90s baby, Ravenclaw, Taurus ♉️, love Supernatural, TVDU, Top Gun and Top Gun Maverick, Marvel, DC, Harry Potter, Stranger Things, Bridgerton, and so much more. I'm more of a reader than a writer, but I always draw inspiration from who I read from.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — beau promised dinner without dean close enough to interrupt. one secret date later, keeping beau maxwell off limits starts feeling impossible.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’s 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — a lot of people requested a part two, so here we go. i loved writing this, and i enjoyed writing the smut so much. tell me what you think. also, i’m still working on sorting out the taglists. i might take this week off to clear the blog and my head as well, because i hate writing when my head is a mess. maybe i’ll drop something on wednesday, but it’s still unsure. no worries though, dean part two is still coming out on friday. i love you all so much <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
Pt. 1
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
The first text came at eleven fourteen in the morning. You knew that because you’d been staring at your phone since eleven. Not constantly, obviously — you had standards; you had pride. You also had Dean sitting across from you at the kitchen table, eating cereal straight from the box because apparently bowls were a social construct. If he caught you checking your notifications every ten seconds, he’d never let you hear the end of it.
So you were being subtle — or at least trying to be.
Dean looked up the second your phone buzzed. You looked at it faster than you meant to, and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s that?”
“No one,” you said too quickly.
“People only say no one when they’re lying.”
“You’d know.”
Dean pointed a Cheerio at you. “That sounded defensive.”
“You’re eating cereal with your hands.”
“That’s called efficiency.”
“That’s called being raised in a barn.”
Dean ignored that, his gaze dropping to your phone again when it lit up on the counter.
beau
since your brother hasn’t killed me yet: you free tonight?
Your mouth gave you away before you could stop it, twitching at the corners.
Of course, Dean saw.
The problem with Dean was that he noticed just enough to be annoying, but not enough to be thorough. Not the important things, apparently, because if he did, he would’ve seen the way Beau Maxwell looked at you at the party last night — like you were something he’d been trying very hard not to want.
Or maybe he’d noticed. Maybe that was why Dean’s face did that horrible older-brother thing — jaw tight, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense like he was preparing to throw himself between you and a moving vehicle.
“You just smiled.”
“I smile all the time.”
“Not like that.”
You locked your phone, trying not to look amused. “Like what?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Like you’re about to make my life difficult.”
You locked your phone. “You’ll survive.”
“My life was peaceful before Maxwell started looking at you like that.”
Your fingers tightened around the mug.
So he’d noticed.
You tried to keep your face neutral. “He looked at me?”
Dean just stared at you. You stared right back until he finally said, “Don’t.”
That was the thing about Dean. He could be obnoxious and dramatic and way too involved, but sometimes his voice went quiet, the joke gone from it, and it got harder to be mad at him.
Your phone buzzed again, but you didn’t move. Unfortunately, Dean noticed anyway.
“Is that him?”
You stood, taking your coffee with you. “I have plans.”
“What plans?” Dean asked.
You gave him a look. “Plans that require me not being here.”
Dean blinked at you. “So, fake plans.”
You walked past him toward the hallway. “You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re still avoiding the question.”
“I’m allowed to have a life.”
“You are,” he agreed. “Huge supporter of you having a life.”
“You don’t support anything.”
“I support you having a life. I don’t support Maxwell being part of it.”
You stopped in the doorway.
Dean looked a little too serious now — still ridiculous, still holding the cereal box like it was a weapon, but worried underneath.
“He’s my best friend,” Dean reminded you.
“Congratulations.”
Dean’s mouth flattened. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” he added.
“I know he isn’t.”
“But he’s still a guy who likes you.”
“Groundbreaking observation.”
Dean looked like he was considering throwing the cereal box at you. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
Your face warmed, and something in Dean’s expression softened.
“Oh, my god,” Dean muttered, staring at you.
“Don’t start.”
“You actually like him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You hated, just a little, how well he knew you.
“It’s dinner,” you answered, and regretted it immediately.
Dean went still. “Dinner.”
“Maybe.”
“With Beau.”
“Unless you know some other Beau.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It was kind of funny.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
You braced for the explosion, but it didn’t come. Somehow, that was worse.
“Be careful,” he warned finally.
Something in you softened. Not enough to cancel the date — obviously — but enough that your voice was quieter when you answered.
“I will.”
“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.”
“If he hurts me, I’ll kill him myself.”
Dean considered that, then nodded once. “Good.”
You left before Dean could change his mind. As soon as the door closed behind you, you opened your phone.
beau
for the record, i’d ask you in person, but i’m guessing dean hasn’t stopped hovering yet
A laugh slipped out under your breath.
you
hovering is generous
beau
that bad?
Before you could answer, another text came in.
beau
seven? just dinner. no party. no dean close enough to interrupt.
Your heart gave a stupid little jump.
You had plenty of smart reasons to say no. Dean, unfortunately, was one of them. The fact that Beau was Dean’s best friend was another.
Still, you typed anyway.
you
seven
beau
yes ma’am
beau
and for the record, i would’ve asked again tomorrow
You stared at the message a little longer than you should’ve. Then, before you could overthink it, Dean knocked on your door.
“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
You threw a pillow at the door, and Dean laughed from the hallway. You stayed where you were, phone warm in your hand, feeling like you’d crossed a line without ever leaving your room.
By six fifty-three, you’d changed outfits three times and hated all of them. You settled on jeans and a soft sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, because looking fine suddenly felt suspicious when your brother’s friend was about to pick you up for a date no one was supposed to know was a date.
Then your phone buzzed.
beau
outside. no pressure, but if dean shows up in the window, i’m taking that as a sign to flee
You smiled before you could help it.
you
coward
beau
survivor, actually
You grabbed your jacket and slipped out before Dean could decide this required another intervention.
Beau was leaning against his car when you stepped outside, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets and his hair a little messy from the wind. He looked up when he heard the door, and for half a second, his face softened before he caught you noticing and turned smug about it.
“Hi,” he said.
It was such a simple word, but it still made your stomach flip.
“Hi.”
His eyes moved over you quickly, not like he was trying to take anything, just like he was trying to take you in without making it obvious.
He failed.
“You look pretty,” he told you.
You crossed your arms, mostly because you didn’t know what else to do with yourself. “That sounded practiced.”
“It wasn’t.”
“That sounded practiced, too.”
Beau laughed and opened the passenger door for you. “Get in before Dean looks out the window and remembers he hates this.”
You slid into the passenger seat. “You’re scared of him.”
“I’m not scared. I’m aware.”
“He once sprained his wrist trying to open a pickle jar.”
“Still,” Beau said. “He’s motivated.”
You laughed, and as Beau got behind the wheel, he looked over at you with a smile softer than his teasing.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.” Beau was still smiling.
“It never means nothing.”
“It means there’s something I want to say, and I’m trying not to say it too soon.”
There it was again: that dangerous little shift where he stopped sounding like Dean’s charming friend and started sounding like someone who meant what he said.
You clicked your seatbelt into place. “Good. Keep trying.”
His grin came back. “Bossy.”
“You asked me out. You knew what you were signing up for.”
“Worth it.”
He took you to a diner twenty minutes off campus, the kind with cracked red booths, chrome-edged tables, and a waitress who called everyone honey like she’d known them their whole lives. It was casual enough not to feel like a declaration, but far enough from campus that you didn’t feel your stomach jump every time someone walked past.
“You brought me to a secret diner?” you asked, sliding into the booth.
Beau slid into the booth across from you. “I brought you to a public diner far enough from your brother that I can eat fries without fearing for my life.”
“How romantic.”
“I figured I’d ease you in.”
“Ease me into what?”
Beau glanced at you over the menu. “Liking me.”
You snorted, even as your face warmed. Beau’s smile softened into something pleased.
“Careful,” Beau murmured. “You almost looked charmed.”
“I was thinking about the fries, actually.”
“Basically the same thing.”
You ordered burgers, fries, and one milkshake, which Beau claimed he didn’t want before drinking half of it anyway.
You kicked him lightly under the table for it, and Beau gasped as if you’d wounded him.
“Violent,” Beau complained.
“Thief.”
“You offered it.”
“I put it in the middle of the table. That’s not the same thing.”
“You put it where I could reach it. That’s on you.”
“That’s theft.”
For a while, it was easy — too easy. Beau made you laugh hard enough that you had to cover your mouth, and when you looked up, he was watching you like he didn’t want to miss it.
Your chest went tight.
“You’re doing that again,” you murmured.
“What?” he asked.
“Looking at me like that.”
His smile softened at the edges, not disappearing, just turning honest.
“I don’t know how else to look at you.”
“No?”
“No.” Beau leaned back in the booth, dragging his thumb through the condensation on the milkshake glass. “I think it’s inconvenient.”
Your pulse jumped. “That’s one word for it.”
“It’s the nicest word I’ve got.”
You looked down at the fries between you, as if the ketchup had suddenly become fascinating.
“You know this is a bad idea,” you murmured.
“I know,” Beau admitted.
“Dean would lose his mind if he knew this was actually happening.”
“I know,” Beau replied, and for once, he didn’t try to joke.
“He might actually mean it this time.”
“Probably.” Beau reached for a fry. “But I’m here anyway.”
That made it harder to say anything back.
After a second, he looked at you. “We can make a rule.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “A rule.”
“No more Dean for the rest of the date.”
“You brought him up.”
“You brought him up first, technically.”
“You only want to ban Dean talk because he’s the reason this is complicated.”
Beau looked at you then. “He’s not the only reason.”
The noise of the diner seemed to dull around you: plates clinking, coffee pouring, someone laughing at the counter.
Your throat went dry. “What’s the other reason?”
Beau leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, close enough for you to see the little crease beside his mouth.
“That by the time I realized it was a bad idea, I already liked you.”
Your breath caught.
Beau didn’t look away.
You tried to make your voice light because that felt safer. “So I’m a bad idea?”
“No,” Beau answered. “You’re Dean’s sister. That’s the bad idea.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip — no smirk, no easy deflection, just the truth sitting between the fries and the milkshake.
“You could’ve ignored it,” you told him.
“I tried.”
“How’d that go?”
His eyes stayed on your face, gentle enough to feel worse than if he’d been obvious. “Terribly.”
Your cheeks warmed. Beau noticed, but for once, he let it go.
By the time he paid, you were pretending not to notice the way his hand brushed the small of your back on the way to the door. It was barely there, hardly a touch, but you felt it everywhere.
Outside, the air was cool, and everything smelled like wet pavement and leaves, the way it always did at the beginning of the semester. Beau walked beside you to the car, close enough that your sleeves kept brushing against each other.
Neither of you said much on the drive back, and somehow, the quiet didn’t feel awkward. When he pulled up outside your place, the porch light was still on, but Dean’s car was gone. You glanced toward the empty spot automatically, and Beau noticed.
“Making sure Dean’s gone?”
“Making sure no one’s about to interrupt.”
“Smart.”
“I thought so.”
He cut the engine and sat there for a second, not moving to get out.
You sat there in the quiet, the dashboard glow soft across his face.
“Thank you,” you told him.
“For the fries?”
“For tonight.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Anytime.”
“You sounded like you meant that.”
“I do.”
Your heart gave one stupid little jump.
You looked down at your hands. “You’re making it harder to pretend this is a bad idea.”
Beau was quiet for a second before answering. “I know.”
When he walked you to the door, his hands stayed in his pockets. He stayed at the bottom of the steps while you reached for your keys, like keeping a few feet between you would make this less dangerous, as if he hadn’t spent the whole night making you laugh, stealing your milkshake, and looking at you like he already wanted to keep you.
You paused before unlocking the door and looked back at him. “So this is you being respectful?”
Beau huffed a laugh, though it sounded strained. “Trying.”
“How noble.”
“Don’t make fun of me. It’s new.”
You smiled before you could help it.
He climbed one step, then another, not enough to crowd you but close enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to keep looking at him.
“I don’t want you to think this was the point of tonight.”
Your smile softened. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His shoulders eased a little.
“But you did seem pretty committed to getting me alone.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth, quick enough that he could pretend it hadn’t happened. “But not only for that.”
The responsible thing would’ve been to say goodnight, to let him walk back to his car, to go inside and pretend your skin wasn’t warm under your sweater; pretend you weren’t thinking about how his mouth might feel when he stopped holding himself back.
Beau looked at you like he knew exactly what you were thinking.
“Goodnight.” His voice was lower than before.
He meant it. That much was obvious. He was going to leave because he was trying so hard to be decent that it almost hurt. You should’ve let him.
Instead, you stepped down one stair, took hold of the front of his jacket, and kissed him.
Beau went still for half a second. Then his hand settled at your waist, and suddenly it felt like neither of you was pretending anymore.
He kissed you softly at first, like he was giving you room to change your mind. Then you made a small sound against his mouth, and something in him gave.
He kissed you deeper, one hand tightening at your side while the other slid to the back of your neck as he stepped closer.
Your back pressed lightly against the door.
He kissed you like he’d been trying not to all night, and your knees started to feel unreliable.
When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. So was yours.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “Do you want me to tell you to?”
“No.” His answer was immediate.
“Then don’t.”
He looked at you carefully. “You sure?”
You unlocked the door behind you. “Come inside, Beau.”
For a second, he just looked at you before following.
The door shut softly behind him, and the apartment went quiet around both of you.
It should’ve made things easier, but it didn’t. It only made every breath louder, every glance sharper.
Beau stood in the entryway, still and careful, like he didn’t trust himself to move first. You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door, slipped out of your shoes, and looked back at him.
“You don’t have to be so polite now.”
His jaw flexed. “I’m trying.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to try so hard.”
He closed the space between you in two strides.
This time, the kiss wasn’t careful. It still felt controlled, because even unraveling, Beau seemed like the kind of guy who would make sure you had something solid to hold onto. But the want was obvious now, in his hands at your hips and the steady pressure of him walking you backward until your spine met the wall.
You gasped against his mouth. He caught the sound and kissed you harder.
His hand slipped beneath the edge of your sweater, his palm warm against your bare waist. You arched slightly into his touch, and Beau groaned as that small movement went straight through him.
“Christ,” he muttered, his mouth brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair. “Before you realized it was a bad idea?”
His laugh was rough against your neck. “Yeah. Since then.”
His lips found the spot beneath your ear, and your fingers tightened in his hair. You meant to say something clever, something sharp enough to make it seem like he wasn’t getting to you. Instead, his teeth grazed your skin, and his name slipped out before you could stop it.
Beau went still against you. Then he kissed the spot softly, almost like an apology, and looked up at you.
“We can stop,” he said softly.
For a second, you only stared at him. His face was flushed, his mouth red from yours, his eyes darker than they’d been at the diner. And still, he was checking. Something in your chest pulled tight.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His thumb brushed over your ribs. “Good.”
“Just good?”
“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, slower this time. “Because I’m trying not to lose my mind here.”
You smiled against his mouth. “How’s that going?”
“Badly,” he muttered. “I’m still trying to be a gentleman.”
“You bought me dinner. I think you’ve done enough.”
“That was all I had.”
You laughed against his mouth, and he kissed you again, smiling this time.
The walk to your bedroom was clumsy, mostly because you kept stopping to kiss him, and Beau kept getting distracted by every inch of skin he uncovered. Your jacket ended up somewhere near the couch, and his landed over the back of a chair. Your sweater came off just inside your room, and Beau went still when he saw you beneath it. There was nothing smug or teasing in his face now. He just looked caught.
Your arms started to lift on instinct, but Beau caught your wrists gently before you could cover yourself.
“Don’t,” he murmured.
Your breath snagged.
His gaze came back to yours. “You’re beautiful.”
The words were simple—no teasing, no practiced charm, just the truth.
You were the one who looked away first. Beau didn’t let you look away for long. His fingers touched your chin, guiding you back to him. Then he kissed you again, softer this time, and walked you toward the bed until your knees hit the mattress.
You sat on the edge of the bed, and he stayed standing between your legs.
For a second, neither of you moved. Your fingers found the hem of his shirt.
Beau helped you pull it off, and your hands found warm skin and hard muscle. Your fingers traced down his stomach, and he sucked in a breath like the touch had caught him off guard.
“Oh, you’re sensitive there?” you teased.
His mouth curved. “Careful, sweetheart.”
“Or what?”
His hand settled on your thigh, thumb drawing a slow line over denim.
“Or I’ll take my time with you.”
Your pulse jumped. “Is that how you treat a girl on a first date?”
“Making promises, actually.”
You should’ve rolled your eyes, but you didn’t.
He leaned down, kissing you back onto the bed, gentle even as he settled over you. After that, he took his time, slow enough to make you restless, his mouth moving from yours to your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. His hands were everywhere, but never careless — your waist, your ribs, your thighs — slow and deliberate, like he had more patience than either of you deserved.
By the time he undid your jeans, your breathing had gone uneven. He pulled them down your legs slowly enough that your fingers curled into the comforter. His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee, and suddenly, you had nothing clever to say.
Beau looked up at you from between your thighs, and the sight of him there made your breath catch.
“You still with me?”
You nodded, and his eyebrow lifted.
You swallowed, then nodded again. “Yes.”
“Good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your thigh.
The praise hit harder than it should’ve. Beau saw that too, his smile turning faint and knowing, but not mean. Never mean.
“Yeah?” he murmured, pressing a kiss higher up your thigh. “You like that?”
“Beau,” you breathed.
“I know.” He kissed you again, closer this time. “I’ve got you.”
Then his mouth was on you.
Your head fell back against the pillow, a moan slipping out before you could stop it. Beau’s hands held your thighs open, firm but gentle, his thumbs stroking small circles into your skin while his mouth moved slowly against you. He wasn’t rushing or showing off, just focused, like every sound you made told him exactly where to go next.
It was embarrassing how quickly he figured out what got to you, and even more embarrassing how much he seemed to enjoy it.
When your hips shifted, he groaned softly, and the sound vibrated against you.
“I want to hear you,” he said.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “What if Dean comes back?”
Beau lifted his head, eyes dark, mouth still wet from you. “Then let’s not say his name right now.”
A breathless laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Then his fingers moved with his mouth, and suddenly, you weren’t laughing anymore.
He watched your face as he touched you, catching every shiver, every hitch in your breath, every place that made your body tense beneath his hands. The first curl of his fingers inside you made your back arch. The second had you reaching for him, your fingers twisting in his hair before you could stop yourself.
