you.
"Can I sit?" He asked.
A moment passes.Â
"If it suits you." You respond.
He settles down next to you and rests his cane to the opposite side.
He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in, trying to form the words. "The job went sideways." He begins.
"Dirix got hit. And I-" He hopes you don't notice when his voice wavers. "I didn't see it coming." He looks away, shame crashing into him like a tide.
He hears you exhale.
"You could've said that before." You look down.
"I know."
"I'm sorry." He says.
 Without hesitation. Without a second thought.
Only then, you look at him.Â
âI shouldnât have taken it out on you.â He continues. âItâs not right.â
âNo itâs not.â You reaffirm.
He looks down at his hands and tugs at his left glove, quietly pulling it off. He exhales âI canât promise that I wonât be in a bad mood again.â
He looks up to meet your gaze. âBut I promise I wonât take it out on you. Not again.â He gives a quiet shake of his head. âNever again.â
He sees your expression soften, the furrow between your brows fade.
A corner of your mouth turns up. âYou better not.â
Itâs him who smiles first.
He rests his ungloved hand next to yours.
âFor what itâs worth,â He begins. âI just wanted to sit in my office with you.â
He admits with all the courage he can muster.
Itâs not much, he knows it. Itâs not nearly enough, but heâs trying.
You shift your hand closer to his, until your pinkies are touching.
A smile appears on your features. Slowly, steadily.
Itâs a smile that suddenly makes the day seem much easier, a smile that makes the pain in his bones much more bearable.
âWell, we can still do that. If you want.â You briefly lift a shoulder.
He takes in a deep breath, the smell of the morning rain washing over his lungs, and intertwines his pinky with yours.
Warning - Just sad shit (I don't why it is marked as mature bruh)
The campus did not mourn in silence. It conducted a public autopsy, picking through the remnants of what had belonged to you and Dean Di Laurentis with a sharp, clinical curiosity.
When a relationship of that magnitude collapsed under its own weight, the aftermath was rarely left to settle in the dark. Instead, it became common property. For three weeks, you had navigated the hallways of Briar University feeling less like a person and more like a crime scene, walking through crowded lecture halls where the whispers followed you like a physical shadow.
The worst part of it was the sheer imbalance of the scrutiny. Nobody questioned Dean. He was the brilliant, untouchable hockey legacy with a sharp edge and a permanent armor of unbothered arrogance. When Dean walked into the varsity athletic center, his teammates didn't press him for details, his coaches didn't look at him with heavy, pitying eyes, and casual acquaintances didn't corner him by the coffee machines to dig for information. He was granted the luxury of total privacy simply by virtue of being who he was. He was allowed to put his head down, play his game, and exist in a vacuum of silence.
But you were left entirely exposed to the empathetic hunger of the crowd.
Every single day felt like a gritty exercise in evasion. The collective appetite for the details of your heartbreak was bottomless, and people you hadn't spoken to since freshman year orientation suddenly became deeply invested in your emotional well-being. They cornered you in the library, lingered by your locker in the music building, and slid into your direct messages with a faux-concerned tenderness that tasted like ash.
We must know, their eyes begged whenever you paused in the quad. How did it end?
The narrative had quickly split into two distinct, equally suffocating factions. By the second week, the rumors had taken on a life of their own, dividing the campus into camps that required a villain.
There were those who chose to make Dean the monster. They were the ones who slipped into the seat next to you in the dining hall, pitching their voices low, their faces twisted into expressions of intense solidarity.
"Everyone knows what hockey guys are like," a girl from your advanced theory class murmured on a Tuesday afternoon, leaning across the table while she idly stirred her tea. "He was always too loud, too reckless. A guy like that doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself or hold onto something gentle. He probably just woke up one day and decided he wanted his freedom back. Youâre so much better off without him."
You had sat there, your fingers gripping your plastic water bottle so tightly the crinkling sound echoed in the quiet space, forcing yourself to give a lukewarm, tight-lipped nod. You didn't defend him, but the words felt like a violation. They didn't know the Dean who stayed up until four in the morning helping you memorize historical dates for an exam, or the Dean whose voice dropped into a quiet, grounding register when the rest of the world became too loud for you to handle. They took his public persona and used it to paint a caricature of betrayal that felt entirely foreign to the boy you had loved.