“Right there,” you breathed.
Beau looked up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah?”
You nodded, breath catching too hard for words.
He did it again and again, his fingers moving in slow, precise strokes, his mouth back on you, until your thighs tightened around his shoulders despite your best effort not to crush him.
“Beau, please.”
He pulled back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, fingers never stopping. “Please, what?”
You would’ve hated him for that if you weren’t already so close.
“Don’t stop, please.”
His expression softened. “I won’t, sweetheart.”
And he didn’t stop.
He kept going until you came on his tongue, your eyes squeezing shut as his name left your mouth in a broken little chant. Beau worked you through it, slowing as you shook, his hands gentle on your thighs when you started to squirm away.
When he finally made his way back up your body, he kissed your hip, your stomach, the center of your chest, before finding your mouth again.
You tasted yourself on his mouth, and a helpless sound slipped out of you. His control slipped, and you felt it in the way he kissed you, in the way he pressed his cock against you through his jeans, hard enough to make it impossible to ignore how much he wanted you.
“Do you have a condom?” he asked, voice rough but careful.
“Top drawer,” you managed.
He found the drawer without taking his eyes off you, which shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.
The rest blurred around the edges: his jeans gone, your remaining clothes pushed aside, the silver flash of the wrapper before his hand settled at your thigh.
“Still okay?”
Your chest squeezed. You touched his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “I’m still okay.”
He kissed your palm, then lined himself up. The first slow push stole your breath.
Beau stopped at once, eyes searching yours. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers digging into his shoulder. “No, just—stay still. I need a second to adjust.”
“You’ve got it,” he said, lips brushing your cheek. “No rush.”
Somehow, his restraint wrecked you more than if he’d lost it completely.
When the stretch eased, you shifted beneath him, taking him deeper as your legs tightened around his waist.
“You can move.”
He did, slow at first, careful enough to make your throat tighten. Then he pushed deeper, once he felt you relax around him, once your breathing changed, once your hands stopped holding him still and started pulling him closer.
Beau dropped his forehead to yours, his breath breaking. “Fuck. You feel—”
Whatever he meant to say broke off into a groan.
You smiled, breathless and unfair. “Use your words, Maxwell.”
He laughed, but it came out strained. “Don’t get cocky.”
“You started it.”
“You’re killing me here.”
“Dramatic.”
He kissed you hard, like he needed to shut you up before you made him lose what was left of his control.
The rhythm built, less careful now, still tender but edged with desperation. Your nails dragged down his back. His hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher, changing the angle until he hit deeper, and his name broke out of you again.
“There?” he asked, voice low.
You couldn’t answer.
He did it again.
His mouth curved against yours. “Yeah. That’s where you need it, isn’t it?”
The room felt too warm. His breath at your mouth, his skin against yours, the sound of him losing control in pieces — it all felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with Dean anymore.
This wasn’t just sneaking around anymore. It was wanting him, and knowing he wanted you back.
Your second orgasm built slower, deeper, until you were clinging to him and gasping into his shoulder, tightening around him hard enough to drag a broken sound out of his throat. Beau followed soon after, hips stuttering as he came with a broken groan, face buried in your neck while he said your name like letting go took everything out of him.
For a while, neither of you moved. Beau kissed your shoulder once, then again, soft enough to make your chest ache.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Your fingers brushed his jaw. “Promise.”
He lifted his head, studying you with that same careful look he’d had before.
You pushed damp hair off his forehead. “I don’t regret it, Beau.”
His face changed just a little, but it was enough.
“I know.” His thumb brushed your side. “I just don’t want you to regret me.”
“I don’t.”
The answer came easily. Too easily, maybe, but it was true.
Beau kissed you then, slow and grateful, almost sweet.
After, he disappeared to the bathroom and came back with a warm cloth. He cleaned you up carefully, ignoring your half-hearted complaint that he was being too nice about it.
“I’m a gentleman,” he said.
“You said your whole supply ran out at dinner.”
“Turns out I had reserves.”
You laughed, tired and soft.
He tossed the cloth into your hamper, then came back to bed, as if leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind. You liked that more than you wanted to admit.
He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arm loose around your waist. The room went quiet again, but this time, it felt different — less like waiting, more like staying.
“I’m not going to disappear because your brother scares me,” Beau said after a while.
You stared at the wall, your heart twisting with pain. “He does scare you.”
“Deeply.”
You laughed, and his mouth brushed your shoulder.
“But not enough.”
“Not enough for what?”
“To make me stop wanting this.”
You went still. His thumb moved gently over your stomach.
Then your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Both of you looked at it as Dean’s name lit up the screen.
Beau’s arm tightened around you for half a second, then loosened again like he was trying very hard not to react.
You reached for it with dread already curling through you.
dean
you home?
dean
and if maxwell texts you, ignore him.
Beau, right beside you, warm and bare under your sheets, said, “That feels personal.”
You pressed a hand over your mouth. It didn’t help. A laugh broke through anyway, panicked and quiet.
Beau buried his face in your shoulder, his own laugh shaking against your skin.
“This isn’t funny,” you whispered.
“It’s a little funny.”
“He’s going to murder you.”
“Eventually.”
“Beau.”
He lifted his head, his mouth brushing your shoulder again. “You gonna ignore me?”
You looked at Dean’s texts. Then at Beau. At the softness in his face, the stupidly pretty curve of his mouth, the way he was trying not to smile and failing.
You should’ve been scared, and you were, but not enough.
You locked your phone without answering.
Beau’s brows lifted.
“Strategically delayed information?” he asked.
You turned in his arms until you were facing him. “Something like that.”
His smile softened, and you kissed him before he could say anything else.
Dean could wait, your guilt could wait, the consequences could wait outside the door with the rest of the world because Beau’s hand was warm on your waist, his mouth was gentle against yours, and you already knew the truth with terrifying certainty.
you're holding the door shut against everything you’re terrified to feel, but tucker's not interested in the barrier—he’s just waiting for you to realize he’s already on the other side.
word count : 4k — FWB dynamic — little bit of angst — smut, minors DNI — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
The sheets are still warm, tangled around your ankles as the biting winter air of the bedroom hits your bare skin. You reach for your underwear on the dark hardwood floor, the rustle of lace and denim loud, almost violent, in the heavy quiet.
From the shadows of the mattress, a hand reaches out. Fingers light, almost tentative, trace the line of your spine. Tucker props himself up on an elbow, his dark hair a messy halo, his eyes heavy with sleep and that soft, unguarded warmth he only wears in the dead of night.
"You could stay a bit," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that vibrates straight to your chest. "Just sleep here tonight."
You don't let yourself look at him for too long. If you look, the armor splinters. You slide your shirt over your head, pulling your defenses back on piece by piece, hiding the skin he just spent hours worshiping. Leaning down, you press a quick, dry kiss to his lips—a boundary line disguised as affection—and offer a tight, practiced smile that doesn't reach your eyes.
"Can't, Tuck. Early morning tomorrow."
The lie tastes like ash, but you say it smoothly. You never stay the night. That was the unspoken law governing the arrangement you both shook hands on weeks ago. Friends with benefits. No strings. No emotional overhead. You had made him repeat it back to you, forcing the words out of his mouth before you ever let him touch you, because you knew the danger of a boy like John Tucker.
John Tucker feels like a hundred lifetimes of safety meant entirely for a version of you that doesn't exist. If you ever let him look past the surface, if you ever open the door, the sheer weight of his disillusionment would kill you. It’s a mathematical certainty in your head : eventually, he will see too much, he will realize you aren't worth the trouble, and he will leave. So you leave first. Every single time. You take what you can get—the physical heat, the temporary distraction—and you run before the sun can expose you.
I grew up pretendin' sticks were little guns
I would point 'em at my dad, and he'd get mad
Cause God forbid I hurt someone
I'd hurt anyone I could
Anyone who got too close, and anyone who wouldn't look
But the problem with John Tucker is that you can’t stay away from him. No matter how many times you tell yourself this is the last time, no matter how many walls you build during the day, the moment the sun goes down, the magnetic pull between you becomes a physical ache. It’s an addiction you both share, a mutual gravity that constantly drags you back into his orbit. You find reasons to cross his path, and he always, always stops to look at you.
And slowly, without permission, things start being more than just sex.
It happens first at a crowded house party. The air is thick with beer, loud music, and sweaty bodies, and you’re trying to navigate the narrow hallway to the kitchen when a hand grips your wrist. Before you can gasp, you're pulled into the shadow of the linen closet, and Tucker is there, towering over you. You expect the usual routine. You expect him to mutter a low, dirty suggestion, to tell you to meet him upstairs in the bathroom in ten minutes, or to feel his heavy hands immediately sliding up your skirt to find your naked thighs.
Instead, he just places his palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling, his eyes burning with a desperate sort of hunger that has nothing to do with a quick thrill. He leans in and kisses you. It’s deep, slow, and breathtakingly thorough. His tongue tangles with yours in a way that feels like a quiet conversation, his lips soft and demanding all at once. He tastes like basil and warmth. He doesn't touch the rest of your body—he keeps his hands flat on the wall, entirely focused on your mouth, breathing you in like he's trying to memorize the taste of you before you can slip away again. When he finally pulls back, his breath is shallow. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you, lets out a soft, breathtakingly sweet smile and walks back out into the party, continuing with his night. You’re left leaning against the wall, your knees shaking, realizing with a spike of terror that he is rewriting the rules without your permission.
The shift bleeds into his bedroom, mutating every touch into something holy, something that threatens to break you wide open. A week later, you’re on your stomach, the sheets bunched beneath your knuckles as he takes you from behind. His weight is heavy and grounding over your back, his fingers wrapped firmly around your throat in a tight, possessive chokehold that makes your vision blur with heat and yielding submission. He’s driving into you, deep and relentless, but there is no cruelty in it—only a desperate need to be as close to you as humanly possible. With every thrust, a low, ragged moan tears from his chest, and he keeps saying your name. Over and over. Your name. On his lips, it doesn't sound like a dirty word muttered in the dark. It sounds sacred. The reverence in his voice makes your throat tight and your chest ache with a violent, beautiful agony. You feel the tears leaking into the pillowcase, because you know that if he says your name like that just one more time, you will completely melt. All your locked doors will fly open, and he’ll see the wreckage inside.
I was born into a one-hundred-year storm
Foot of ice across Vermont
And in that dark, and in that frost, a heart was formed
Malcontented and unwarm
The breaking point comes on a sunday afternoon when he coaxes you into the bath. The water is steaming, smelling faintly of the expensive soap he keeps just for you. Tucker is leaning back against the porcelain, his long legs framing yours, and you are sitting between them, your back pressed flush against his chest. The water laps at your collarbones, warm and enveloping. It’s supposed to be casual, but it’s entirely too sensual.
His right hand slides beneath the surface, his fingers moving inside you with an agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure that makes you whimper, your head dropping back against his shoulder. He’s reading every shudder of your body, mastering your pleasure with a quiet confidence. But it’s his other hand that ruins you. His left hand rests on your wet thigh, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small, gentle shapes against your skin. You track the movement through the clear water, and your heart stops when you realize what he's doing.
He’s drawing little hearts. Over and over, tracing the shape against your skin without even realizing he’s doing it, a subconscious manifestation of what he’s actually feeling.
A cold wave of absolute panic cuts through the heat of the water. He’s getting too close. He’s slipping beneath the armor, finding the softest parts of you, and if you let him stay there, the fall will kill you when he inevitably realizes you aren't enough. So you push his hands away, scrambling out of the tub onto the cold bath mat, ignoring the confused look that crosses his face. You wrap a towel around yourself tightly, your teeth chattering from the sudden drop in temperature—and the sudden realization that you have to end this before it destroys you.
You were unsuspecting, not unwarned
That I'm the trouble ahead, that I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gеts harder to see me the closеr you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
Which brings you back to tonight. The aftermath of another night where you tried to use his body to forget your soul, and failed. You’re almost fully dressed now, your hand resting on your bag, while Tucker stands by the bed, his chest bare.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over the empty side of the mattress for a second before he shifts, patting the soft fabric. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, his voice soft, trying to make it sound casual, like a joke he doesn't entirely mean. "There's still room for two in this bed, you know."
You look down at your feet, your voice completely flat, detached. "I can't, Tuck. We talked about this. I don't do sleepovers."
The lack of warmth in your tone makes something shift inside him. The softness drains from his face entirely, replaced by a sharp, stung look that makes his jaw tighten until the bone shows. He steps out of bed, blocking your path to your clothes, his bare chest heaving.
"Stop doing that," he whispers, frustrated, his voice cutting through the peaceful silence of the room. "Stop putting the wall up the second you get out of bed."
You force yourself to look up, hardening your expression into a mask of pure indifference, though your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "We agreed on this. No strings, no expectations. You can't get mad at me for sticking to it."
"We agreed, yeah," Tucker steps closer, a desperate, angry heat rolling off him. "But don't look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel what's happening every time we're in this room together."
You do. Of course you do. It’s a terrifying, living thing that sits in the space between your chests every single time his skin hits yours. It’s there in the way his breath catches when he touches you, and the way you completely lose your bearings the second he pulls you close. You feel it so acutely that it makes you feel naked even when your clothes are still on, a heavy, unshakeable truth that you are completely powerless against. You feel it, and it scares the hell out of you.
"Believe me," you say, your voice dropping to a harsh, skin-crawling whisper, desperately trying to save him from yourself. "You don't want this. You think you do, but you don't."
Tucker’s gaze drops, his jaw tightening as he absorbs the dismissal, the quiet exhaustion in his posture mimicking your own. He doesn't yell, he doesn't press closer. He just stands there, a heavy, suffocating silence settling between you as the distance feels more like an ocean than a few feet of floorboards.
Have you ever stared directly at the sun?
Have you ever shared some closeness, so exposed
To have it spit back by someone?
So, forgive me if I jump
At the rattle of your keys
"Oh, are you leaving?," "No, babe, I'm just waking up"
And now what?
I'm left staring at the ceiling, listing reasons you should pack all your shit up
History had taught you that letting someone beneath your skin was a guarantee of definite, absolute ruin. Every time you had dropped your guard, if only by a fraction, it had merely offered a roadmap to your undoing for the person walking away. You couldn't handle the fallout of another ending. Not from him, and not when the reverent, terrifying way he looked at you meant the fall would be fatal.
So you protect yourself by bracing for the impact of the end before it can even start, counting down every flaw, every hesitation, every single reason why you shouldn't let this happen. You convince yourself that staying away is the only way to survive, turning his kindness into a deadline you have to beat.
"You're already gone, aren't you?" Tucker's voice shatters the silence, sharp and bleeding with a new kind of realization. He looks at you, seeing the way your eyes have gone totally distant. "You're standing right here, but you're already gone."
You don't say anything. The silence between you stretches, heavy and agonizing, as you pull your jacket over your shoulders. You reach down and lift your bag, your knuckles white against the strap, your jaw locked so hard it aches.
He looks at you—really looks at the rigid line of your shoulders, the frantic, defensive look in your eyes—and a quiet, crushing realization washes over him. He can't make you stay when you’ve already decided to leave.
His hands drop slowly to his sides. The silence that follows is deafening, heavy enough to crush the air right out of your lungs. His chest heaves, a profound, exhausting hurt settling into his features. The fierce, fighting light in his eyes slowly dulls, leaving him looking entirely hollow, entirely defeated.
"Fine," he says quietly, his voice flat, completely stripped of all the southern warmth you’ve grown so used to leaning on. "Just leave then." He walks past you, stopping at the bathroom door to look back at you one last time. There is no anger in his eyes, just a heavy, hollow exhaustion as he throws a tired line over his shoulder. "You know where the door is."
The click of the lock feels like a physical blow to your chest.
I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
The moment the door closes, your knees give out. You collapse onto the edge of his bed, the sheets still smelling like him, and a violent, silent sob tears through your chest. You have to clamp both hands over your mouth to stifle the sound, terrified he’ll hear you through the thin bathroom wall, terrified he’ll come out and see the absolute disaster you are. You shake so violently you can barely pull your jeans up, your fingers fumbling uselessly with the button. Blinded by a steady stream of hot tears, you gather your things, shove your shoes on, and practically flee the room.
Days blur into a week. Then two.
Every single second is a slow, agonizing torture. Without the distraction of his touch, the truth you’ve been running from settles into your bones like lead. You do love him. You love him so much it physically hurts to breathe, a constant, dull throb in the center of your chest. But when you think of Tucker, you see the sun—something bright, pure, and life-giving, and if you go back, you’ll just choke out his light. You can't bear the thought of becoming the reason he loses his warmth. So, you starve yourself of him. You stay in your room, ignoring the ache, choosing to bleed out in silence rather than drag him down with you.
Meanwhile, Tucker is a ghost of himself. He doesn't joke around in the locker room anymore. At home, he sits in the quiet of his room, staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name, waiting for a text that never comes. He’s furious at you for quitting, furious at you for deciding his limits for him, and furious at himself for letting you walk out into the dark.
By midnight on the fourteenth day, the guilt becomes too heavy to carry. You can't keep his spare key on your nightstand anymore; it feels like a physical brand, a constant reminder of the safety you threw away because you were too terrified to hold it. You decide to get rid of it when you know he won't be around to stop you.
The university ice rink is a tomb at midnight, the massive building shrouded in shadows and the smell of damp leather and pulverized ice. You slip through the side door, your sneakers making no sound on the rubber mats. The plan is simple: drop the silver key into his hockey locker through the metal vents and vanish back into the dark before the winter can catch you.
The heavy door clicks shut behind you, the latch locking into place with a definitive, echoey thud.
You take three steps inside, and your entire body locks. The air leaves your lungs as if you’ve been punched. He’s there.
Tucker is sitting on the wooden bench at the very end of the row, his massive frame hunched over, a roll of black stick tape clutched in his large hands. He’s still half-dressed in his gear, his heavy nylon hockey pants on, but his chest is bare, his skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat from an extra hours-long practice he clearly used to beat himself into exhaustion. He doesn't look up, but his voice stops you dead.
"You really thought you could just disappear, didn't you?"
He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto yours and you feel the floor vanishing beneath your feet. He stands up slowly, the movement languid and predatory. He doesn't look like the resigned boy who let you walk out of his bedroom two weeks ago. He walks toward you, his heavy steps unhurried, until he’s standing directly in your space, radiating a suffocating heat that cuts through the metallic chill of the rink.