But the alternative narrative was infinitely more damaging. The other half of the campus had decided that you were the one who had ruined the golden boy.
"She was always too much for him," you overheard a group of varsity cheerleaders whispering near the campus store, their voices carrying clearly over the rows of sweatshirts. They didn't realize you were standing just a single aisle away, frozen against the display rack. "Dean was totally focused on the draft, and she just couldn't handle the pressure of being with someone who had a real future. She probably gave him some massive ultimatum and blew the whole thing up because she couldn't handle his schedule. Some people just don't know how to support a guy at that level."
The words had hit you with the force of a physical blow, leaving you entirely breathless in the middle of the crowded shop. You had dropped the notebook you were holding, stepped out of the aisle, and walked out into the cool morning air, your head spinning as the sweat broke out across the back of your neck.
You were walking in circles through the campus paths like you were completely lost, your boots crunching against the gravel as you tried to outrun the voices. The crowd would eventually go home to their normal lives, totally secure in their own relationships, completely smug because they knew they could trust their partners. But before they left, they would feverishly text their friends, passing along the latest updates on your misery like currency. Guess who we ran into at the shops? Didn't you hear? They called it all off.
And the bitter, agonizing truth at the center of your chest was that you couldn't even defend yourself because you didn't have the answers.
If someone forced you onto a stage and demanded the absolute truth, you wouldn't be able to give it to them. You didn't understand how it had ended. There had been no massive, screaming fight in the driveway, no dramatic betrayal that left a clear trail of wreckage, and no single moment of sudden clarity where the illusion shattered.
It had been a slow, agonizingly subtle deflation of a dream.
You had simply woken up one morning and realized that the steps to the dance had changed. You were both looking at each other through a glass wall, the touch that had once felt like an absolute birthright suddenly feeling formal, rigid, and entirely foreign. The maladies in your relationship were quiet, internal things that you couldn't cure, growing in the spaces between his long road trips and your grueling hours in the music studio. You had lost the game of chance by a fraction of a millimeter, falling victim to unforeseen circumstances that neither of you had the vocabulary to name. The death rattle of what you shared had been a silent, gradual silencing of the soul, leaving you completely bereft, reeling, and entirely in the dark.
Every night, you sat in the quiet of your room, staring at the ceiling, keeping company with nothing but your beloved ghost, completely unable to pretend that you understood the final diagnosis.
Across campus, in the off-campus house he shared with his teammates, Dean Di Laurentis was experiencing his own version of purgatory, though his walls were entirely soundproofed by the silence of his friends.
Practice had ended an hour ago, but Dean was still sitting on the wooden bench in the varsity locker room, his hockey bag unzipped between his feet, his fingers idly spinning his rolls of stick tape. The rest of the team had already showered and left, their loud laughter fading down the concrete corridor, leaving him alone with the echoing drip of the shower heads.
Tucker walked back into the room, his jacket zipped up to his chin, holding two protein shakes. He took one look at Deanâs rigid posture, the tight line of his jaw, and the dark circles under his eyes, and let out a quiet sigh. He tossed one of the bottles onto the bench next to Deanâs thigh.
"You've been staring at that wall for twenty minutes, Di Laurentis," Tucker said, his voice entirely devoid of its usual locker-room teasing. "You need to get out of your head. The coaches noticed you were half a second behind the play during drills today."
Dean didn't look up. He just kept his eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the locker opposite him. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Bullshit," Tucker muttered, leaning back against the metal lockers, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, nobody is asking you questions because we know you don't want to talk about it. The guys are keeping their mouths shut. But you're carrying yourself like you're trying to pick a fight with a brick wall."
Dean finally let out a ragged breath, his shoulders dropping by a fraction of an inch. "I heard some people talking in the training room today before the ice session."
Tuckerâs expression shifted, a sudden, protective tension locking up his frame. "What did they say?"
"They were talking about her," Dean whispered, his voice rough, gravelly, and completely stripped of the confident veneer he wore like armor on campus. He squeezed the roll of tape in his hand until the plastic core cracked under his fingers. "They were saying she couldn't handle my life. They were making it sound like she was some insecure distraction who couldn't handle the reality of the draft, like she was the one who walked away because she was weak."
Tucker went quiet, looking down at his boots. He didn't deny it, because he had heard the exact same rumors circulating through the athletic center all week.