“It was the only way I knew how to handle this," you whisper, clutching the key so hard it bites into your palm.
Tucker stops. He looks at your hand, then slowly up to your eyes, his expression stripping away everything but a tired, raw frustration. He reaches out, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist, his grip burning. He doesn't pull you in; he just holds you there, forcing you to face him.
"Handle this?" he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "You think cutting me off and ghosting me for two weeks is handling it?" You look at him, really look at him, and see the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. "You don't get to decide that you’re not worth the risk."
I'm the trouble ahead, and I scream in my sleep
You're putting money on red, I'm a sure bet at a losing streak
I keep showing you doors, but you can't open them up
Cause it gets harder to see me the closer you try to look
I just live here, babe, but you're the one who decided to knock
You knocked
He gently pries the key from your hand, letting it clatter to the concrete. He takes a half-step closer, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. You can feel the air between you charging, the silence stretching until it feels like a physical weight, thick with the scent of cedar, sweat, and something inevitable.
"I got scared," you admit, your voice cracking. "I'm still scared."
"Yeah," he mutters. "I noticed."
He leans down, his mouth hovering just a breath away, and you can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. You bring your hands up, your fingers trembling as they find the damp skin of his shoulders, and the stupid, desperate reality of how much you missed him just collapses the rest of the distance.
When his mouth finally hits yours, it isn't an invitation—it’s the frantic, starving wreck of fourteen days of silence, a collision that tastes like copper and desperate, long-overdue relief. He tears your coat aside, and his hands, burning hot, move with ruthless speed—shoving your sweater up and over your head, his fingers catching on the fabric in his hurry. He doesn't stop, his palms dragging down your skin, tugging your jeans down until you’re shivering and exposed in the cold, dim air of the locker room. He lifts you, your legs locking instinctively around his waist as his heavy hockey pants drop to the bench with a heavy thud.
He steadies you against the steel lockers, the metal biting into your back as he guides himself to you.
The first push feels like a homecoming and an invasion all at once—he is thick and searingly hot, stretching you until the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, broken gasp. You claw at his shoulders, your eyes blown wide as he fills you completely, the cold room turning irrelevant against the crushing, rhythmic weight of his body.
Your bodies align with terrifying, natural precision—two halves of a broken whole finally finding their center. You move with an urgent, ravenous hunger, a primal need that transcends speech. With no space remaining between you, there is only the friction of skin against skin, the frantic hitch in your breathing, and the profound, overwhelming sense that this—being joined like this—is the only way to silence the noise in your heads.
Your hips collide in a chaotic, beautiful symphony of desperation. You ache for his weight, for the way he fills the void and anchors you to reality. As he drives into you, the brittle walls of your self-doubt crumble, replaced by the jarring, exquisite reality of his presence. You aren't just being taken, you are being reclaimed. He is here, he is real, and he is entirely yours to hold. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down until you are flush, heartbeat against heartbeat, skin against skin, until you can no longer tell where you end and he begins.
He pushes into you with a steady, bruising rhythm, crowding his weight down until his mouth is pressed against your throat, swearing softly under his breath.
"I'm not leaving," he grunts against your skin, his hips slamming into yours.
He pulls back to look you in the eyes, his face flushed, his breath coming in broken hitches. "I'm not leaving," he repeats, his voice vibrating through the hollow steel at your back.
He drives into you again, slower now, with a terrifying, agonizing control that forces you to realize that this—this weight, this heat, this absolute refusal to let go—is exactly what you needed all along. He leans in, his forehead pressed against yours, his movements syncing with the frantic, newfound rhythm of your own heart. He moves with a purpose that is almost holy, a slow erosion of your defenses until the panic is gone, replaced by a clarity so sharp it hurts.
"I'm not leaving," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.
He grinds his hips against yours, hitting that sweet, devastating spot that forces a sob from your throat. He doesn't let you look away—he captures your gaze, locking it to his, even as he drives into you one last time.
"I'm not leaving," he vows, his voice a final, breathless promise that settles deep in your bones.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — tucker thinks you’re pulling away from him. the truth is much bigger than either of you know how to hold.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — accidental pregnancy, pregnancy test, established relationship, emotional argument, fear of the future, realistic panic, crying, supportive but scared tucker, no smut.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 3,979
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — i told myself that if i reached 600 subscribers today, i’d post another one-shot before tomorrow's post. we’re currently at 657 subscribers, so here's another one-shot about Tucker (Jalen’s constantly on my mind). i’m sorry in advance for what you're about to see (i cried while proofreading it). thank you for your support, I love you all. and tomorrow, the one-shot about Beau is coming <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my temporary taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
Tucker knew something was wrong. You hated that he knew.
You hated that he knew you well enough to tell the difference between tired and quiet, between busy and avoiding, between I’m fine and please don’t ask me again because I’ll fall apart if you do.
He noticed everything. Usually, you loved that about him.
Usually, it felt like one of the safest things in the world, the way Tucker paid attention without making a performance out of it. He noticed when you were cold before you said anything, when parties started to overwhelm you, and when you were hungry but too stubborn to admit it. He remembered the kind of coffee you liked, the songs you skipped, and the exact look you got when Dean said something that made you want to throw something.
He noticed because that was how Tucker loved you, quietly and steadily and carefully, and now all that care felt like a light pointed straight at the thing you were trying to hide.
At first, you told yourself it was stress. Your period was late, sure, but not late enough to panic.
By the second day, you decided your body was just being weird. On the third, you stopped looking at the calendar. By the fifth, you knew—not for sure, but enough. Something heavy had already settled in your stomach before you even bought the test, a quiet, awful certainty that made your hands shake as you stood in the pharmacy aisle, staring at pink boxes and trying not to cry in public.
You bought three, and you didn’t really know why, maybe because one felt too fragile, too easy to doubt. Maybe because part of you wanted the universe to have to say it more than once.
It did. All three were positive.
Three little answers sat lined up on your bathroom counter, blunt and impossible, nothing like the moments in movies where music swelled, and people somehow knew what to do with their faces.
You just sat down on the floor and stayed there for a long time, until your phone buzzed beside your thigh.
tuck
hey baby, you still coming over tonight?
You stared at his name until it blurred. Then you turned your phone face down and cried so quietly it made your throat ache.
After that, everything became about avoiding him without making it obvious, which was impossible because Tucker had never been stupid.
You canceled on him that night.
Then the next one.
You stopped going to the hockey house because you couldn’t stand the thought of sitting beside him on the couch while everyone yelled around you, pretending nothing had changed when your life had already split into before and after. You stopped staying over because his room felt too much like the place where it had happened, not the test, but the ordinary night that hadn’t seemed important enough to remember in pieces.
You and Tucker had always been careful. That was the part you kept circling back to until it made you feel sick.
You’d been careful. He’d been careful, because of course he had. He was Tucker. He always asked if you were okay before kissing you deeper. He checked in even when you rolled your eyes and told him he was being too sweet. For Tucker, responsibility had always been another kind of love.
And still, it had happened.
The sixth time you ignored one of his calls, you pressed your phone to your chest afterward and whispered, “I’m sorry,” to a room that couldn’t answer.
The next day, he stopped texting as much. He never stopped completely, but there was less of him on your screen.
Somehow, that was worse.
Somehow, that was worse, because it meant he thought space was what you wanted, and because you were hurting him, but he was still trying to be kind about it.
By Thursday night, you were sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at the drawer where you’d hidden the tests, when there was a knock on your apartment door.
You went still.
Another knock followed, gentler this time, and then came his voice.
“Baby?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. No, not tonight. Please, not tonight.
“It’s me,” Tucker called softly through the door, as if you didn’t know, as if your heart wasn’t already trying to crawl out of your chest.
You didn’t move.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence from the hallway.
Then his voice came quieter. “Hannah told me you were home.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost turned into a laugh, because of course she did. You’d deal with Hannah later. Right now, Tucker was outside your door, and three positive pregnancy tests were hidden in your nightstand.
You pushed yourself to your feet on unsteady legs and crossed the room. Your hand hovered over the doorknob for too long before you finally opened it.
Tucker stood in the hallway in sweats and a faded Briar Hockey hoodie, his hair still damp from a shower, like he’d come straight over after practice. He looked tired, but not just physically.
His eyes softened when he saw you, but something in his face stayed guarded, like he was bracing for bad news and hated that he had to.
“Hey,” Tucker said softly.
Your throat felt raw, but you still managed, “Hey.”
He looked at you a little too long. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’m fine,” you lied.
His mouth tightened just barely, but you saw it. “You keep saying that.”
You looked down when you said it. “Because I am.”
Tucker was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was still gentle but firmer than before.
“Can I come in?”
You wanted to tell him no. You wanted to shut the door and sit alone with the truth for just a little longer, even though it’d already hollowed you out. But Tucker looked like you’d already been shutting doors in his face for days, so you stepped back and let him in.
He stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind him, and your room had never felt smaller.
The room felt different with him in it.
Tucker glanced around once, not because he was nosy, but because he noticed things, especially when you were falling apart. The unmade bed. His hoodie, the one you’d been sleeping in, was shoved halfway under your pillow like hiding it could make you miss him less. The mug on your desk with cold tea you hadn’t touched.
His eyes flicked to your nightstand, just for a second, before coming back to you.
You hated how quickly he noticed, and you hated even more how much you loved him for not asking yet.
“I’m not here to pressure you,” he said.
You crossed your arms over your chest, as that could somehow hold you together. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” he promised.
“I said okay,” you muttered.
He flinched a little, not dramatically, but enough for you to see it.
You wanted to take it back the second it left your mouth, but you didn’t know how. Apologizing felt dangerous, like one soft word might make you unravel.
Tucker pushed a hand through his hair and looked away for a second.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’ve tried to be patient because I thought maybe you needed space, but I’m worried about you.”
“I do,” you answered too quickly, and his gaze found yours again.
“From me?” His voice went quieter.
Your chest tightened, and his name barely made it out. “Tuck—”
“Is it me?”
You couldn’t answer, and that was answer enough.
He nodded once, as he understood, but it wasn’t agreement. It was the look of someone trying to absorb the hit without making it their problem.
“Okay.”
You hated the way that word landed, hated the way he said it so low and carefully, like he was placing something sharp between you.
“It’s not like that,” you got out.
“I don’t know what it’s like.” His voice cracked a little, and he looked away again. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Your throat burned around his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a hard breath through his nose. “I’ve been trying to figure out what I did.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
His eyes were wet, though he wasn’t crying yet, only close enough to make you feel like the worst person alive.
“I keep replaying everything,” he said. “The last few weeks. The last time you came over. The game. That night.” His jaw tightened around the words. “I keep thinking maybe I pushed you somehow, or missed something, or said something stupid and didn’t realize it.”
“No,” you got out quickly.
“Then what is it?” His voice was quiet now.
You shook your head because the words still wouldn’t come. “I can’t.”
Tucker stared at you like he was trying to understand how to reach you, but the hurt on his face only deepened.
“You can’t tell me?” he asked.
“I don’t know how,” you admitted.
“Try.”
A brittle laugh slipped out of you. “It’s not that simple.”
“I’m not asking you to make it simple.”
“You don’t want this.”
Tucker went still, and for a second, neither of you seemed to breathe.
When Tucker spoke again, his voice had lost some of its steadiness. “Are you breaking up with me?”
The question cracked something open inside you.
“What? No.” The answer came out fast, almost frantic.
“Then why does it feel like you are?”
“I’m not.”
“You won’t call me back. You won’t come over. You barely answer texts. You don’t look at me when I see you.” His voice stayed quiet, but the panic underneath it was starting to fray. “What else am I supposed to think?”
“You’re supposed to leave it alone,” you snapped, and regretted it immediately.
Something in Tucker’s face changed, and it would’ve been easier if it had been anger. He looked like you’d finally said out loud the thing he’d been afraid of hearing.
He nodded slowly and took a step back, like he was trying to give you exactly what you’d asked for.
“Right,” he said, and panic shot through you before you could stop it, because he sounded like he was giving up.
“Tuck—”
“No, I get it.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t want to be the guy who keeps pushing when you’re asking me not to.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I just needed to know if I did something wrong.”
You couldn’t breathe, not when he looked so sad, not when he was still trying to respect you, and not when you’d somehow made him think this was his fault.
Suddenly, the truth felt too heavy to keep holding alone.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Tuck.” His gaze lifted to yours, and you heard your own breath shake. “I’m pregnant.”
For a second, it felt like everything stopped. The words didn’t echo because they didn’t need to. They just landed between you and sat there, impossible to take back.
Tucker stared at you like he was afraid to move.
For a moment, nothing happened. There was no movement, no sound, no immediate reaching for you, no perfect line or soft, cinematic promise. Just Tucker, frozen, his face going blank like every thought in his head had disappeared at once.
Then Tucker blinked once, and his gaze dropped, not quite to your stomach, just down, like he couldn’t help it, before coming back to your face.
“What?” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
Your arms tightened around yourself as you said it again. “I’m pregnant.”
His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood.
The color slowly drained from his face, and you watched the moment he understood, watched as the boy who always knew what to do with his hands suddenly had no idea where to put them.
He stepped back once and sat down on the edge of your bed.
He took one step back and sat down on the edge of your bed, not because he was leaving or because he didn’t love you, but because his legs looked like they’d forgotten how to hold him up.
Seeing him like that made you want to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” you got out.
Tucker’s head lifted sharply, but no words came, and that was the part that hurt.
You knew he was shocked, knew he needed time, knew, logically, that no one could respond perfectly to those words. But his silence cracked open every fear you’d been carrying for days.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, faster now. “I know we were careful, I swear. I don’t know how it happened. I took three tests, and they were all—”
“Three?” he echoed.
You nodded, and the tears finally spilled over. “Yeah.”
His gaze drifted toward the nightstand, like he couldn’t help it, and this time, you didn’t miss it.
“They’re in there,” you whispered, nodding toward the nightstand.
He didn’t reach for it. He just stared at the drawer like maybe it could answer for him.
Then he dragged both hands down his face and breathed, “Okay.”
Your heart sank, because that was all he had: okay. Not good, not bad, just the word people said when they had no idea what else to say.
“Okay,” he repeated, quieter this time.
“That doesn’t sound okay, Tuck.”
His hands dropped into his lap. He looked up at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, Tucker looked completely lost.
“It’s not,” he whispered, and somehow, his honesty hurt more than comfort would’ve.
You flinched, and Tucker saw it immediately.
“No, baby, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You regret this.”
His face twisted at that. “What?”
“You regret this,” you repeated.
“No,” he said, like the word had been ripped out of him.
“You do.” Your voice broke. “You’re looking at me like everything just ended.”
“I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “That’s not the same thing.”
The room fell quiet again. You looked at him, and he looked back, eyes wet now, his jaw tight like he was using whatever strength he had left to hold himself together.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. The sentence felt small, awful, and real.
You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Me neither.”
“I don’t know what happens now.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t know how to—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how to be what you need me to be right now.”
That nearly broke you because he sounded ashamed of it, as if being shocked made him cruel and being scared meant he’d failed you.
“Tuck,” you whispered. He looked up. “I don’t know how to be what I need right now either.”
His face crumpled a little.
For a second, he looked younger than you’d ever seen him. Not like a hockey player, and not like the steady boyfriend who always remembered your coat, walked you home, and kissed your forehead when you got anxious. Just a scared boy sitting on your bed, staring at a future neither of you’d planned.
“I thought you’d hate me,” you admitted.
His brows drew together like he couldn’t understand the words. “Hate you?”
“I know that’s not fair to you.”
“No.” His voice came out rough, but sure. “It’s not.”
Tucker closed his eyes for a second, like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. When he opened them again, he looked at you.
“But I get it,” he said. “I hate that you thought it, and I hate that you were alone with it. But I understand being scared enough to think the worst.”
You cried harder then, not loudly, but silently, with tears falling faster than you could wipe them away.
Tucker stood slowly, careful not to rush you or assume.
His hands lifted a little before dropping again, like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do.
“I want to hug you,” he admitted, his voice unsteady. “But I don’t know if you want me to.”
That was what undid you, not a speech or a promise, but the fact that even shattered and terrified, he still asked.
You nodded, and that was all it took. He crossed the room carefully and pulled you into his arms.
You broke against him then, completely. You pressed your face into his hoodie, hands gripping the fabric at his sides as you sobbed hard enough for your chest to hurt. Tucker held you tightly, not because he knew what to do, but because he knew you needed him there. His breathing was uneven, and his hand shook against your back. At one point, he whispered your name like it hurt to say.
“I’m scared,” you choked out, and his arms tightened around you.
“Me too,” he admitted, holding you tighter.
It wasn’t the answer you wanted, but it was the answer that made you believe him. He didn’t tell you not to be scared or promise that everything would be fine. He didn’t say the easy thing just because it would sound better. He only held you and admitted he was scared, too.
After a while, when your legs started to feel weak, he guided both of you down to the floor instead of the bed. The two of you sat on the floor beside your dresser, half tangled together, your knees touching and his shoulder pressed against yours.
It wasn’t romantic. It was ugly, quiet, and real. Tissues were scattered near your desk from the night before, and your laundry basket was overflowing. Tucker’s hoodie was still half-hidden under your pillow. Your face felt swollen from crying, and your eyes were red.
“What do we do?” you whispered.
Tucker looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.” Your stomach turned, but then he added, “Not tonight.”
You looked at him.
“I mean…” He rubbed his palms against his sweats, still nervous. “I don’t think we have to know all of it tonight.”
“All of it?” you echoed.
“Yeah.” His voice was careful. “Whatever all of this ends up being.”
The words sat between you. Neither of you said ‘options,’ ’ decisions,’ or ‘baby.’ Not yet. It was too big, too soon, too terrifying.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want,” you whispered.
Tucker nodded slowly, accepting that for now. “Okay.”
You looked at him, scared of the word again, and of course, he noticed.
“I mean… you don’t have to know right this second,” he said quickly. “That’s what okay means. Not that I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“I care.”
“I know.”
“A lot,” he added, and your lips trembled. His eyes did too. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing,” he admitted.
“You already thought I was leaving you.”
“That was before you said something that kind of changed everything.”
A broken laugh slipped out before you could stop it, surprising both of you.