"And Garrett told me he saw her yesterday by the library," Dean continued, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle jumped in his cheek. His eyes were dark, burning with a volatile mix of intense anger and profound helplessness. "He said she looked like she was walking in circles, totally lost. He said some girl from her department came up to her and started drilling her with questions right on the sidewalk, and she just stood there looking like she was about to completely break down in front of everybody."
He stood up suddenly, slamming the tape down into his bag, the noise echoing sharply against the concrete walls. He paced the narrow aisle between the benches, his hands shoving deep into the pockets of his track pants, his chest rising and falling with heavy, frustrated breaths.
"They're treating her like a villain, Tuck," Dean said, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate emotion he had been suppressing for weeks. "Or they're making me out to be some unhinged animal who broke her heart for fun. They're picking at her every single day, demanding she give them a story, demanding she explain how we got to this point."
"So do something," Tucker said quietly. "Go talk to her."
Dean stopped pacing, his entire frame freezing in the middle of the room. He turned his head slowly, looking at his friend with an expression of such hollow, absolute defeat that it made Tucker instantly regret the suggestion.
"I can't," Dean murmured, the admission costing him everything. He looked down at his empty hands, his fingers twitching with a pathetic, instinctive urge to reach for a phone he had no right to use anymore. "That's the whole point, Tuck. We're ended. I don't have the right to slide into her space and play the protector when I'm one half of the reason she's hurting in the first place. If I walk up to her on the quad to defend her, it just creates a bigger scene. It gives them more fuel for the fire. The best thing I can do for her right now is keep my distance and let the silence cover her, even if it's killing me to watch her go through this alone."
He sat back down on the bench, his head dropping into his large hands, his dark hair falling over his forehead. He had spent his entire life learning how to control a game, how to read a defense, and how to protect his territory with physical force. But facing the brutal, lingering aftermath of this collapse, Dean Di Laurentis was entirely powerless. He had to sit in the quiet of his empty house, listening to the rumors filter through the walls, completely unable to fix the damage because the door had already been closed permanently between you.
The climax of the public trial arrived on a Thursday evening in the music building.
Maloneâs was hosting a small reception for the performing arts department, and the lounge was packed with students, professors, and casual guests. The air was thick with the scent of cheap wine, floral arrangements, and the suffocating, low hum of dozens of simultaneous conversations. You had tried your best to stay hidden in the corner near the piano, holding a glass of water, counting down the minutes until it was socially acceptable to slip out the side exit.
But the crowd was relentless.
Within ten minutes of your arrival, a shadow fell over your corner. You looked up to find an older student from the graduate program standing in front of you, holding a plate of appetizers, her eyes wide with that familiar, predatory empathy that always signaled an interrogation.
"Hey," she said, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that made your stomach instantly turn over. "I've been meaning to catch up with you all night. I just wanted to say I was so incredibly sorry to hear about you and Dean. It must be so difficult, especially with everyone talking."
You forced your mouth into a flat, practiced line, your fingers tightening around the glass of water. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Itâs just such a shock," she continued, leaning in a fraction closer, her eyes gleaming with the hunger for a fresh detail. "You two seemed completely solid. But I guess a guy like that... itâs always hard to know whatâs happening behind closed doors, right? Did he just realize he couldn't commit? Or was it something during the away games? We were all saying it felt like a sudden death rattle, just completely out of nowhere."
The phrasing felt like a physical blade turning in your chest. The death rattle.
"We just decided to go our separate ways," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to keep it locked down. You could feel the eyes of the people at the nearest table cutting toward you, their conversations slowing as they tried to catch your response.
"But there has to be a reason," she pressed, her brow furrowing with a faux-puzzled expression that felt entirely mocking. "You don't just call off a whole year of absolute consistency without something happening. Did you two even try to talk it through? Or did he just leave you completely in the dark? Everyoneâs trying to understand how it actually ended."
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on you as the noise of the reception blurred into a deafening, chaotic roar. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a sudden, panicked surge of adrenaline making your heart race so fast it rattled against your ribs. They wanted an answer. They wanted a specific diagnosis, a tidy little conclusion they could wrap up and carry away to their friends.
And you didn't have it.