Tucker looked at you for a second, then let out a shaky little sound that almost passed for a laugh before it was gone.
Then the silence came back, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. It still hurt, still scared you, but it wasn’t lonely anymore.
“Are you mad?” you whispered.
“No,” he answered immediately.
“Not even a little?”
He looked at you then, really looked.
“I’m mad that this happened when we were careful,” he said. “I’m mad that you felt like you had to hide it. I’m mad that I didn’t know you were this scared.” His voice softened. “But not at you.”
Your eyes burned again when you said his name. “Tucker.”
“I’m not mad at you,” he repeated.
You pressed your hands over your face, and he waited.
After a moment, you felt his fingers gently touch your wrist, not pulling, just there. You lowered your hands.
He looked at you like his whole world had tilted, but even then, he was still trying to find you in it.
“I might need a second sometimes,” he said. “I might say the wrong thing, or get quiet, but I don’t want you to think that means I’m leaving.”
Your breath caught. “I don’t know how not to think that.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed gently over your wrist. “Then I’ll keep reminding you.”
You stared at him. “What if you change your mind later?”
Tucker looked like the question hurt, but he didn’t rush to answer, and that made it scarier and better at the same time. Because when he did speak, it sounded like he’d chosen the words instead of reaching for the prettiest ones.
“I can’t promise I won’t be scared tomorrow,” he said. “Or next week. I can’t promise I’ll always know what to say. I can’t promise this won’t be messy.”
Your throat tightened, but you still managed, “But?”
His hand slid down until his fingers carefully tangled with yours.
“But I love you.” His voice broke around the words. “And I’m here right now.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. “Just right now?”
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “God, no. I don’t mean it like that.” You couldn’t breathe. “I mean…” He squeezed your hand, eyes wet. “I don’t want to make a promise so big it sounds like I think this is easy, because it’s not. I’m scared out of my mind.”
You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks in silence.
“But I’m here right now,” he said again. “And when right now turns into morning, I want to be there too. And after that… I want to keep showing up, as long as you’ll let me. I don’t know how else to say it.”
There was no perfect answer, no neat line that fixed anything, and no magical moment where the fear disappeared. But Tucker’s hand was in yours, still trembling, still there.
You leaned into him, and he pulled you gently against his side.
For a while, that was enough. Not enough to solve it or make you less pregnant. Not enough to make either of you ready or make tomorrow easier. But enough to get through the next minute, and then the one after that.
At some point, Tucker shifted closer and rested his cheek against the top of your head.
“I love you,” he whispered against your hair.
The words sounded different now, not lighter or easier, but still true, and that was what made you cry again.
“I love you too,” you whispered into his hoodie.
His fingers tightened around yours. Neither of you moved toward the bed. Neither of you talked about doctors, parents, the team, school, or what it would mean after tonight. Those things waited outside the room, as if neither of you was ready to step into.
For now, you stayed on the floor: two scared people, one impossible truth, no plan, no answers. Just Tucker breathing shakily beside you, his thumb tracing small, uneven circles over the back of your hand.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this,” you whispered.
He was quiet for a second. “Me neither.” His hand stayed wrapped around yours. “But maybe we don’t do it all tonight.”
Another tiny, broken breath shook through your chest.
“Then what do we do tonight?” you whispered.
Tucker swallowed. When he answered, his voice was barely a whisper. “We sit here until it feels like we can stand up.”
It was neither a solution nor a plan, and it did not make anything okay. But it was real, so you nodded, and Tucker stayed.
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
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Be My Baby - Chapter 5; Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?
Author:@harringtonstilinski
Characters: Steve Harrington x Olivia Henderson(OC) (eventually)
Word Count: 4,166
Warnings: dirty dancing au,
Smut: no | yes; 18+ MINORS DNI: oral (m+f receiving), fingering (f receiving), missionary (love making),
A/N: Hi, friends! Yes. Another rewrite, lol. I can't help it; it helps me get to know the new characters. If you are, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊
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I wasn’t sure how long I had slept before I woke up, but what I am sure of was that I had a smile on my face when I felt arms wrapped around me. Sighing in content, I closed my eyes and basked in the warmth that Steve was giving me.
“Steve,” I whispered. “I have to go.” I chuckled as he wrapped his arms tighter around me, groaning in protest. “Steeeeeeeeeve.”
“Mmmm, five more minutes,” he muttered into my hair.
“You don’t have a clock, and I need to get back before my parents notice I’m gone.”
He sighed, loosening his grip just a little bit to let me slide off the mattress, rounding it to retrieve my clothes.
“How much trouble would you be in if your parents did notice you weren’t there?” Steve asked.
“Big,” I said, jumping to pull my jeans back up. “My dad would lose his shit since he told me he didn’t want me around you guys.” I bent down to retrieve my bra, noticing it wasn’t on the floor. “Where the hell did– Hey, Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you seen my–” As I looked up, I noticed that my bra was hanging off of his finger. A small smile worked its way onto my lips. “Steve, I need that, please. I don’t want to traumatize my little brother.”
Steve got up off the mattress with a sly grin on his lips. “Give me a kiss first and then I’ll think about it.”
“Ew, Steve.”
“What?”
“I haven’t brushed my teeth.” I gasped, widening my eyes and putting my hands over my mouth, muffling, “I never brushed my teeth last night.”
Steve laughed, the sound so amazing to hear this early in the morning. “That’s okay. Neither did I.” He puckered his lips, lowering his head to press his lips to mine, only he pressed them against my hands. “Baby, come on. One kiss and then I’ll let you be on your way.”
I contemplated it for just a moment before I shrugged and tilted my head up, meeting his lips in a kiss that took my breath away. As I started pulling away, he followed, causing me to laugh. “Steve. I had to go.” Kiss. “Steve-” Kiss. “I really have to-” Kiss. “Go.”
He groaned and handed me my bra back, letting me put it on. I went to get my shirt off the floor, but I was met with the material in Steve’s hands. Softly smiling, he motioned for me to raise my arms, so I did, letting him put it on me.
Once my shirt was on, I smiled at him and whispered, “Thank you,” before bending down to retrieve my socks and shoes, putting them on, and walking toward the door. Steve’s voice gained my attention before his lips were, once again, on mine.
When we broke apart, he whispered, “I’ll see you later.”
“See you later,” I said before opening the door and walking back to my cabin. On the way, I spotted Eddie, telling him that if my parents ever asked about me not being in my cabin at night to tell them that we were hanging out and I just so happened to fall asleep. He agreed and I was on my merry way.
Walking up the steps to the cabin , I tried to be as quiet as I could before I saw Dustin poke his head out of our room - yes, we share a room.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “Dad’s just finished taking a shower. He asked for you before he got in.”
“Shit,” I whispered.
“I’m going to check on Livvie,” I heard Dad say. “She didn’t answer when I knocked on their door earlier.”
“Fuck,” I squeaked, darting into the room and jumping in the bed just a few seconds before Dad walked in. I closed my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. When he did “successfully” wake me up, I got out of bed and took my own shower before getting dressed and heading to the dining hall for breakfast.
Mom was working on a grapefruit, Dustin and Dad were working on their breakfasts, and I was working on an English muffin while Chrissy’s family was working on their breakfasts when Stan’s voice came over the megaphone, saying, “Singers, actors, dancers this is your lucky day. Auditions for the annual Hopper’s End of the Season talent show beginning in the playhouse.”
Jonathan Byers walked up behind Mom and Dad, asking, “So, everyone gonna be auditioning for the show?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Dad said. “To miss the weekend traffic.”
“Yeah, same here,” Phillip said.
“Richard, we’re all paid up until Sunday,” Mom said.
“Daddy!” Chrissy quietly exclaimed. “And miss the show?”
“I said we’re leaving tomorrow,” Phillip said.
“But Daddy, I was gonna sing in the show!”
All I could do was just stare at my father, not believing what I was hearing. I knew the reason why he wanted to leave early… because of me. It all had to do with me.
“People bring their own arrangements, you don’t want to miss it,” Jonathan said. Looking at me, he said, “Oh, Livvie, I need you for props,” before walking away.
“Rich, why would you and Phillip want to leave early?” Mom asked.
Looking around the table at both families, Dad sighed and looked back at Mom. “It was just an idea. We can stay if you want to.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as Chrissy sat up in her chair, all happy and giddy.
“So, Chrissy,” Dad said. “What were you planning to sing?”
“I Wanna Dance with Somebody. Or Material Girl.” Chrissy’s dad stood and started walking away from the table when Chrissy followed after him, saying, “Or I Wanna Dance with Somebody. What do you think Daddy?”
~~~
A little while after breakfast, I told my family that I was going for a walk. That was partly true. What I didn’t tell them was that I was actually going to see Nancy to check up on her. I feel like with me stepping in her place for last night’s performance, and with her helping me the last two weeks, I feel we’ve gotten… closer, in a way.
Somebody’s radio was talking about the Mets as I ran by the bungalows. Stepping into Nancy’s bungalow, I said, “Oh, my goodness. You look much better.”
“You just missed your father,” Nancy said, to which I widened my eyes.
“I had no idea he was coming to check on you,” I said, softly. “He didn’t say anything. Guess I took the long way around.”
“He’s such a wonderful man, Livvie.”
It took me a second to gather my thoughts, my eyes watering with tears. Looking away and sniffling, I wiped the track of wetness from my cheek. “Uhm…” Looking back at her, I said, “I’m so sorry, Nancy. I didn’t realize–”
“No, you couldn’t have,” she replied. “It’s okay.”
We both knew we were talking about her botched abortion.
A knock on the door sounded before Steve walked in, saying, “Hey,” with a smile on his face.
“Steve!” Nancy quietly exclaimed with a smile on her face as big as the sun.
He looked at me for a second before closing the door and walking to Nancy’s bed side. Looking dead at Nancy, he asked, “So, how ya doing?”
I, for one, couldn’t take my eyes off of him, remembering everything that happened late last night and this morning.
“I’m okay,” Nancy said, that smile still on her face. “Dr. Henderson says I’m going to be fine, and I can still have children.”
“Oh, Nancy, that’s great,” Steve said. “That’s really great.”
You could feel every bit of tension in the air before she asked, “So, how’d it go last night?”
Without missing a beat, Steve said, “Good.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was fine. It was actually really fun.” I looked down while chuckling before quickly lifting my head to say, “Oh! I didn’t do the lift, but it was good.”
Again, with the tension. All I wanted to do was walk up to Steve and kiss him stupid, but I’d figured it would not be a good thing to do. “Well, uhh, I guess I’m gonna head out.” After I walked to the door, I opened it and stood in the doorway for a second, looking at the back of Steve’s head before closing the door.
I didn’t walk away, though. I stood in the same spot I had stood the night before; by the door, still being able to hear their conversation.
“So, he says you’re gonna be fine, right?” Steve asked.
“Steve, what are you doing?” Nancy inquired.
“Don’t worry about Jim, I’ll tell him your Nana died.”
“How many times have you told me not to get mixed up with them?”
I walked to the steps, sitting down on one as I heard Steve say, “I know what I’m doing, Nancy.” When he opened the door, I stood up and faced him.
“Listen, I gotta run,” he said. “I got a lesson with the Kramers in a few minutes and they’ll kill each other if I’m not there.”
With that stupid knot in my throat, I said, “Yeah, sure, if you have to go.” Looking away, I blinked rapidly to will the tears away. “Fucking emotions,” I whispered to myself.
Steve breathed a sigh before I felt his hand on my neck causing me to look at him. He pressed his forehead against mine as I breathed a sigh of contentment. “Last night was amazing,” he whispered. “All I could think about after you walked out this morning was getting you back in my bed, or at the very least wrapped in my arms, clothing optional.”
I quietly laughed, feeling a tear track on my cheek.
When he pulled back, his hand moved from my neck to my jaw, whipping the tear away with his thumb. He pressed a kiss to my forehead before whispering, “I’ll see you later.”
Steve walked a few feet away before I hollered his name, my heart pounding as he turned around to look at me. All I could do was smile at him, to which he returned.
I could feel myself falling in love with this man… even if our start was a little rocky.
~~~
Rain. That’s all we saw the next day was rain. All I felt was extreme boredom.
Dustin had invited Suzie over, so they were sitting on a bed playing some board game, laughing at each other when the other made a ridiculous move. Dad and I were sitting at the little table playing cards, and Chrissy had come over to do… whatever the hell.
“I’m so sick of this rain, Ms. Claudia,” Chrissy complained. “Remind me not to take my honeymoon at Niagara Falls.”
Mom, who was sitting on the other bed messing with her clothes, said, “So, you’ll go to Acapulco. It’ll be fine.”
I’m assuming Chrissy was speaking out loud when she said, “Where is my beige iridescent lipstick? I know I put it in this bag.”
Deciding I couldn’t take anymore of the boring shit, I stood up and grabbed my rain coat, putting it on as Mom asked, “Livvie, where are you going in this weather?”
“They’re having charades in the west lobby,” I answered. “You know how much I used to love charades.” Not a total lie. We used to play charades all the time when Dustin was little.
“Oh,” Dustin said. “Quite the little joiner, aren’t we?”
“Suzie, I apologize for this, but Dustin, eat shit,” I said before walking out the cabin and down the steps.
A few minutes later, I was knocking on Steve’s cabin door, to which he answered with a smile.
“What do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, helping me out of my rain coat.
“I couldn’t stand playing cards with my dad anymore, or listening to Chrissy talk nonsense, all the while Dustin has his little girlfriend over playing some board game.” Turning to look at him, I let out a long breath. “Plus, I wanted to see you. Seeing you for, like, five seconds yesterday wasn’t enough.”
Steve didn’t say anything, he just looked at me for a moment before he walked over to me, cupped my cheeks, and placed a kiss to my lips that had my insides melting, my knees weak and my pussy throbbing.
When he pulled away, he went straight to my neck, nipping and sucking and kissing. All of which had me groaning his name, my hair in his hair. Steve took off my shirt and bra in what felt like one quick motion before his mouth was back on mine.
He lifted me up and walked me to his mattress, where he laid me on my back. Making his way down to my stomach, he stopped at each breast, giving them the love and attention they - well, I - was desperate for.
As he moved down my stomach, he placed little kisses and licks before he got to the top of my jeans, where he unbuttoned them and pulled them down my legs, along with my underwear.
“Tell me something,” Steve rasped, slowly spreading my legs open, exposing my sex to him. “Did you really come here to see me or to be fucked by me.” He kissed my inner thigh, so incredibly close to where I needed him the most.
“Both,” I answered, but it came out more like a question. I guess he took that as his answer because within the next second, his mouth was where I wanted him the most. “Oh, my god.” I arched my back at the same time I moved his hands from my thighs to holding my sides.
Steve licked and sucked his way around my core, getting to know what I liked and what I didn’t like before he pushed two fingers inside me, my pussy clenching them so tight, I thought I was going to break them.
Moving his fingers in a come here motion, I looked down at him, my breathing heavy at the pleasure he was giving me.
“Fuck, Steve,” I whined, the rain pelting down on the roof of his cabin. “Keep doing that and– oh my god.” I could feel the orgasm building up inside of me, hitting me like a freight train a moment later.
He sat up and immediately started kissing me, my own taste on my tongue.
Flipping us over, I used every single muscle I had to do so, straddling his jeans clad lap. Breaking the kiss, I sat up and reached between my legs, unbuttoning his jeans. “You better hurry up and take these off so that I can ride that cock properly.”
Steve lifted his hips, making me laugh at the motion as he tugged his jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off frantically. When he settled his legs, I scooted down a little, grabbing his cock in my fist and pumping gently.
He groaned, tossing his head back as much as he could while laying down. “Fuck, Livvie.”
As I moved down his body, I placed kisses where I could before taking the head of his cock into my mouth, sliding his length as far as I could take him, my hand wrapping around what couldn’t.
As I bobbed and jerked him off, I could hear his little whines and moans and whimpers. I couldn’t help myself as I moaned at his sounds, feeling satisfied that I was pleasing him in such a way.
“Liv, baby, you gotta stop or I’m gonna come down your throat,” he said, breathlessly.
I popped up and stared at him, his cock still in my hand. “What did you just call me?” I could see the wheels in his head turning, his eyes dancing around as he thought about his words.
“B-baby?” he asked, to which I shook my head. “Liv?”
I nodded my head. “No one has ever called me Liv before. It’s always Livvie.” Crawling back up his body, I kissed where I could, the same way he did before he ate me out. Pressing my lips to his, I felt his arms wrap around me, flipping us back over.
Unable to take my eyes off of him, I watched as he looked down and grabbed his cock, a whimper from me as he rubbed the head of his cock around my entrance before pushing his way inside.
Once he was fully sheathed, he brought his arms up, caging my head in between his forearms, his hands cupping the top of my head. I didn’t know where to put my hands, so I gently held his jaw between my hands.
When he started thrusting, he didn’t look away from me, and he didn’t set a fast pace like he did last night. This pace was steady, slow. Wonderful. Placing his forehead against mine, I felt everything; every thrust, every movement of our bodies, even feeling our bodies become one.
As the pressure started to build, I quietly moaned before Steve kissed me, resting his forehead against mine again after he broke the kiss. His pace started to get a little faster, his pubic area started to create delicious friction on my clit, and our breathing began to quicken.
“Steve,” I breathed, whispering.
“I know, baby,” he replied, threading his fingers into my hair.
I wrapped my arms around his neck while lifting my head off the pillow, pressing my lips to his as his pace started to get a little harder causing me to whimper with each thrust.
Steve went to move his hand, but I shook my head, whispering, “No,” before closing my eyes, the pressure building between my legs almost taking over every single one of my senses. “Steve, I’m gonna come. Please don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping until your cum is all over my cock, and you’re filled with mine,” Steve grunted, shifting his hips. “Fuck, you feel incredible.” He dipped his head to rest his forehead against my shoulder, my legs going up and around his waist with my ankles crossed, holding on to him like he’s my lifeline.
As I rested my chin on top of his shoulder, he moved his arm from beside me to press his hand into the mattress, giving himself more support. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t–” My words were cut off with a moan as I came, the orgasm taking over my body to the point where my eyes started to water, emotion also taking over.
Steve started grunting as his hips started to move a little more frantically before his orgasm hit him, his breathing a little heavier than mine. He didn’t move a muscle as we both tried to catch our breaths.