"I don't know," you said, your voice rising slightly, breaking through the polite murmur of the corner. The admission felt heavy, terrifying, and completely raw. "I don't know how it ended."
The girl blinked, entirely startled by the sudden honesty, her mouth parting slightly as she stepped back.
Without waiting for another syllable, you set your glass down on the edge of the piano with a sharp clink, turned on your heel, and pushed through the crowded lounge. You ignored the surprised looks from your classmates, ignored your friends calling your name from the doorway, and flew down the long, carpeted hallway of the music building until you pushed through the heavy glass exit doors into the cool, dark night air.
You ran down the concrete steps, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the tears you had been suppressing for three weeks finally broke free, scalding your cheeks. You walked blindly toward the edge of the campus, your feet carrying you toward the quiet, shadow-drenched rows of the botanical gardens where the crowd rarely traveled after dark.
You found a secluded stone bench under the canopy of a massive oak tree, collapsing onto the cold surface, your knees pulling up to your chest as you let the sobbing take over your entire frame. You buried your face in your hands, the deflation of your dreaming leaving you entirely empty, sitting in the dark with nothing but the ghost of a boy who used to hold you until the world felt safe.
A pair of heavy boots crunched slowly against the gravel path a few yards away.
You stiffened instantly, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle the sound of your crying, your posture locking up as a sudden, defensive anger took over. You couldn't do this again. If another person had followed you into the dark to ask you for a post-mortem, you were going to completely lose your mind.
You snapped your head up, your eyes blurry with tears, ready to scream at whoever was standing there.
But the words died in your throat.
Dean was standing under the dim, amber glow of the courtyard streetlamp at the entrance to the garden path. He was wearing his black varsity jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his broad shoulders hunched against the cool night wind. He wasn't moving toward you. He was staying firmly rooted at the boundary line of the path, respecting the distance, his dark eyes locked onto your face with an intensity that made the breath catch in your throat.
He looked completely stripped bare. The unbothered, arrogant mask he wore for the campus was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, bleeding exhaustion that mirrored your own. He had clearly seen you leave the music building, his protective instinct drawing him after you into the dark, but he was holding himself back with a visible, agonized restraint.
You stared at each other through the dim light, the silence between you heavy, terrifying, and full of everything you couldn't say aloud.
He didn't offer a witty comeback. He didn't demand an explanation, and he didn't try to cross the gravel to pull you into his arms, because he knew he had lost the right to hold the pieces together. He was just standing guard in the shadows, letting his presence be a shield against the empathetic hunger of the rest of the world, even as his own chest rose and falling with heavy, ragged breaths.
"I still don't know," you whispered into the quiet space between you, the words barely carrying over the wind, but you knew he heard them. Your voice cracked, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "Dean, I still don't know how it ended."
Deanâs jaw set so hard a sharp line formed along his throat. He closed his eyes for a long, agonizing second, his fingers clenching inside his pockets until the fabric strained against his knuckles. When he looked back at you, his eyes were shining with a profound, helpless sorrow that told you everything you needed to know.
He didn't know either.
You had both learned the right steps to entirely different dances, blind to the circumstances that were pulling you apart until the music simply stopped playing. There was no villain to blame, no neat little summary to hand over to the crowd at Malone's. There was only the quiet, devastating reality of two people who loved each other completely, sitting on opposite sides of a gravel path in the dark, watching the dream deflate until there was nothing left to salvage.
Dean took a single, slow step backward, keeping his eyes on yours until the very last second, before he turned and walked down the path, his tall frame disappearing into the campus lights.
You sat alone on the stone bench, the cool night air clearing the heat from your face, the phantom weight in your chest finally settling into something permanent. The public trial would continue tomorrow, the whispers would follow you through the quad, and the campus would keep demanding its answers. But as you sat in the quiet of the garden, watching the space where he had been standing, you finally stopped trying to find the words.
The game of chance was over, the soul had left the room, and the post-mortem was officially complete.
Notes - I'm sorry for being to depressing recently I do have some less sad soon...I think. I hope? lmao sorry guys! Anyway Love Ya'll!!
el's thoughts: i feel like this is so ooc... and it's kinda bothering me, but once i finished it i couldn't figure out how to write it differently... so i hope it's enjoyable either way haha
kaz brekker masterlist
The news came quietly.
No fanfare. No planning. Just a missed period, a hidden test in their private quarters, and Y/N sitting on the edge of the clawfoot tub in the dim bathroom of the Slat, staring at the result as her hands trembled.
Tears pooled in her eyesânot out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief and awe. Sheâd never thought she'd have this with him. With Kaz. Not just the king of the Barrel, but the boy she'd known since childhood, the boy whoâd built walls taller than any in Ketterdamâand slowly, painfully, let her through them.
Pregnant.
She was pregnant. With Kaz Brekkerâs child.
Heâd never touched anyone skin-to-skin. Not without pain. But he touched her. Her face, her arms, her hips. He held her at night with bare hands like heâd trained himself just for her. And nowâ
He was going to be a father.
She didnât plan to cry, but when she stepped out of the bathroom, clutching the test, Kaz immediately looked up from his desk like he felt her shift in energy.
Kaz stared down at it, expression unreadable for a beat too long.
His brow furrowed. âY/N?â
She didnât speak. Just walked over, slowly, and handed him the test.
She nodded, lip trembling. âI didnât mean for it to happen this way, Kaz. I justââ
Before she could finish, his gloved hand reached out to grip hers, and the otherâbareâfound her cheek.
He didnât speak right away. Just looked at her. The ghost of something rare tugged at the corners of his mouth. âWe keep it between us. For now,â he said, voice low. âKetterdam doesnât get this part of you. Of us. Not yet.â
She nodded, and he pressed his forehead to hers.
It was the only part of the Barrel where he ever felt safe.
~
A month later, her baby bump was still hidden beneath her fitted waistcoat and silk blouse, but Kazâs eyes always found her figure in a crowd. Watching. Calculating. Guarding.
Y/N had been laughing at the Crow Club bar with Jesper and Inej, a rare easy moment in a world that never stopped spinning. Wylan was somewhere sketching, Nina was dancing with her drink, and for once, she felt like she could just breathe.
Until he came stumbling in.
Drunk. Loud. New to the city, judging by the way he looked at her like she was anyone but Kaz Brekkerâs wife.
Jesper noticed it first. His shoulders stiffened. Inejâs hand inched toward a dagger.
The man swayed forward with a grin. âHeard about you,â he slurred, eyes raking over Y/N in a way that made her stomach churn. âThe Queen of the Barrel, huh? Gotta say, not what I expected. YouâreâŠsofter.â
Y/Nâs smile dropped. âWalk away. Now.â
But the man didnât listen. Instead, he reached forward, slow and unsteadyâhis hand moving toward her stomach.
The entire room froze.
Because the sound of Kaz Brekkerâs cane striking the floor echoed like a thunderclap.
Click. Tap. Click. Tap.
The crowd parted instantly, tension slicing through the club like a knife through silk.
Kaz moved with terrifying calm, his face unreadable, gloved hand tight around his cane. But the hand not holding it?
Bare.
Y/N swallowed as he reached her, that hand slipping around her waist, then possessively over her stomach. The drunk man paled.
Kazâs voice was low, venomous. âYou must be new.â
The drunk man stumbled back. âIâI didnât know she was with you, I didnât knowââ
âYou knew who she was,â Kaz said sharply. âYou knew enough.â
With a sharp gesture of his cane, the Dregs guards were on the man in seconds. He was dragged out by his collar, yelling, screaming, until a punch to the gut shut him up for good. The sounds of his beating were muffled by the music restartingâbut no one in the Crow Club dared look at Y/N the same after that.
Kaz kept his hand on her stomach. He didnât speak to anyone. Just guided her to the booth in the corner like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
~
Y/N was asleep when Kaz left the room.
He stood at the door for a moment longer than usual, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing. One of her hands rested over the soft swell of her stomach, and Kaz felt something stir in his chest he still didnât quite have words for.
He stepped out quietly, closing the door with care, and made his way downstairs to the Slatâs common room. It was late, but the Crows kept odd hoursâJesper and Wylan were curled on the couch, Inej was at the table polishing her knives, and Nina was half-asleep in the chair near the fire.
The warmth in the room contrasted the cool weight of the words Kaz had come to share.
Jesper noticed him first. âYouâre up. Everything alright?â
Kaz nodded once, slowly. He stepped into the center of the room, gloved hands relaxed at his sides. There was no cane slam, no dramatics. Just him, standing in the quiet.