I felt a tear slide down my temple, a sniffle following not long after. Steve lifted his head, his brows drawn together. “Hey,” he said, cupping my cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
Shaking my head, I said, “Nothing.”
“Why are you crying?”
“Emotions, I guess. Not sure if that was sex or if that was love making. Whatever it was, it was beautiful.”
Steve just looked at me for a long moment before dipping his head, giving me a long and deep kiss, our lips moving in sync with each other. I’m not even sure how much time had passed before he pulled away and out of me, both of hissing. He cleaned me up with a random shirt before laying back down beside me, my head on his shoulder with his arm around mine, lightly stroking his fingers up and down my arm.
I flipped over and rested my head on my hand, looking down into his beautiful hazel eyes. “Have you had many women?” I asked, a smile on my face.
Chuckling, Steve said, “What?”
“Have you had many women? Like, how many notches are in your belt?”
“Livvie, come on.”
Lightly bouncing as best I could, I said, “Tell me, tell me. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours!”
“No! No!” Steve sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “You gotta understand what it's like. You’re eighteen and you come from the streets -”
“But you didn’t.”
“Okay, well, metaphorically, you’re eighteen and you come from the streets, and the next thing you know you come up here to this place and all these women are throwing themselves at you and they smell so good, and take care of themselves.”
I started pulling myself away from him a little, suddenly not wanting to be near him. I couldn’t tell you why when he’s just telling me his experience.
“I mean, I was around it all my life, but I never knew they could take care of themselves like that. And they’re so goddamn rich, like more rich than my parents, you’d think they know everything. They’re slipping their room keys into my hands two or three times a day - different women.”
I don’t think he realized that his arm dropped from around my shoulders and back to his side while he was rambling as I moved a little farther away from him, putting at least six inches between us.
“So, at eighteen, nineteen years old, I think I’m scoring big, all the while I’m thinking ‘They wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t care about me, right?’”
Looking down at a random spot on sheets, I softly said, “No, I understand. You were just using them.”
Seeing movement and feeling the mattress move, Steve said, “No! No, that’s not it, Livvie.” My eyes moved up to his at the feel of his hand on my cheek. “They were using me. A lot of girls in Hawkins used me in high school because of who I was.”
Feeling another rouge tear slide down my cheek, I whispered, “That’s not fair.” Raising my hand to place it over his on my cheek, I added, “I would never use you.”
We looked at each for a few seconds before I leaned in and kissed him, my back softly meeting the mattress. Steve leaned up, with those confused brows, and asked, “What’s your real name, Livvie?”
“Olivia. Olivia Frances Henderson. Frances is after my mother. Such an old school, dork name.”
“No, no, I like it. They’re both real grown up sounding names.”
I chuckled before he kissed me again, both of us ready for Round 2.
~~~
Reluctantly, I had to go back to my family’s cabin right before they started getting ready for dinner. No one questions my whereabouts, so I felt like I was good on that front. Of course, we went to the ball room for some dancing after dinner.
Steve was there with another female dancer, Jenna, I assume, since he mentioned that someone named Jenna fills in for Nancy. He and I locked eyes after they were finished dancing, mine shifting to the side quickly, letting him know that I needed to talk with him.
We had met in a hallway, his lips pressed to mine before I could even get a word out.
“I missed you,” he’d said. “You didn’t tell me you were gonna be here tonight.”
“I didn’t know,” I had replied back. “But I need to tell you something.” I had told him that I couldn’t go back to his cabin tonight, and that I felt like I needed to stay with family, which I, of course, did.
Dad didn’t want me going back out, so I agreed and stayed in the cabin. While I was off on my own little adventures, Chrissy and Dustin had switched rooms, leaving her and I in one while Dustin and Justin were in the other.
I was almost asleep when I heard Chrissy say, “I’ve decided to go all the way with Billy.”
When my brain caught up with what she said, I replied, “No, no, Chrissy. Not with someone like him. He’s an asshole.”
“Do you think if we came back here for our 10th anniversary, it would be free?” she said before giggling.
“It’s totally wrong this way,” I voiced. “It should be with someone… that you should… I don’t know, that you sort of love.” I couldn’t help but think of Steve when I said that.
Had I finally fallen in love with Steve Harrington, my dance instructor?
Chrissy smacked her teeth before saying, “Livvie, come on, it’s not like you care about me. You wouldn’t care if I fucked the entire Army, as long they’re on this side of the Cold War. What you care about is not being your daddy’s girl anymore. He listens when Suzie talks now.” She flipped over and got comfortable under blankets.
I laid there and pondered for a moment, wondering why Suzie would be the one my dad listened to. I didn’t ponder it for long, though, because I had finally laid back down and closed my eyes, dreaming of Steve.
A/N 2: hi, friends! i hope y’all liked this, and it got y’all excited for always the babysitter. i’m working as hard as i can on it. again, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox.
Additional Note: i know that some of y’all are waiting to see your requests, and i promise i’ll get to them. the writer’s block hit really bad with them. atb is the only thing i have motivation to write for at the moment. once i receive my ged, i’ll have more time to sit down and write them.
If you’re tagged and didn’t want to be, please let me know.
~~~
*Please don’t post my writing anywhere else without my consent. The author of this work will always and forever be @harringtonstilinski.
All characters, story lines, and plot aside from y/n and her storyline & plot, are all of the work of The Duffer Brothers, and the creators of Dirty Dancing.
*These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.
No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his family’s charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who can’t stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ mdni, fake dating, enemies-to-lovers banter, only one bed trope, forced proximity, tension, flirting, dean being dean, suggestive moments, almost kiss, no smut in this part.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 7,019.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫's 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — part one of boyfriend material is finally here. i’m so excited for this mini-series. tell me what you thought about part 1 <3
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━
The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.
The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.
“No,” you answered.
Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”
Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Allie didn’t bother trying.
She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”
Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”
“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”
“It’s almost ten.”
“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”
Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.
“Just hear me out,” he tried.
“Absolutely not.”
“[Y/N], come on.”
“Dean, no.”
“I’m serious this time.”
“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”
Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.
Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”
“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”
You gave him a sweet smile.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Deeply.”
“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”
Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”
Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.
Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”
You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”
“You don’t have the context.”
“Was the context that you lied?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”
Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”
“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”
Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”
You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”
His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m still listening.”
“You’re judging me with your whole face.”
“I’m capable of both.”
Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.
You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”
Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.
“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”
“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.
“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”
You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”
“I’m getting there, okay?”
“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.
Hannah tried to hide another smile.
“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”
You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.
“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”
“I panicked,” he admitted.
“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.
“She got weirdly intense.”
“She asked whether you had a date.”
“She asked it like it meant something.”
“Oh my god, Dean.”
“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”
The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.
Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.
“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.
Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”
“You’re dealing with consequences.”
“I need your help.”
“You need a reality check.”
“I need a girlfriend.”
“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.
Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”
“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.
“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”
“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”
“That’s actually hurtful.”
“That feels fair.”
Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”
“No.”
“It’s three days.”
“Still no.”
“Two nights, technically.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll owe you big.”
“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”
Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”
“I was just trying to distract him.”
“Distract him from what, exactly?”
Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He sighed your name, long and pleading.
You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.
Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.
He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.
But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.
You found that deeply inconvenient.
“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.
Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”
“I already know too many hockey players.”
“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”
“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”
“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”
“You absolutely can’t.”
Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”
Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”
Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”
“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”
“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.
“Somehow, still no.”
He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”
Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”
“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”
“That’s not how involvement works.”
Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.
“Please,” he murmured.
The word landed differently this time.
It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
Damn him for making it harder to say no.
You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.
“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.
Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.
Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”
You frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”
Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.
She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”
You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.
“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”
“You say stupid things all the time.”
“Exactly. I need supervision.”
You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.
“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”
“I’m not.”
Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”
“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”
“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.
“You are,” you told him.
“I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“You should be afraid.”
“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You dragged both hands over your face.
This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.
He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.
You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”
Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.
You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”
“Define necessary.”
“You know exactly what necessary means.”
“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”
“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”
Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.
Almost.
Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.
You hated him.
You hated him.
You were starting to think that might be a problem.
“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.
Allie choked on a laugh.
Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”
Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”
Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”
“Very responsible of you.”
“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”
Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”
“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”
“Right. Very tragic rule.”
“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”
Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”
“Yes. For you.”
Dean laughed. “For me?”
“You seem emotionally fragile.”
“I’m already devastated.”
“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.
“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.
“Because that’s weird.”
“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting, Dean.”
“It’s kind of interesting.”
“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”
Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.
The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.
Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”
Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”
“I told you, I’m desperate.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”
Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.
Dean glanced at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.
“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”
“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”
You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.
“You owe me,” you reminded him.
“Anything,” Dean promised.
“You don’t even know what I want yet.”
“Then I’ll find out.”
The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.
Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”
Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.
**
Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.
Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.
dean
wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with
you
so basically nothing?
dean
very hurtful.
you
objectively accurate.
dean
my mom’s going to love you.
you
because i’m obviously charming?
dean
because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.
you
your family sounds smarter than you.
dean
everyone says that, actually.
By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.
Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.
You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.
Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.
His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.
“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.
You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”
His mouth curved. “Expensive.”
You stared at him because somehow that was worse.
Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”
“That was a weird compliment.”
“My mother’s going to love it.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.
“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”
You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.
“What was rule number four again?”
Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”
“And are we currently around anyone?”
Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”
“Dean,” you warned.
“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”
“Much better.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You literally begged me.”
“I’m regretting it already.”
“No, you’re not.”
He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.
“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”
That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.
The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.
“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”
“We’re going to need a story.”
“We already have one.”
You looked over at him. “Since when?”
“I flirted with you until you gave up.”
You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”
“That’s not a story.”
“It’s close enough to the truth.”
“It’s absolutely not.”
Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”
“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”
“Not anything.”
“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”
Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”
You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”
“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”
“Dean. Rule four.”
“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.
“That still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.
You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.
He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”
You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.
Mom
Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.
You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”
“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”
“Since when is nice a problem?”
“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”
Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.
That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.
“You’re nervous.”
Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You are.”
“I’m just focused.”
“On lying to your parents, you mean?”
“On surviving this weekend.”
You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”
Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”
Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”
He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.
“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”
You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.
Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.
“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.
Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.
“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.
His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You said something nice to me.”
“That was an accident.”
“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”
Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.
“Rule three,” you reminded him.
“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”
But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.
**
The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.
It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.
You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.
Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”
“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”
His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”
“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”
“You think I look less scared?”
“You look like you belong here.”
Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”
Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.
“Dean, sweetheart!”
Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.
A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.
His parents.
Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.
“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.
She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.
“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.
You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.
“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.
His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”
“He left that part out,” you told her.
Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
Finally.
The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.
You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.
“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”
Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”
Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.
His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”
“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.
Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.
His eyes flicked down to yours.
For half a second, the lobby disappeared.
His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”
Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”
Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.
So you looked away first.
Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.
She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.
Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”
You blinked at him. “At first?”
His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”
You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”
Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”
“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”
His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.
It was ridiculous how easy it was.
That should’ve been the first warning sign.
The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”
You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.
Your stomach dropped.
“King suite?” you echoed.
Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.
She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Dean said, too quickly.
At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”
Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.
Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.
“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”
You turned your head very slowly toward him.
Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.
“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Your nails dug into your palm.
Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.
Still.
Dean was enjoying this.
You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”
Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.
Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.
“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.
“You started it,” you whispered back.
“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.
“Can’t wait.”
You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.
Then he stepped back, smile still in place.
You were in trouble.
The room was somehow worse.
The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.
You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.
Neither of you spoke.
Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”
Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You absolutely knew.”
“I thought there would be a couch.”
You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”
You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.
It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.
Dean made a face.
You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”
“I’m six foot two.”
“Congratulations.”
“I won’t fit.”
“Fold.”
Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”
“You created this problem.”
“I didn’t create the furniture.”
“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”
You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”
You laughed. “Of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”
“My ego and my charm.”
“Your delusion.”
“You like my charm.”
“I tolerate your charm.”
“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”
“I’m expanding the category.”
He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”
“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”
“Maybe that’s my love language.”
“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”
Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.
But you noticed.
The joke had landed wrong somehow.
You almost apologized.
Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”
Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”
“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.
The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.
You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.
Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”
And just like that, the moment was gone.
You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.
You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.
“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”
You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”
Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”
“You created the job.”
“I meant the story.”
“What story?”
“Our story.”
The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.
“How did we get together?” he asked.
“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”
“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”
“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”
“True.”
“You flirted.”
“True.”
“I rejected you repeatedly.”
“Debatable.”
“Dean.”
“I’m listening.”
“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”
“You like being called annoying?”
“I like that your version still has me winning.”
“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”
“I’ll take it.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.
Dean saw the almost-smile.
“Careful,” he murmured.
You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”
“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”
The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.
You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”
“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.
He probably noticed anyway.
Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.
His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.
“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.
Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”
“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”
“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.
His mother noticed.
You could feel it.
“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”
You nearly choked on your water.
Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”
His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”
“That’s completely different.”
You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”
Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.
Then he said, “Only to complain.”
“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.
His mouth curved. “Prove it.”
The table faded again.
That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.
You hated it.
You liked it.
You were doomed.
Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.
The door clicked shut behind you.
The performance dropped, sort of.
Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”
You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”
He laughed quietly. “Humble.”
“I was excellent.”
His smile softened. “You were.”
The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.
“My mom loves you.”
“She has good taste.”
“My dad too.”
“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”
Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”
Your pulse stumbled.
No.
Absolutely not.
You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.
It wasn’t.
The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.
You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”
Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re cold.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I might not.”
“How tragic.”
He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.
Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re biting your lip.”
“Out of grief.”
He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.
You couldn’t help it.
Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”
“Deeply.”
“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”
You froze, and Dean froze too.
For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.
No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.
“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.
The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.
“It’s fine,” you said.
Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.
The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.
Maybe.
You exhaled. “Dean.”
He looked up, cautious now.
“You can sleep in the bed.”
His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”
His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”
“Yes.”
“I love rules.”
“You break rules.”
“I lovingly challenge them.”
“You stay on your side.”
“Yes.”
“No touching.”
“Yes.”
“No flirting.”
His smile widened. “In my sleep?”
“Especially in your sleep.”
“What if I dream about you?”
“Then wake up ashamed.”
Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.
“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.
You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.
When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.
You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.
He looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Where’s your shirt?”
Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”
“I can see that.”
“I sleep shirtless.”
“Not tonight.”
“You’re policing sleepwear now?”
“Yes.”
Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.
“You’re flustered.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”
“I’m glaring at all of you.”
“My chest feels singled out.”
You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.
“Put a shirt on.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I said so.”
Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”
Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.
“There,” he said.
You blinked. “That was… easy.”
“I can be easy.”
“Never say that again.”
His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”
You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.
“Go to sleep, Dean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.
You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.
For several minutes, neither of you spoke.
Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”
You stared into the dark. “I know.”
“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”
“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”
Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”
He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.
More surprised.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.
You recognized the answer because you used it too.
Fine.
The least convincing word in existence.
You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.
The words were out before you could think better of them.
Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.
“That’s funny,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”
The silence after that was different.
Thicker.
Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.
“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.
“It keeps happening by accident.”
“That’s a dangerous habit.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
Your breath caught.
There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.
For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.
Your pulse jumped.
“Dean,” you whispered.
“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.
He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.
“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.
His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”
“This isn’t necessary.”
“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.
Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.
Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.
Your fingers curled into the sheet.
He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.
“Goodnight, [Y/N].”
You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”
You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.
The first time Logan called you a good girl, he did not mean to. Which was a problem in itself, if he had meant to, perhaps you could have prepared.
If there had been warning, if he had looked at you with that slow, dangerous little smile and said it deliberately, you might have had enough time to collect yourself. To decide what face to make. To arrange your dignity into something presentable before it abandoned you entirely.
It was still early enough that certain things between you and Logan felt like discoveries rather than habits. Not awkward anymore, luckily you were past the worst of that. Past the first trembling moments of figuring out where to put your hands, when to ask, how to say something without feeling like every word had been dragged from somewhere too exposed.
But it was new enough that he still watched you closely.
You were in his room at the hockey house, Logan had been sitting against the headboard and you had started by kissing him there, then somehow ended up between his legs on the mattress with your knees pressed into the sheets and your hair falling over one shoulder. His door was locked. The house was noisy enough downstairs that privacy felt possible, but not silent enough to be too intense. Somewhere beneath you, Dean was shouting about someone stealing his cereal, which meant the world was still irritatingly alive outside the room.
Inside, it was warm. Logan was warmer.
He had one hand in your hair, not gripping. Just resting there, fingers curved gently against the back of your head. His other hand was fisted loosely in the sheets beside his thigh, like he was trying very hard to keep it there.
You learnt quickly that you liked that. You liked seeing his restraint, even though you were not entirely sure what to do with it yet. You had done this before.
Not often enough to be casual. Not rarely enough to be nervous in the same way. There was a strange little space between those things, where you wanted badly to be good at it but did not want to look like you were trying too hard. Which was stupid, because trying was the point.. Trying was academically and socially defensible.
Unfortunately, none of that made you feel less exposed with your mouth on him and Logan breathing your name like a warning.
“Slow,” he murmured.
You paused just enough to look up.
His head was tipped back against the wall, eyes dark and fixed on you. His sweatshirt was shoved up his stomach, jeans open, hair a mess from your hands. He looked less composed than usual, which helped. A lot.
“Too much?” you asked.
His mouth parted.
“No,” his laugh came out rough, “God, no. Just—slow down a little.”
You blinked.
“I thought you liked—”
“I do.”
“That was not a complete sentence.”
He looked at you then, properly, and even in the heat of it his mouth twitched.
“You want notes?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted and you immediately regretted sounding so eager.
“Not like an evaluation,” you clarified.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“You are between my legs asking for constructive feedback.”
Your face warmed, “Well, now you’re making it sound clinical.”
“It sounded clinical when you said notes.”
“I like being thorough.”
“I’m aware.”
You narrowed your eyes. He smiled, but the smile did not last long because your hand moved again and his breath caught hard enough to interrupt whatever smug thing he had been about to say.
There. You liked that too, that you could cut him off without using words.
You tried again, slower this time, paying attention to the way his stomach tightened and his fingers pressed into your hair before he remembered himself and loosened them. His breathing shifted. You watched his face, greedy for signs, for proof, for anything that told you you were doing it right.
Logan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“You don’t have to think so hard,” he said, voice low.
You pulled back just enough to answer, one hand still wrapped around him.