âI need to tell you something,â he said, and every head in the room turned toward him.
He met their eyes one by one. âY/N is pregnant.â
Jesper blinked. âWaitâwhat?â
Kaz didnât waver. âSheâs pregnant. We found out about a month ago. We decided to keep it between us for a while.â
Nina sat up straighter, her expression softening. âHow is she?â
âTired,â Kaz said. âA little overwhelmed. But⊠good.â His voice gentled even further. âSheâs happy.â
Wylan smiled, warm and genuine. âAnd you?â
Kaz paused. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. âI didnât think Iâd have something like this. Not with the way I am. But sheâs changed what I thought I knew about myself. And now, sheâs carrying something we never imagined weâd get to have.â
Inej looked at him with something close to quiet awe. âYou trust her that deeply.â
âI always have,â Kaz said. âEven before I understood thatâs what it was.â
Jesper looked between them all, then gave a soft laugh. âYouâre going to be a dad.â
There was something different about hearing it said out loud. But Kaz didnât flinch or brush it off. He let the words hang in the air.
âI am,â he said. âWe both are. And it means everything to me.â
Silence lingered againânot out of shock, but out of the rare, beautiful quiet that only came when something sacred was being shared.
Wylan tilted his head. âWhy now? Why tell us tonight?â
Kaz glanced toward the stairs. âSomeone touched her today. Someone who didnât know betterâor didnât care to. And for a moment, it reminded me that this city may respect her, but it doesnât always protect her. I wanted you to know what sheâs carrying. I know you already look out for her. But nowâŠâ
He trailed off, not needing to finish.
Nina stood and crossed the room, placing a gentle hand on his arm. âWeâll be there for her. For both of you.â
Jesper grinned. âIâm already picking out tiny suits. No one can stop me.â
Kaz finallyâfinallyâlet a faint smile ghost across his face.
âI donât expect anything from you,â he said. âJust⊠be who you already are. Thatâs more than enough.â
Inejâs voice was soft. âYouâre going to be a good father, Kaz.â
He didnât respond right away. But he looked toward the hallway, toward the place where she was resting, and said, more to himself than to them:
âIâll try.â
And with that, he turned and walked back upstairsâquieter now, lighter in step.
Requested: Kinda? Prompted in comments but got a request from @reader-bookling123 (I changed the ending a bit as it fit better)
like I need my angst of them being so in love but reader being the first to die in the fire and johnny just finds her corpse before he kicks the bucket like five minutes later and like these two were sweethearts like so in love
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR WE WERE LIARS. Death, profanity, hints to racism towards a character (Not from reader). Some descriptions of bodily harm and death.
Pairing: Johnny Sinclair Dennis x Reader
Playlist: Old Money - Lana Del Rey, loml-Taylor Swift, I Know The End - Phoebe Bridgers, Cowboy Like Me - Taylor Swift, Lost At Sea - Rob Grant & Lana Del Rey
Authors note: I read the book and loved it but that was years ago so this is based mostly on the prime show. I usually write a female reader but left it vague this time. Since there is so little Johnny fics I wanted to be inclusive. Also, the show made Johnny canonically into men so I didnât want to take from that. As always, leave comments and thoughts. Iâd love to hear feedback.
I'm sure I have run on sentences, too much detail, etc. But I am not a professional writer and rusty af. I loved how this turned out so ignore any grammar error!!
âWe were young and shivering and ancient and aliveâ - E. Lockhart
The waves rippled under the boat as sea spray splashed your skin. The destination of your summer adventure coming into view like it always did. Sturdy and sure. Making a statement to the surrounding town.
Beechwood.
From the outside looking in, it was magical. A real life fairytale filled with sea salt, sunscreen, fudge, and brilliant smiles. The height of luxury and privilege. A king, a queen, three perfect princesses and their heirs. Two outsiders that were welcomed into the kingdom with open arms, how charitable of the king. A loyal staff and the two golden guard dogs keeping chaos at bay while causing their own mischief.
But looks werenât always the truth. You knew this first hand after all your summers on Beechwood. Luxury was often accompanied by greed and jealously. Some not so subtle racism and a lack of basic human decency. The true colors always eventually came out dimming the once bright joys of summer on Beechwood. The older you got, the more clear it became.
It wasnât a fairytale anymore.
Being friends with a Sinclair had its perks, of course. You couldnât deny that at times, you felt like you were so lucky. Being pampered on a beautiful beach, not wanting for anything. Mirren Sinclair, your best friend had been taking you to the island every summer since you were both eight. You were an official member of the liars now.
Cadence, Gat, Mirren, Johnny and you. The way it was always meant to be.
Really, your favorite thing about summer fell to her cousin Johnny Sinclair Dennis. Bounce, effort, and snark. Salt, swagger, and reckless abandon...he got your heart racing. Youâd been hopelessly in love with Johnny since before you could even really comprehended what love was. His loud voice, messy blonde hair, and wide blue eyes. Johnny made you feel light..like everything good was possible. If heaven was real, you were in it with him on this island filled with privilege. Damn the fairytale.
Once the boat hit the dock, you were running into his waiting arms and everything felt right again. Letters, calls and FaceTimes werenât enough. But for the next couple months he was here and this was real. You and Johnny.
âThere you are! Fuck I missed you baby!â Johnny held you tight and spun you as your legs wrapped around his waist. "I missed you too Johnny, I always miss you." Johnny smiled and pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you close and he carried you to your secret spot on the island. Where you two could exist in some peace.
Johnny had been off for a few days. He still gave you his bright grins but they didn't meet his eyes. It was tonight while you two watched the sun setting over the vast sea, that you decided you had enough. "Johnny, what's wrong?"
Your question caught him off guard, his eyes blinked a few times before he turned to you. "I'm great baby." He throws out that damn grin at you again.
"You're a bad liar" You mumbled.
A dramatic gasp fell from Johnny's lips. "First of all, I take that very seriously! How dare my own partner say that to me. It's like a knife to the heart!" He put a hand over his chest and fell back into the grass.
You couldn't help but giggle at his dramatics. "Alright fine, I will take it back if you tell me the truth. I know you Johnny Sinclair Dennis, something is bugging you." You lean over and kiss his nose. "Tell me."
Johnny sighed, his playful demeanor falling. "I don't think I'm a good person."
At his words, you sit up straight. "Johnny? What are you talking about?"
"I did something bad..back at school that I didn't tell you about." He looked over at you, seeing the understanding on your face, he counited. Telling you in details what he did. A tear ran down his face and you reached up to wipe it away.
"You did a bad thing Johnny, that doesn't make you a bad person."
"Sometimes I just..see red. I don't want to be like my dad."
"You aren't your father Johnny."
"Well I'm not Harris Sinclair either. I'm the shitty thing in between." He tugged at his hair.
"Johnny.." you frowned and took his hands. "Listen to me. You did a bad thing, I won't pretend you didn't. But you are not a bad person. You're the person who dove into the ocean during a thunder storm to save your younger brother, almost dying to do so I might add. You are the person that always picks up Mirren when she feels self conscious and you are the person who has always, always had my back. You may not be perfectly good, but you're still good. I need you to understand that. Life has set you up to feel like this but we can change it, I want to change that." You pet his cheek gently, looking into his eyes. "I love you. I love you so much I can't focus when you're around. It's like this constant ache and fullness because I am consumed by you. I love you." You lean your head on his, your eyes welling with tears.
"Fuck" Johnny let out a tear filled laugh. "You've always been better with words than me. I don't know what I did to deserve you but I'm thanking the universe all the time."
A smile spread over your face as you leaned in, kissing Johnny softly but trying to show all your love through the kiss. Johnny kissed back, his hand tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. He pulled you on top of his body and broke the kiss so you could both get air. "I'm going to marry you one day."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yup! We are going to have at least three little kids running around."
"Okay, can they have your hair? Those messy blonde curls would be so cute on our hypothetical children."
"Course sweetheart." Her grinned and tenderly pet your cheek. "Anything for you."
You rested your head on his chest, a smile on your face as the night drifted on. You both slept outside that night, tangled in each others arms.
But if you send for me, you know I'll come
And if you call for me, you know I'll run
I'll run to you, I'll run to you
I'll run, run, run
I'll come to you, I'll come to you
I'll come, come, come
The song lyrics played softly from the small radio you two had on the coffee table. Your cheek pressed to Johnny's chest as he swayed you around the living room of Red Gate. Gat was in town with Cadence while Mirren snuck off with Ebon, leaving you and Johnny some free time. It was moments like this where he was softer, more relaxed.