“I am not thinking hard.”
“You’re concentrating.”
“I’m learning.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His eyes darkened at that.
Something about the word changed him. Not much. Just enough for the hand in your hair to flex, thumb brushing near your temple.
“Okay,” he stroked your hair, “Then slower.”
You obeyed.
His jaw tightened as he sighed, “Use your hand too. Like— yeah. There.”
Your pulse jumped.
There.
Such a stupidly satisfying word.
You adjusted, following the rhythm he guided you into, letting him show you without pushing you, his hand careful in your hair and his voice rougher each time he gave you another tiny instruction. It should have made you embarrassed. It did. But there was something else underneath it, something warmer and more dangerous than embarrassment.
You liked being guided by him.
You liked that he could tell you what to do without making you feel small.
You liked the way his voice went uneven when you listened.
“Just like that,” he moaned softly.
Your eyes flicked up.
His head had fallen back again, throat exposed, lips parted. He looked wrecked enough that your pride bloomed in your chest, hot and pleased. You kept going, slower, better, more certain now.
Logan’s hand tightened in the sheets,“That’s it,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Good girl.”
Everything stopped.
Not outside.
Outside, Dean was still yelling about cereal justice. Someone laughed in the hallway. Music thudded faintly through the floor.
But in your body, everything stopped.
And Logan felt it.
His eyes opened, head lifting from the wall and gaze dropping to you with sharp, immediate attention. The hand in your hair stilled completely.
You were still between his legs, still touching him, still too close to pretend you had simply remembered an appointment.
His expression slowly shifted,“Oh?”
You pulled back, face already hot.
“No.”
His mouth curved.
“No?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you learn something.”
Logan breathed out a laugh, but it came out too rough to be casual,“Baby.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said enough with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows?”
“Yes.”
“They’re involved now?”
“They’re very communicative.”
His smile widened, and the heat in your face became unbearable because he was still looking at you like that. Like he had found a drawer you had not known was unlocked. He lifted his hand from your hair and touched your jaw instead, gentle enough that you could have moved away without effort.
“You like that?”
“No.”
His thumb brushed once along your cheek,“No?”
You stared at him.
He waited.
That was the thing about Logan. He did not always fill silence when he knew it would do the work for him. He just waited, face warm and amused and careful, hand steady at your jaw.
“Maybe.”
His eyes darkened, “Colour?”
The question landed softly, grounding everything at once.
“Green,” you said too quickly.
His smile changed, “Yeah?” His thumb moved under your chin, tilting your face up a fraction. “My good girl’s green?”
Your entire body reacted.
Logan noticed that too.
His breath shifted, and for one second he looked like he had forgotten what game he was playing.
Then he laughed, quiet and ruined, “Oh, Cherry.”
“You cannot say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased with myself.”
“That is not attractive.”
“It’s a little attractive.”
“It is not.”
“You’re still holding me.”
You looked down.
You were, hand still on him- not moving the entire time you had made the discovery. In fact, your grip had tightened
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” he replied, voice rougher now. “I know.”
You should have stopped. You considered stopping.
Not because you wanted to, but because it would have restored some kind of balance. You could have sat back, crossed your arms, accused him of misconduct in the field of vocabulary, and turned the whole thing into a joke before it became something he could use.
Instead, you looked at him; properly- studying his face, the flush on his cheekbones and the little stunned glint in his eye,like your reaction had done something to him too. Like he had said the words without thinking, watched you respond, and realised in real time that he had found a way to make you softer than either of you had been expecting.
That made you want to hear it again. Badly.
Which was inconvenient for your propriety, and humiliating for your ego- but unconventionally motivating for the rest of you.
You leaned back down.
Logan’s hand twitched, “Cherry.”
You ignored the warning in his voice, you knew exactly what you were doing now.
Mostly.
You took him into your mouth again. Slower at first, because he had said slower and you were suddenly, catastrophically invested in doing this correctly. His hand returned to your hair, fingers threading through carefully, then tightening when you used your hand the way he had shown you.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
That was very nice.
You did it again. His hips shifted, barely. He caught himself immediately, hand flattening against the mattress.
You looked up. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on you, and all the smugness had taken a significant hit. You hollowed your cheeks a little, using what you had learned, what he had told you, what his body was telling you now.
His head hit the wall, “Baby.”
You hummed in response, his whole body jerked in response.
“Jesus.”
You pulled back just enough to breathe, hand still moving, “Notes?”
He laughed, but there was no humour left in it. Only disbelief.
“You want notes right now?”
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“Slow again.”
You listened. His breathing turned ragged.
“Hand— yeah. Just like that.”
Warmth spread through your chest. In anticipation. You were waiting for the two words to reward your actions, and you hated it.
Logan’s mouth parted, then curved with sudden understanding.
“Oh,” he said softly.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
His voice dropped, “You’re trying to get me to say it again.”
Your face burned.
“No.”
“No?”
You did not answer.
He shifted his hand in your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just holding enough to make your stomach tighten.
“Look at me.”
You did. It was a mistake for your resolve, everything was a mistake.
His eyes were dark and bright at once, amusement tangled with want, want tangled with something softer because he understood exactly how new this was. Exactly how much you hated that he understood.
“If you want it,” he said, low, “you can have it.”
Your throat moved.
“But you’re gonna have to stop pretending you don’t.”
That was unfair.
You stared at him for one stubborn second. Then lowered your mouth again.
This time, you did not rush.
You did exactly what he had told you. Slower. Hand moving with your mouth. Eyes up. Breathing carefully. Not trying to impress him with force, not trying to hide behind performance.
His grip tightened.
“That’s it,” he breathed.
You held his gaze.
His jaw flexed.
Then, rougher, “Good girl.”
There it was.
The words went through you like heat.
It was embarrassing how immediately they worked. Your focus sharpened. Your body seemed to understand them before your mind did, every nerve lighting up with pleased, greedy purpose. It was not even that you became softer, exactly.
You became determined. Dangerously determined.
Logan realised a second too late.
Because you went for it- properly.
You didn’t rush and your moves hadn’t become clumsy, but you were suddenly much more committed to proving the praise deserved repeating. Your free hand slid to his thigh, fingers pressing into denim. Your mouth moved with more confidence now, following every broken sound he made, every shift in his breathing, every tightening of his hand in your hair.
His smugness vanished completely.
“Oh, fuck.”
You would have smiled if your mouth had been free.
It was not. So you did the next best thing.
You kept going.
Logan’s hand slammed against the mattress, fingers twisting in the sheet,“Cherry.”
It came out beautifully wrecked.
You looked up, and the sight of him nearly undid you. His head tipped back, throat working, chest rising hard, hair messy from your earlier hands, green sweatshirt shoved up over his stomach. He looked like someone had given you secret instructions and you had followed them too well.
That was, technically, what had happened.
“Baby,” he said, voice strained, “slow down.”
You immediately did.
His eyes opened. Logan’s expression softened for half a second before the heat swallowed it.
“Good,” he murmured, and then, because apparently he had no survival instinct left, “good girl.”
Your eyes fluttered.
His breath caught, “You really like that.”
You pulled back, mouth warm, face hotter.
“I am providing positive reinforcement.”
For one second, he stared at you and then he laughed, a rough, helpless sound that seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised you.
“Positive reinforcement?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to call it that?”
“It’s accurate.”
“You’re the one being reinforced.”
You frowned, “That is not how I’m choosing to frame this.”
He sat up a little, hand still in your hair, eyes so dark you lost your next thought.
“No?”
“No.”
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You sure?”
You swallowed.
Then, quieter, “Maybe it works both ways.”
That did something to him.
You saw it happen.
His amusement faded into something more intent, more affected. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, thumb resting lightly near the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah?” he said.
You nodded once.
He looked at you for a long second and then kissed you.
It should have been too strange, considering where your mouth had been, but Logan did not seem to care. The kiss was deep and warm and messy enough to make your knees shift against the bedspread. His hand held your face like he was trying not to grip too hard, like he was reminding himself that this was still new, that you were still learning, that the softness he had found was not something to grab at carelessly.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Still green?”
Your chest warmed, “Yes.”
“Good.”
You closed your eyes.
He laughed softly, “Not even the whole phrase.”
“Shut up.”
“You reacted to good.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I am leaving.”
“You’re kneeling.”
“I am spiritually leaving.”
He kissed the side of your mouth,“Stay.”
You did.
Obviously.
You stayed because he asked softly, because his hand was warm at your face, because you liked how he sounded when you got it right. Because he had said good girl and the world had not ended, even though your dignity had suffered a temporary structural collapse.
You went back down again.
This time, Logan was less composed from the start. He still guided you, but his voice had rough edges now, the instructions broken up by breath and curses and your name. He told you when to slow down, when to use your hand, when to look at him, and every time you listened, he praised you for it.
Not every time with the words.
Sometimes it was good. Sometimes there. Sometimes just a low, wrecked yeah that made your thighs press together where you knelt. But when he did say it, when good girl slipped into the room again, you felt it everywhere.
And Logan knew and he was absolutely going to become unbearable about it. Later.
For now, he was too close to be smug.
His hand tightened gently in your hair, “Cherry.”
You looked up. He was breathing hard, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he was holding himself back with his teeth.
“I’m close.”
Your stomach flipped, “Do you want me to stop?”
His laugh sounded almost pained, “No.”
“Tell me,” you pleaded.
The words came out before you could make them prettier.
His expression changed.
His hand softened in your hair.
“Keep going,” he said, voice low, “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”
Your heart stuttered.
He came with your name in his mouth and one hand careful in your hair, his whole body tensing under you before he went loose against the headboard. You stayed close until he gently tugged you up, pulling you into his lap with the kind of urgency that was more emotional than physical.
He kissed you first.
Then your cheek.
Then your forehead.
Then, absurdly, the tip of your nose.
You blinked at him.
“What was that?”
“Gratitude.”
“You kissed my nose out of gratitude?”
“Yeah.”
“That is not standard protocol.”
“I’m improvising.”
“You should workshop it.”
His laugh was quiet against your skin.
You sat in his lap, slightly dazed and trying to recover your dignity while he looked at you like recovering your dignity was not a thing he had any interest in helping you do.
After a minute, his thumb brushed your lower lip.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Too much?”
You shook your head.
“No.” Then, because honesty had already ruined enough of your evening, you added, “I liked it.”
His eyes softened.
“What part?”
You gave him a look.
“Do not fish.”
“I’m not.”
“You are absolutely fishing.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know.”
His mouth curved.
“Do I?”
You looked away.
“Logan.”
“Cherry.”
“You cannot call me that casually.”
His eyebrows lifted,“Cherry?”
You glared.
He grinned,“Oh.” His hand slid to your waist, “That.”
“Yes. That.”
“Good girl?”
Your whole body betrayed you. Immediately.
He saw and the grin faded into something slower,“There it is.”
“You are evil.”
“No,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, “Just informed.”
“I hate informed men.”
“Since when?”
“Since now.”
“You want me to forget?”
You turned back to him.
He was teasing, but the question under it was real. Warm. Careful. Offering you the out before you had to ask for one.
Your expression softened despite yourself, “No.”
His hand moved gently over your back.
“No?”
“No.” You swallowed. “Just don’t be smug.”
“That might be hard.”
“Try.”
“For you?”
You nodded once.
His mouth brushed yours, “Okay.”
You did not believe him. Which was wise, because ten seconds later, when he handed you the water bottle from his nightstand and you took it automatically, he murmured, “Attagirl,” under his breath.
You stopped.
Slowly turned your head.
He was looking away.
Badly.
“Logan.”
“Hm?”
“I heard that.”
“Heard what?”
“You’re testing adjacent vocabulary.”
“I’m hydrating you.”
“You are conducting research.”
“Positive reinforcement,” he said solemnly.
You stared at him.
Then hit him in the chest with a pillow.
He laughed properly then, catching it before you could swing again, pulling you down with him until you were both lying half-sideways on the bed, your hair in his face, his sweatshirt still shoved up, the room warm and messy and ridiculous around you.
Downstairs, Dean yelled, “FOR THE LAST TIME, WHO TOOK MY CEREAL?”
You and Logan both went still.
Then Logan looked at you.
You looked back.
He whispered, “Wasn’t me.”
You whispered, “I think Allie took it for our dorm .”
He laughed again, quieter this time, and pulled you closer.
You tucked your face into his neck, still embarrassed, still warm, still buzzing faintly with the knowledge that something new had been found and carefully kept.
Logan’s hand moved slowly over your back.
A little while later, when you thought he might have fallen asleep, his voice came softly near your ear.
“You really were good, you know.”
Your heart squeezed and you lifted your head
He was watching you with tired, warm eyes.
“You can just say thank you,” you said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
A pause.
Then, because you were you, “I still think your terminology caused unnecessary complications.”
His mouth curved.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
“You’re going to do it again.”
“Probably.”
“At least be academically responsible.”
“What does that mean?”
“Controlled conditions. Clear variables. No surprise terminology.”
He brushed hair from your face, smiling like he could not help it.
“And if I say it accidentally?”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to document the effects.”
Very slowly, his expression changed, “Positive reinforcement?”
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.
W/C: 948
Word of the day (June 9, 2026) - Wharf
Notes: sequel to Good For Business.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
The air is dank. A storm had hit earlier, speeding the last vestiges of light into blackness and leaving behind a humidity that clings like spiderwebbing to the skin. Fog is slowly rolling in, swallowing the reflection of twinkling stars dancing on the water's surface. A cargo ship's horn sounds a mournful note in the distance.
On your orders, the wharf is deserted. The city glitters behind you, alive and restless, but here the world feels quiet…lonely. It's the perfect beginning for a noir-style thriller, ripe with low paranoia and fatalism.
It's why you chose it.
You don't bother to turn when the warped boards announce his arrival. As agreed, he's alone, though you know the rest of his team is nearby. Hidden in the shadows, the same as yours.
“I'm curious,” Steve says as he comes to stand beside you. “This place is pretty out in the open for a meeting spot.”
Murky water laps at the pilings, a soothing background to a tense situation. “Public places are safer.”
“For who?”
Your lips curve, but you don’t give in to it. “I haven’t decided yet.”
That earns a chuckle, and you finally look at him. Dressed in simple dark clothing with a baseball cap pulled low over his face, it's a poor attempt at anonymity for anyone who dared to look close enough.
“You look disappointed.”
Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”
“For any particular reason?” you tease.
He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”
You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.
You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”
“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”
“And the car?”
“Yours.”
The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.
The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.
You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.
“What’s the catch?”
“None.”
“For now,” he adds for you.
You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”
His brow lifts. “A house?”
“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”
“The other person?"
"Someone I trust with my life."
Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"
"Crime empire."
“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.
The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.
“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.
“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It was supposed to.”
“You practice these lines?”
“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”
This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.
His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.
“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.
He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”
The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.
“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."
"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.
"Unadvisable."
"Will you visit?"
The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."
The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.
“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.
He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.
The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.
His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.
My tag lists are open. If you want to join please complete this form. You don’t need a Google account to fill it in. Using the form makes it easier to track.
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open, a half-finished coffee on the windowsill, and three different tabs pulled up for the same article you had not actually read. Your notes were arranged in front of you with the kind of order that suggested motivation if no one looked too closely at the fact that you had spent the last ten minutes re-writing a heading because the first version looked “ unsupported.”
Your phone buzzed beside your knee.
Daddy
You answered immediately.
“Hi, Daddy”
“Hello, princess”
His voice was warm, smooth, and perfectly awake, which meant he had been up for hours. Your father did not believe in mornings as an inconvenience. He believed they were for calls, decisions, movement, and occasionally terrorising your family with brisk efficiency.
You smiled down at your notes, “Are you calling because you miss me or because someone has made a bad decision and you’re coming down to see me?”
“Both, potentially,”
“Oh no,”
“It’s not an emergency,”
“That is exactly what you say when Uncle Robert has purchased something with wheels,”
“He has not purchased anything with wheels,”
“Livestock?”
“Not this time,”
“Land?”
There was a pause. You sat up straighter.
“Daddy,”
“It’s not purchased,”
“That pause had major acreage in it,”
Your father laughed softly, and you could picture him too clearly: phone at his ear, probably standing by a window somewhere, one hand in the pocket of neatly pressed trousers, watch glinting at his wrist, the little crease between his brows that appeared when he was pretending something was simpler than it was.
“We’re coming down to Boston,” his voice crackled slightly over the speaker, “Your aunt wants to look at the harbour property before dinner, your uncle wants to discuss the education expansion with your grandparents, and your mother suggested I see you before the entire thing becomes impossible.”
You frowned, trying to track all the pieces in your mind, “Harbour property? Is this the townhouse or the office?”
“Townhouse tonight. Office tomorrow.”
“For the expansion?”
“For dinner after the expansion conversation,”
“Daddy, those are not the same thing,”
“No, but your uncle believes talking near water makes everyone more agreeable,”
“Is this the dairy side or the education side?”
“Both, unfortunately,”
“Those are never supposed to be in the same meeting,”
“Tell that to your uncle.”
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, “Should I call Nana?”
“Not unless you want her to join the meeting and frighten everyone.”
“Nana frightens people because she asks very reasonable follow-up questions.”
“Nana frightens people because she asks very reasonable follow-up questions while wearing pearls.”
You grinned, leaning back against the headboard. This strange old rhythm of your family was comfortable, discussed with the same tone other people used for dentist appointments and supermarket lists. You had grown up inside it, so the scale did not always occur to you until someone outside your family looked at you funny. Even then, you tended to assume the funny look was because you had explained it badly.
“So you’re here today?”
“By lunch, if your aunt stops asking whether the driver can take a prettier route,”
“Which aunt?”
“Claudia,”
“Oh. She does love an ornamental road,”
“She does.”
You reached for your coffee and took a sip. It had gone cold, but you drank it anyway because wasting coffee felt rude when it had committed no crime besides time.
“Lunch, then?” you asked.
“If you’re free.”
“I’m free.” You looked at your laptop, then closed it with immediate relief,“I was studying, but I can study later.”
“Were you studying or arranging your studying?”
You narrowed your eyes at the air, mouth pursed unhappily. He hummed knowingly
“That was a private distinction,” you murmured.
“I raised you.”
“That is not a legal argument.”
“It has held up so far.”
You smiled, then turned your phone speaker down slightly because the room suddenly felt too quiet around his voice, “Where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere you like.”
“That is too much pressure.”
“Somewhere your mother likes, then.”
“That is still pressure, but more expensive,”
A rustle sounded on his end, perhaps papers, perhaps the leather folio he carried everywhere.
Your father’s things always looked like they belonged to someone who had inherited them from another century and then treated them properly. His practical items were polished, calfskin wallets, old brass, fountain pens, quiet tailoring, initials stamped into corners. He believed that the price of something should pay for its value added to your person.
“Your mother mentioned something else,” he sounded conspiratory over the phone, probably smiling at your suspicious gaze.
Your hand stilled around the coffee cup, “What?”
“Garage Logan.”
You blinked. Then frowned.
“Mama calls him Garage Logan?”
“She said there was Logan from the garage and Logan from hockey.”
“They are the same Logan,”
“I gathered that eventually,”
You sat up, “Does Nana know?”
“About Logan?”
“About the naming issue.”
“I assume so.”
“I can call her.”
“Please don’t turn this into a conference.”
“It is important to classify people accurately.”
“Your mother said he fixed Cherry.”
“He did fix Cherry.”
“And helped with Winston.”
“Yes.”
“Useful boy.”
“Daddy.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, but you’re saying it like Mama.”
“Your mother is often right.”
You looked away from nothing in particular and pretended your face had not warmed at the simple phrase useful boy. It was ridiculous, because Logan was useful. That was factual. He had fixed things. He had driven things. He had held Winston properly and secured the crate without making you feel dramatic. There was nothing scandalous about usefulness.
“He’s very kind,” you corrected, then immediately wished you had said less because your father had the kind of silence that could take notes.
“Kind,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“And useful.”
“Daddy.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re categorising.”
“Listening with structure.”
You pressed your free hand to your forehead. “He works at the garage with his father and brother. He plays hockey. He helped me with Winston because I couldn’t fit him in the rental, and he has a truck. He is also friends with Hannah’s boyfriend, technically, and everyone sort of knows everyone, but he is very much his own person, not just Garage Logan.”
“Noted.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
You sighed, but you were smiling too.
“Bring Cherry to lunch,” your father casually added.
Your attention snapped back,“The car?”
“Yes. Your mother said she’s running beautifully.”
“She is.”
“I’d like to see.”
Your face softened at once, as it always did when someone in your family treated the Chevy like she deserved, “She’s better than when I got her.”
“Then I’d like to meet the boy who helped.”
You stopped.
“You want to meet Logan?”
“I want to thank him.”
“That sounds like a meeting.”
“It is.”
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“You’re being fatherly,”
“I am your father,”
“Yes, but you’re doing it with tone.”
“I have only one voice.”
“That is not true. You have your meeting voice, your Nana-is-right voice, your Mama-is-watching voice, your Uncle-Robert-is-about-to-do-something-expensive voice, and your fatherly voice.”
“And which one is this?”
“Fatherly with undertones.”
He laughed, warm and low, “Lunch first, princess. We’ll decide the rest after.”
Lunch turned into an afternoon.
That was your father’s fault.
He arrived at the restaurant just after noon in a pale blue linen shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, a navy jacket folded over one arm despite the heat, and a watch that looked simple only if one knew nothing about watches.
The signet ring on his right hand caught the light when he hugged you, the old family crest worn smooth by years of use, the tiny engraved animals around the shield softened into gold suggestions rather than sharp lines.
You had always liked that about old things. How they stopped announcing themselves once they had been touched enough.
Your father kissed your forehead before he sat down.
“You look tired.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a criticism.”
“It sounded like one from the skincare aisle.”
“You’re working too much.”
“I am working a reasonable amount.”
“You sent your mother a voice note at two in the morning about Winston’s emotional development.”
“That was unrelated to work.”
“It was related to sleep.”
You took a sip of water and ignored him elegantly.
He asked about school first. Then Hannah. Then Allie. Then whether Dean had recovered from whatever story your mother had apparently been told about cereal. You did not ask how Mama knew about Dean and cereal. There was no point. Mama had sources. Mama had always had sources.
Then, because your father was your father, he asked about Cherry.
You brightened immediately, “She’s wonderful. She sounds different now. Like she’s not arguing with herself.”
Your father’s eyes softened over the rim of his glass.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
“You sound like your grandfather.”
“About cars?”
“About beloved, impractical things.”
You considered this, “That’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
He asked about the work done on the car, and you explained as best you could, which was to say you remembered every emotional detail and approximately seventy percent of the mechanical ones.
Logan had explained the issue with such careful clarity, had shown you where the part sat, had used his hands to point out the problem, and unfortunately, somewhere between his thumb brushing over metal and his voice saying, see here, this was loose before, your memory had become less technical and more atmospheric.
Your father watched you while you spoke and you noticed too late.
“What?”
“You remember his explanation very vividly.”
“I remember the car vividly.”
“And his hands?”
Your fork stopped halfway to your plate.
“Daddy.”
“I’m asking.”
“No, you are not. You are doing fatherly undertones again.”
“Your mother said he has good hands.”
“Mama said that?”
“Not in those words.”
“What words?”
“She said you described them for eight minutes.”
You stared at him, your father looked calmly back, bringing his fork speared through salmon up to his mouth.
Your face warmed. “I was describing his work.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was.”
“I believe you.”
“You do not.”
“I believe that you believe you were describing his work.”
You covered your face with one hand.
Your father laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest. He had always been like this with you, warm, teasing, impossibly observant, never making your feelings feel dangerous, only visible and understood. That was perhaps why being seen by him was both comforting and unbearable.
After lunch, he insisted on seeing Cherry.
You drove him two streets over to where you had parked her carefully in the shade, and he walked around the Chevy with the grave attention of a man inspecting a horse before purchase.
It had been ten days since Winston.
Two weeks since the garage, since the rain, since Logan’s hands had disappeared beneath Cherry’s hood and come back marked with grease, since he had looked at your car like she was something worth listening to and not just something pretty enough to stare at.
Ten days was not long.
It was barely enough time for anything sensible to form. Barely enough time to justify the way your stomach had started recognising his name before your brain had a chance to be dignified about it.
But ten days was also enough time for habits to begin. A good morning text that was not every morning, which somehow made it more exciting when it did arrive. A picture of a ridiculous car in the garage calling it ‘attention seeking’. A photo you had sent back of Winston bleating at you angrily from outside the barn, the same one he had been to, calling him a ‘brat’. A late-night exchange about oil leaks that had somehow become a conversation about coffee, goats, and whether Dean Di Laurentis counted as an OSHA violation. So watching your father inspect the tangible evidence of Logan entering your life, felt like a spot shined on whatever you were becoming.
“She looks good.”
You leaned against the passenger door, delighted.
“Right?”
Your dress moved when you did, soft red fabric catching around your ankles before the breeze pulled it loose again. It was one of your pieces that you saved for these lunches with your dad, or a dinner with nana and grandpa when they flitted through the city. Fitted through the bodice, thin straps over bare shoulders, a skirt that tied at your hip and made every step seem slightly more dramatic than you had intended. Pretty first and practical only under duress.
Your father noticed the way you stood beside the cherry, one hand resting on her side mirror, the other hooked around the strap of your woven bag, thin silver watch glinting at him, nails polished the same glossy cherry red as the car.
“She was pulling slightly before.”
“You noticed?”
“I’m your father.”
“That does not automatically give you diagnostic power.”
“No, but paying attention does.”
You smiled and looked down at the hood, tapping one nail lightly against the mirror before catching yourself. The tiny sound gave you away more than your face did. You were not nervous exactly. You were simply aware, suddenly and annoyingly, that your father was standing beside the car Logan had fixed, discussing the boy you had not yet properly let into this part of your life.
“Logan said she just needed someone to listen before it became a bigger thing.”
Your father glanced at you.
Then at the car.
Then back at you.
“I’d like to meet him.”
You exhaled through your nose, “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep avoiding it.”
“I am not avoiding it. I am processing the administrative burden.”
“Text him.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“He might be working.”
“Then he can say no.”
You looked down at your phone, then up at your father.
He lifted his brows slightly.
You unlocked it.
Your phone suddenly felt too smooth in your hand. You shifted your weight, the dress sliding against your legs, and plucked once at the strap of your bag before forcing your fingers still.
“Do not look at me like that,” you huffed.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You are looking at me like you taught me to ride a bike.”
“I did teach you to ride a bike.”
“And I fell into the hydrangeas.”
“You were very brave.”
“I was concussed by shrubbery.”
“You were not concussed.”
“You cannot diagnose that either.”
“No,” he said mildly, “But I paid attention.”
You looked back down at your phone, cheeks warmer than you were willing to acknowledge, and opened Logan’s contact.
cherry 🍒
hi mechanic!! very normal update, Daddy would like to meet you because Mama told him about Garage Logan and also because Cherry is running beautifully.
not scary.
fatherly, but not scary.
mostly.
The reply took nearly five minutes, which was long enough for you to decide Logan had thrown his phone into a river, moved countries, or shown the message to Dean.
Mechanic 🔧
Daddy?
Your face went hot immediately.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
cherry 🍒
my father
Mechanic 🔧
I figured
cherry 🍒
do not be strange.
Mechanic 🔧
Wasn’t planning on it cherry
you paused over text.
Mechanic 🔧
I’m at the garage until seven. I can come by after?
You looked up, almost relieved, “He can come by after work.”
Your father nodded like he had expected this. “Good.”
“And then you can thank him, and everything will be very normal.”
“Of course.”
“You’re saying of course in a way that suggests you have follow-up questions.”
“I always have follow-up questions.”
“That is exactly what I feared.”
You had assumed the afternoon would end after that. Lunch, car inspection, Logan scheduled, fatherly curiosity temporarily contained.
Instead, your father looked at his watch and said, “We have time.”
“For what?”
“Shopping.”
“Daddy, I can hang out with you without shopping.”
“I know, princess.” He placed one hand lightly at your back as you both started down the pavement, “But I like spending money.”
“That is not a virtue.”
“No, but it is one of my more harmless flaws.”
You gave him a look.
He smiled.
The shopping was not extravagant by his standards, which was to say it would have been alarming if you stopped to translate it into anyone else’s.
Your father never rushed through money. He believed impulse was vulgar but pleasure was not.
So he let you wander, listened when you held up two cardigans and explained that one was “academically sweet” while the other was “emotionally brunch,” and only asked practical questions when you reached for shoes that looked like they might injure you out of principle.
The gingham dress was in the third shop.
Red and white. Fitted bodice, flared skirt, white lace trim at the hem and neckline, sweet enough to look like something from an old picnic photograph and short enough that you paused in the changing room mirror with a hand hovering over the skirt.
You stepped out slowly.
Your father looked up from his phone.
His expression softened immediately.
“Oh, darling.”
You looked down at yourself, fingers brushing the lace at the hem, “Is it too much?”
“No.”
“It’s very red.”
“You’ve always looked good in red.”
You turned slightly, watching the skirt move, “Nana sent me a pair of red shoes from the attic. The patent ones? With the little strap.”
“Your grandmother has never thrown away a shoe in her life.”
“She says it’s archival instinct.”
“Your grandmother calls many things instinct.”
“And Granddad says they’re from the nineties.”
“Your grandfather thinks every red shoe is from the nineties.”
“Nana said that too,” you looked back at the mirror, smiling despite yourself, “Do you think the shoes would go?”
“With the dress?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Not too much?”
“You’ve never been too much.”
The sentence landed quietly, he said it casually, watching the way you turned in the mirror and looked back at his phone, most likely mid-email.
Your chest warmed with it, a familiar sort of safety you had never thought to name until you saw how differently others moved through the world.
Your father had never looked at a dress and seen danger. Never treated your prettiness like a liability, never made you feel that men’s reactions were your responsibility to pre-manage. He complimented you the same way he complimented a well-grown rose or a good piece of craftsmanship; with pleasure, attention, and no ownership over what came next.
You smiled at him in the mirror.
“I’ll get it.”
“I gathered.”
“You say that like I’m predictable.”
“You are.”
By 7:30, the sun was sinking into that golden late-evening haze that made every parked car look nostalgic and every pavement crack look cinematic. Logan arrived in his truck looking like he had come directly from work, because he had.
He parked behind Cherry and got out slowly, eyes moving first to the Chevy, then to your father, then to you. His hair was slightly damp at the temples, as if he had washed his face before leaving the garage, and his shirt was clean enough that you knew he had changed, there was still a faint shadow of grease near one wrist.
Your stomach did something ridiculous.
“Hi,” you said brightly, because brightness was easier than whatever else wanted to happen in your chest.
“Hey.”
“John Logan,” your father said, extending his hand.
Logan stepped forward and shook it properly, “Sir.”
“Thank you for taking care of my daughter’s car.”
Logan did not glance at you like he wanted help and you liked that more than you should have.
“She brought it in quickly,” he nodded, “made it easier.”
You looked at him swiftly.
Your father’s gaze moved to you for half a second, then back to Logan.
“And Winston,” your father added.
Logan’s mouth twitched, “Winston made himself known.”
“He does that.”
“He tried to eat my hoodie.”
“He liked you, then.”
“That what that means?”
“In Winston’s language, yes.”
You stood beside them, feeling oddly warm all over. There was something strange about watching your worlds touch. Your father, polished and composed in the evening light, linen shirt still uncreased despite the day, signet ring at his hand. Logan, taller, younger, work-worn, steady in a way that was difficult to miss. Both of them talking about your car and your goat like those things mattered because they mattered to you.
Your father walked around Cherry again, asking Logan questions that began politely and became more technical with each answer. Logan explained what had been wrong, what had been replaced, what still needed monitoring. He did not make the repair sound more impressive than it was and admitted when something was a guess and when something was certain. His words were clear, hands moving once or twice to indicate parts under the hood, then stopping as if he remembered he was not at work.
“She talks about this car like it’s alive,” your father said eventually.
Logan glanced at you. You were touching Cherry’s hood with the tips of your fingers, as if checking whether she approved of the conversation.
“Old cars have moods,” Logan shrugged.
Your father watched him, “Do they?”
“Some do.”
“And this one?”
Logan looked at Cherry the Chevy, then back at you for the briefest second.
“This one likes attention.”
Your breath caught, but you rushed to look down at the hood and pretend you were assessing paint quality.
After a few more questions, your father looked toward the distance, thoughtful. “I’d like to see where the work was done.”
Logan paused.
“My dad and brother are probably closing up last-minute repairs tonight,” he replied carefully. “I can show you properly tomorrow, if that works?”
Your father nodded, “Tomorrow, then.”
“Ten-thirty,” Logan clarified, "I'm on my break then."
“Good. We’ll come at ten-thirty.”
The next morning was hot before ten.
The pavement shimmered slightly and turned every bit of metal around the garage into something that looked like it might burn if touched too quickly. The air smelled like oil, rubber, warm asphalt, and the faint sweetness of the coffee you had insisted on bringing because showing up empty-handed felt wrong after asking to inspect someone’s workplace.
Your father’s driver dropped you both near the garage entrance at 10:27.
Not a taxi, though technically you had called it a cab because that was easier.
It was black, polished, quiet, and unmarked except for the smallest gold crest embossed near the rear door. Not flashy, that would've been worse. Your grandmother insisted on keeping the family cars quiet, saying that unless you were a travelling circus- you should not show up in a clown car.
Logan noticed, his gaze flicked to the door when you pulled in. Then to your father’s leather folio when he stepped out, where the same crest sat in one corner, pressed almost flat from age. Then, briefly, to the side of your tote.
You pretended not to notice that he noticed, because explaining family crests outside a working garage felt like the kind of thing that made people look at you funny.
You were wearing the dress that you bought yesterday, paired with the shoes.
The red patent shoes from Nana and Granddad’s attic, polished until they gleamed, with little straps across the foot and white lace socks ruffled above your ankles.
The dress flared when you stepped out of the car, lace brushing high over your thighs, the gingham bright and almost too cheerful against the industrial heat of the garage.
You loved the dress. Loved the shoes. Loved that Nana had wrapped them in tissue paper and said, “They were waiting for you, darling,” like shoes had destiny. Loved that Granddad had insisted they were from the nineties and Nana had corrected him twice. Loved that your father had looked at the whole outfit that morning and smiled like you were eight again and wearing something you wanted everyone to admire.
You stepped onto the pavement and lifted the skirt slightly with both hands, turning toward your father.
“Do they go?”
Your father’s face softened. “You look beautiful, darling.”
“Not too much?”
“You’ve never been too much.”
You smiled so quickly it was almost childish, then did a little twirl because sometimes joy had to move through the body or it became uncomfortable sitting still.
The skirt lifted with the motion, lace flicking around your thighs, shoes clicking lightly on the pavement as you turned.
Across the garage, Logan stopped functioning, you could see the exact second his brain missed a step.
He was near the open hood of a car, talking to another man who had to be his brother, only in a white vest darkened slightly at the collar with sweat, work pants, and a rag tucked into his back pocket.
His forearms were marked with grease. There was a smear of oil near his wrist and another faint one at his jaw, like he had pushed hair out of his face without thinking. He was nodding at something his brother said, one hand braced on the edge of the car, when you waved.
His eyes found you, and your smile faltered by half a breath
Because Logan in his truck was one thing. Logan in the hockey house was another. Logan holding Winston had been dangerous in an entirely different category. But Logan at the garage, sweaty and focused and marked by the work of his own hands, was something your brain had not prepared a polite file for.
He lifted one hand, indicating one second, then said something to his brother and turned toward the sink near the side wall to wash his hands.
You watched the movement of his shoulders.
Then realised what you were doing and looked very intently at your father’s cuff.
Daddy was looking at you. You smiled too brightly in response.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not a nothing face.”
“It’s a father face.”
“That’s worse.”
“It usually is.”
Logan came over drying his hands on a clean towel, though the oil at his wrist had not fully gone. Up close, the vest situation was worse. His arms were tanned from work and summer, his hair slightly messy from heat, his expression composed in a way that made you suspect he had built it deliberately in the thirty seconds it took to cross the garage.
“Morning,” he greeted the both of you, but was glancing down at you more often than not.
“Hi,” you replied.
Your voice somehow sounded normal.
His eyes flicked to your shoes. Then back to your face.
“Nice shoes.”
You brightened immediately because shoes were safer than arms.