"I like this song." Johnny mumbled softly, his chin resting on your head. "Reminds me of us."
Smiling, you look up. "That's so cute Johnny."
"Oh shut up." He chuckled and pinched your cheek softly. "I got you something."
"A present? I love presents."
"Oh I know babe. You'll really like this one." He let you go softly to get the small box sitting on the end table. "Hand please"
Giggling, you hold out your hand to your boyfriend. Johnny took it and pressed a kiss to your knuckles as he slid a dainty gold band with a blue stone onto your ring finger, you couldn't help but notice how the stone matched his eyes.
"It's not an engagement ring but it's a promise. You're it for me. I want everyone to know it."
"Oh Johnny...I love it." You tear up softly.
"Forever baby." He smiled and cupped your cheeks.
"Forever."
The smoke filled the stairwell quickly, heat rolling up your spine. Coughing, you tried to make your way up to the attic. "Johnny!"
How did you get into this mess? What the hell had you all been thinking? Oh, that's right, drunk emotionally charged seventeen year old's. It had been a bad family dinner. Gat was gone, you could tell you weren't wanted there but nothing was as bad as listening to the moms fight. To make matters even worse, Harris had fallen and the moms went to the hospital with him.
Gat showed up and now the liars were alone.
Liars forever.
Liars forever.
Liars forever.
Liars forever.
Fuck it...liars forever.
The plan seemed so easy at first. Get in, burn it down, get out. But the flames rose fast. Maybe it was too much kindlin? Too much accelerant? And shit, you forgot about the gas line.
"Johnny!" You yelled again, knees weakening as you made your way up the stairs. Walking, let alone breathing was becoming too much effort and the smoke was so thick. Maybe if you just rested your eyes for a moment...
"Y/N!" Johnny yelled as he raced down the stairs, smoke so thick he could barley see. He lost his balance and landed on the ground with a loud thud. "Fuck!" Johnny pushed himself up onto his knees, ready to run again but froze when he saw you through the smoke. You were unmoving and your chest wasn't rising, the love of his life was-"NO!'
Johnny moved fast, crawling his way to you and pulled your too still body into his arms. "No, no, no! Baby please..please open those pretty eyes. Come on, open them for me." He held your face in his hands, his tears rolling onto your cheeks. A cough ripped from him as he saw flames rising up the stairs. "I'm sorry baby..I'm so fucking sorry." He leaned his head into your neck, sobbing against your skin. He would stay with you, forever. "You are the love of my life. We'll go together. I love you..I love you..I love you."
Forever...
Johnny sat on the kitchen counter of Red Gate, watching his mom pack as summer ended.
"Oh, you're still here." Carrie said softly, holding a hand over her heart.
"I don't think I can leave.."
"Are you alone?" Carrie frowned and walked towards her son, reaching out like she could touch him but she knew she couldn't.
"No, I'm not alone." Johnny smiled genuinely, his eyes flickering to yours as you leaned on another counter.
You winked at Johnny and made yourself comfortable. Carrie couldn't see you, but you knew she knew you were there.
"I should have known." She smiled softly and said her goodbye to Johnny before leaving Beechwood.
Summer was ending for most but not you. Here with Johnny it was summer forever and you intended on enjoying it. You had both suffered enough.
Johnny walked to you, pulling you against his chest. "You're a hot ghost."
You let out a genuine laugh. "Why thank you my super hot ghost boyfriend."
"Nah baby, we are husband and wife now. Been through too much to just be your boyfriend. So, I'm your super hot ghost husband."
Laughing, you lean your head on his. "I love you."
"I love you too." Johnny said softly and kissed you. Everything stilled.
This was never the ending you wanted. It wasn't the future you had planned. You never thought forever would become so literal. But with Johnny at your side..you'd make it work.
He was your happy ending, the one person that made you feel light. The laughter, the smiles, the happiness. It was all him. Adventures never ended, the love only grew, and maybe in some twisted way this was a happy ending. You had Johnny, that was all that really mattered.
Our field of dreams engulfed in fire
Your arson's match, your somber eyes
And I'll still see it until I die
You're the loss of my life...
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@stressfullywatchingf1 @reader-bookling123
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