“Nana and Granddad found them in the attic. Well, Nana found them. Granddad supervised and misremembered the decade.”
His mouth curved and he nodded thoughtfully, “They go with the dress.”
“That’s what I said.”
Your father extended his hand before you could continue explaining the complete genealogy of the shoes. Logan shook it with his now-clean hand.
“Good to see you again, sir.”
“And you.”
Logan nodded toward the garage, “We can take a look around. My dad’s out on a parts run, but my brother’s here if you need anything.”
Your father glanced toward the man by the car, who lifted a hand politely before disappearing back under the hood.
“I won’t take long.”
That was a lie.
A man lie. A lie told by someone who believed thirty questions counted as taking an interest rather than taking long.
Logan seemed to know it and he handled it beautifully.
He walked your father through the garage with calm competence, showing him the bay where Cherry had been worked on, the parts replaced, the old piece still set aside because you had asked to see it and then, apparently, forgotten to take it.
Your father asked about suppliers, older Chevy parts, lead times, whether anything had been difficult to source, whether the issue might recur in extreme weather. Logan answered everything he could. When he did not know, he said so.
Your father liked that. He liked people who knew the limits of their own expertise. It made the things they did know more trustworthy.
At one point, Daddy turned to you, “You said you heard the sound while driving.”
You nodded, “Yes. It was like… not a rattle exactly. More like Cherry was clearing her throat with resentment.”
Logan looked down for one second.
You frowned at him. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are internally.”
“I’m not,” He looked at your father, “It was good that she brought her in.”
You went still.
Logan continued, easy and matter-of-fact. “It was a good catch. Saved it from becoming a bigger job.”
Your father’s expression shifted.
“Oh,” you said softly, because the praise had hit you harder than it should have.
Logan glanced at you, “It did.”
You looked away, suddenly very interested in the floor.
Your father looked between you both and said nothing.
They moved to Cherry next, your father had sent someone to drive her up to the garage this morning. Logan opened her hood, and your father leaned in slightly, looking with the respect of a man who had been taught that machines, animals, and old houses all punished arrogance eventually. Logan pointed out the replaced part, the tightened connection, the areas to monitor. You stood beside them, trying to focus on the car and not on the fact that Logan’s shoulder kept brushing yours whenever he shifted.
It was not intentional. Probably.
The garage was warm. The air between you warmer.
You were very aware of the white lace at the hem of your dress.
Very aware of oil on his forearm.
Very aware that your father was standing three feet away, hearing every breath you tried to keep normal.
“Cherry seems pleased,” your father said after a while.
You looked at him, “The car or me?”
“Both.”
Logan’s mouth twitched.
You crossed your arms, “She is pleased.”
“She likes attention,” Logan nodded solemnly.
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being true.”
You looked at him. He looked back.
Your father closed Cherry’s hood. And you both snapped away.
After the garage tour, your father thanked Logan with a seriousness that made the whole space feel slightly more formal. He shook his hand again.
“I appreciate you taking care of her.”
The her could have meant the car or you; the ambiguity was not lost on anyone.
Logan’s expression stayed steady, “Anytime, sir.”
Daddy looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded.
“Steady boy,” he said quietly when Logan stepped away to check something his brother had called about.
You turned to your father immediately, “Daddy.”
“That is not criticism.”
“It sounded like classification.”
“Sometimes classification is useful.”
“You and Mama are becoming very organised about him.”
“Your mother has opinions.”
“Mama has opinions about everyone.” You looked toward Logan, who was speaking with his brother near the other car, one hand on his hip, head tilted slightly as he listened.
Steady boy
Your heart did something you did not have time to inspect.
The car pulled up outside the garage a few minutes later, you blinked, not too sure where it had disappeared to in the first place.
Logan glanced back, though he tried not to make it obvious, gaze flicking to the crest as if the details were not adding up in a corner of his mind.
Your father checked his phone.
“I need to go.”
“Already?”
“Your uncle is unsupervised near a drinks menu.”
You laughed.
He placed one hand at the side of your face and kissed your forehead, “Love you, princess. I need to go, otherwise he's going to drink his way through Boston.”
“I’ll join him next time,” you said brightly, “I beat his beer record last month. I have to protect my title.”
Your father closed his eyes for half a second.
Logan, from several feet away, went very still.
“Lord help me,” Daddy murmured. Then, with another kiss to your forehead, “Love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
He looked over at Logan one last time, gave him a polite nod, and left. The car door closed behind him. The crest flashed once in the sun. Then he was gone.
For a moment, the garage felt too quiet.
Or maybe you were only aware of Logan again.
He came back toward you slowly, rag in one hand, expression carefully neutral in a way that meant it was not neutral at all.
“What?” you asked.
“Beer record?”
You lifted your chin, “My uncle talks a big game.”
“And you beat him?”
“Last month.”
“At what?”
“Beer.”
“I got that part.”
“You asked.”
“You don’t look like someone who breaks beer records.”
You frowned, “What does someone who breaks beer records look like?”
“Not like that.”
You looked down at your dress, lace socks, red shoes.
Then back up.
“This outfit is not drinking-specific.”
“No?”
“No. This is a morning garage visit with Daddy specific.”
He smirked at the word.
Daddy.
You did not notice it at first. Why would you? It was what you called him. It had been what you called him since you could speak. It was as neutral to you as Mama, Nana, Granddad. The family words were not performance. People belonged somewhere, and their names showed it.
Logan, however, was looking at you like he had noticed something else.
Your eyes narrowed, “What?”
He wiped the rag over his wrist, but the oil smear remained stubbornly near the inside of his forearm,“So you call him Daddy all the time?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
You blinked, “That is his name to me.”
“Right.”
“Why are you saying right like that?”
“Like what?” His mouth twitched.
You stared at him.
Then it clicked, “Oh.”
His smile widened by half a fraction.
“Do not,” you said immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face?”
“Yes. Your face made an insinuation.”
“That’s impressive.”
“It was inappropriate.”
“Was it?”
“We were talking about my father.”
“You were.”
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You are impossible.”
He smiled properly then, and the sight of it made your stomach flip so unexpectedly that you had to look down and busy yourself with the strap of your shoe.
The oil on his wrist caught your eye again.
“You missed a spot.”
He glanced down, “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“It’s fine.”
“It is not fine. You will touch something and transfer it.”
“To what?”
“My dress has white lace.”
His gaze dropped to your dress, to the white lace at the neckline before he dragged it carefully back to your face, and your breath caught. What excuse could you use for bringing his laser-sharp attention there?
He noticed that too, of course.
“Textile preservation,” you said quickly.
“Right,”
“Don’t right me,”
“Wouldn’t dream of it Cherry.”
You took the clean edge of the rag from his hand before you could talk yourself out of it, stepping closer to wipe the oil from the inside of his wrist. It was a practical action. A sensible action. Preventative. You were saving lace, fabric, maybe upholstery. A person could care about fabric without it meaning anything.
Unfortunately, his skin was warm under your fingers.
Warmer than you expected, though that was ridiculous because it was hot in the garage, and he had been working, and everything around you smelled like oil and rubber and summer asphalt.
His wrist flexed slightly when you touched him, tendons shifting beneath your fingertips, and the rag slipped awkwardly between your fingers so that you were no longer only touching cloth to skin.
Your knuckles brushed his forearm and Logan went still.
You kept your attention very carefully on the tiny smear of oil.
“You always this helpful?” he asked.
“I learned from you,”
“That’s dangerous,”
“Being helpful?”
“Learning from me.”
You glanced up. That was a mistake.
He was looking at you already, and the garage seemed, all at once, much smaller than it had when your father was there. There were still noises around you - a tool clinking somewhere, his brother calling into the office, a car passing outside - but they felt further away now, softened around the edges.
You looked back down at his wrist.
The oil was almost gone.
Laughably gone, actually.
A shadow more than a stain.
His hand shifted, turning slightly beneath yours until your fingers slid from his wrist to the inside of his forearm. Your thumb paused there, caught against warm skin and the faint drag of muscle beneath it.
You should have moved. You did not.
Logan leaned closer.
The space between you changed temperature. Enough that his shadow fell over the red gingham of your dress, over the white lace at your hem, over your hand still curled too carefully around his arm.
He smelled like soap under the garage, clean cotton beneath oil and heat and metal.
And you knew, suddenly, that he could smell you too.
Cherries.
Not the sharp fake kind- it was warmer than that, softer, clinging to your throat and your hair and the little pulse point at your wrist because you had sprayed perfume there that morning without thinking it would matter.
His gaze flicked down.
Your grip tightened around his forearm before you realised you had done it- the rag had stopped moving completely.
Logan looked at your hand, then at your face.
“There,” you said, though the word came out too soft to sound useful.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Still dirty?”
You looked down. The oil was gone, entirely.
Your fingers were still wrapped around his arm, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
You let go too quickly, which was worse, because it made the thing obvious.
Logan caught your wrist before you could retreat fully.
Not hard.
Just his fingers around you, warm and steady, the same hand that had tugged your stool closer to his at the kitchen island when Dean and Allie came bursting through the door mid-argument, loud and laughing and half on top of each other, moving you out of the chaos without even noticing he had; the same hand that had handed you his socks during movie night because he had noticed you curling your bare feet beneath you, then laughed when you tucked them under his hoodie and made him jump; the same hand that had adjusted the strap of your bag when it slipped down your shoulder outside the diner, plucked once at the bow in your hair just to watch you swat him away, and set a coffee beside your notes during a study session without asking how you took it because, somehow, he already knew.
The same hand that had been moving through your days in quiet, ordinary ways, fixing small discomforts before they became complaints, making room before you had to ask for it, touching the edges of your life with a carefulness- made you feel stranger than carelessness ever had.
“Cherry.”
“What?”
“You keep getting close and acting surprised when I notice.”
Your breath stopped, just for a second, then you recovered. Badly.
“I was cleaning you.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You were visibly dirty.”
“Sure.”
“And I am wearing white lace.”
“So this is about the dress?”
“This is about prevention.”
His thumb moved once against the inside of your wrist.
You looked at him, and something in his expression had changed. Still teasing, but there was something steadier beneath it. Something warmer. Something that made you wonder, for one startling second, if the flush high on his cheekbones had less to do with the heat outside and more to do with the fact that your hand had just been wrapped around his forearm for no practical reason whatsoever.
Your eyes moved over his face.
The slight pink at his cheek. The oil near his jaw. The way his mouth was almost smiling but not quite. The way he was looking at you as if he knew exactly what you were doing before you did.
“Nice dress,” he said, low enough that it felt like he had not meant to say it out loud.
You stilled, “What?”
His gaze dropped again, briefly, to the red gingham and white lace, then lifted back to your face.
“Your dress,” he clarified, “It’s nice.”
You blinked.
It was a stupid compliment.
Because your father had called you beautiful in it that morning and it had made you feel loved, and Logan had called it nice under his breath in a garage with oil on his arm and heat on his face, and that made you feel seen in an entirely different, much less manageable way.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Brilliant
His thumb brushed your pulse again. Your fingers curled helplessly around the rag.
Honesty.
You were good at honesty when surprised. Terrible at managing it. You could not lie quickly enough to make yourself safe. That was the problem. That had always been the problem. When Marian assumed Logan was your boyfriend, you could correct her, but you could not make the idea sound ridiculous because it did not feel ridiculous. When your father called him steady, you could object to the classification, but not the truth. When Logan held your wrist and said you kept getting close, you could explain lace and oil and textile preservation all you liked, but neither of you believed that was the whole of it.
“I don’t always know I’m doing it,” you said finally.
His expression softened.
“The getting close part?”
You nodded once. His grip loosened, though he did not let go completely.
“I know.”
You swallowed, “And sometimes I do know.”
Logan went still.
You looked down at his hand around your wrist, then back at him,“I think.”
His mouth parted slightly, but before he could answer, a loud clang came from the next bay, followed by his brother swearing.
Both of you startled.
Logan let go first.
His brother’s voice carried across the garage, “I’m fine!”
Logan closed his eyes briefly.
You pressed your lips together, looking beyond his shoulder into the bay where he was rubbing his forearm, grumbling to himself.
“Is he?”
“Probably.”
“Should you check?”
“He yelled, so he’s alive.”
“That is not a full medical assessment.”
“It works.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, and just like that, the air loosened enough for breathing to become possible again.
Logan looked at you for another second, then glanced toward the office.
“You coming Friday?”
You blinked, “To what?”
“We have a game.” He tilted his head at you, almost surprised you hadn’t already been invited.
“Oh.”
The word came out smaller than you expected. Hannah and Allie had told you about it a few nights ago, passing around a bottle of wine that Mama had sent over along with a few face masks.
Perhaps that was why you had not remembered it properly. Or perhaps you had remembered, and simply had not let yourself think of it as Logan’s game until Logan was the one asking.
His gaze returned to yours.
“Am I invited?” you asked.
“Yeah.” His mouth curved faintly, “Of course, Cherry.”
Your face warmed.
A hockey game. His hockey game. Not Hannah’s and Allie’s boyfriends’ game. Not a group thing by default. Logan had invited you.
“Yes,” you said too quickly, then corrected yourself into normalcy, “I mean, if that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I can come with Hannah and Allie.”
“Yeah.”
“I should wear blue then.”
The thought caught, and you immediately launched into the safer territory of clothes, colour, and female diplomacy.
“Hannah said Briar blue is technically the correct colour, but Allie said red is more emotionally honest for me, and I said school spirit matters, but so does personal branding. Then Hannah said I could wear blue with red lipstick, which is probably the compromise civilization was built on, but Allie said if I wear blue and red I’ll look like I’m trying to represent both the hockey team and my own internal monarchy, which I said was unfair but not fully inaccurate.”
Logan was watching you.
You realised, halfway through a thought about whether navy counted as blue or merely a social compromise, that he still had your wrist. You had not noticed him take it again.
His fingers were loose around you now, thumb resting over your pulse, warm and steady against the point where your body was giving you away. He was looking down at your hand like he could feel the quick little beat beneath his touch.
You stopped talking.
Because he lifted your wrist slightly.
His eyes flicked to yours once, giving you a chance to pull away, and when you did not, he lowered his mouth to the inside of your wrist.
He did not kiss you. Not properly. That would have been easier to understand; and currently, nothing was easy to understand.
His lips only ghosted over the skin there, warm breath first, then the almost-touch of his mouth, so light it could have been an accident if either of you were still pretending to be stupid.
Every thought in your head disappeared. Completely.
The blue. The red. Allie’s extremely accurate but unnecessary commentary.
Gone.
Logan’s mouth hovered for one second against your pulse.
Then he let your wrist go.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“What?” he asked, voice too calm.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“I was talking.”
“I know.”
“You interrupted me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Your mouth opened.
Then closed.
Because he had not kissed you. Not enough for accusation. Not enough for evidence. Nothing you could hold up in court, which felt deeply unfair because your entire nervous system had already entered a guilty plea.
His mouth curved. The smallest, most dangerous smile.
“You were saying something about monarchy.”
You looked away immediately.
“I have decided not to continue.”
“That’s a shame.”
“It was a very good point.”
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t even know what the point was.”
“No,” he said, eyes still on you. “But I liked listening to you make it.”
Your mouth closed again. That sentence was close to becoming something dangerous.
You looked down at your shoes, then at the garage floor, then anywhere except him.
“I’ll come to the game. As a friend?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
The word sat between you.
Friend.
The category that had worked for Winston, for coffee, for cars, for latches, for oil, for everything that was easier than naming the slow, warm shift happening underneath.
Logan looked at you for a second too long.
“If that’s what we’re calling it.”
Your breath caught.
Somewhere behind him, his brother swore at an engine. The heat shimmered over the pavement outside. Cherry sat beside you both, quiet and red and repaired, as if she had known from the start that every part of this was leading somewhere neither of you had fully agreed to go yet.
You looked down at your dress.
Then back at him.
“I’ll wear blue.”
His eyes flicked over the red gingham before he could stop himself.
“Yeah?”
“For Briar.”
“Right.”
“Obviously.”
His mouth curved.
“Obviously.”
You smiled then, small and helpless
Logan looked at you like he had noticed that too.
By the time you left the garage, the sun was higher, the day hotter, and your wrist still felt warm where his mouth had almost been.
Summary: Steve needs a favor and the last person he should trust is the only person who can help.
Warnings/Genres/Troupes: mob boss reader, flirting.
W/C: 984
Word of the day (June 8, 2026) - Mafia
Notes: Set between Civil War and Infinity War.
Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch
Graphics: title card design @deanwinchesterswitch
Master Lists: Word Of The Day- June 2026 // Main
Reports filter in every few seconds now. The Falcon and his flying contraption are in the adjacent building, no doubt scanning images through the walls. The Winter Soldier is on the roof of the opposite building, with a clear line of sight despite the rain painting streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows.
You don’t blame them. They’re being smart. Respectful, even, because they take the threat you pose seriously.
Though not officially closed, patrons and most of the restaurant's staff were made to leave a half hour ago.
Lights cast a warm glow against the dark wood surroundings, and music still plays softly through hidden speakers. A busser remains, moving between tables, clearing up after a busy dinner service. The chef waits in the kitchen for your order.
You're armed, as are the men in your employ located throughout the space. You doubt the need for violence will arise, but it pays to be cautious.
The swish of the door opening announces his arrival, and he patiently allows himself to be patted down before being escorted to your table.
You don’t bother to stand when your guest arrives at your table. Money talks, but wealth whispers, and power, real power, doesn’t grovel for attention.
Steve Rogers. The golden boy. Except these days, the shine has diminished. Exhaustion caresses his demeanor like a second skin—drooped shoulders, dulled blue irises, and the beard that has replaced the clean-cut image plastered across newspapers suggests sleep has become a luxury rather than a necessity. You're surprised he showed up.
Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”
“Traffic.”
Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.
Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“I’m observing.”
“That’s a polite way to put it.”
His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”
You softly laugh, “There it is.”
“What?”
“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”
Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”
“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”
Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”
Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”
Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.
“Expecting poison?”
“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”
“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"
"Steve."
The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”
If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.
“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”
“What stories?”
He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.
“About your intelligence.”
"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.
“Your ruthlessness.”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Your beauty.”
The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.
Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.
Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”
Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”
It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”
“Good thing you’re not your father.”
You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.
Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.
Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.
“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”
Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”
“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”
Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”
“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”
“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”
You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”
The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.
For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.
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