Description: Life at college was supposed to be about making memories... late night parties, games, cheap beer, and maybe even a few bad decisions. Determined to break out of your shell after a promise to your friend, you throw yourself into the Briar social scene. The last thing you expect is to cross paths with Briar U's most notorious playboy. Charming, cocky, and impossible to ignore, Dean Di Laurentis might just turn your college experience upside down... and make you question everything you thought you wanted.
Tags/ Warnings: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, and parties.
Note: I have randomly been feeling really inspired to write, and it probably has something to do with all of the fresh inspo feeding me lately... This accidentally got way longer than I expected, so I will most likely be writing a part two to this in the next few days. If there's anything specific you'd like to see in the next part, please let me know! Thanks for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated! <3
Tv shows didn't always accurately portray the college experience. That was clear to you as you pushed through the crowd, the bass from the speakers making every cell in your body vibrate.
If college parties were supposed to be so fun, why were you so ready to leave?
Your shoes pinched, your head was fuzzy, and your "go-getter" attitude was fading fast. Allie had conveniently failed to mention this part of a college party. The suffocating heat, the inability to walk anywhere without fighting through a crowd, and the desperate need for a moment to yourself.
She had drug you along to the Briar University men's hockey party, the team celebrating a big win against Harvard. Your friend Hannah had just begun officially dating Garrett Graham, the starting forward/center for the team. You had inadvertently begun hanging out with some of his teammates in your desire to spend time with Hannah, and honestly they weren't too bad. Most of them made you feel like you fit right in, so coming to the party hadn't been that dreadful for you.
Finally spotting a break in the sea of people, you slipped into the kitchen with a sigh of relief. The music dulled just enough to ease the pounding in your head, and the pressure of the crowd eased off of your shoulders.
You steeled in determination. You had one mission and one mission only.
Find a glass.
Find the sink.
Water.
A movie-like "target acquired" sounded in your mind when your gaze fell on what you had been searching for. A tall, fat stack of red solo cups.
Your feet pulled you in the direction of the stack, nothing else more important than one of those perfect red cups finding its way into your outstretched hand.
You faintly registered your toes bumping into what must be discarded cans and bottles, your mind solely set on the mission at hand.
Reaching for a cup at the top of the stack, your heart nearly lurched out of your chest when another, much larger, hand got to it first.
Your movements froze as you watched the cup ascend from the counter, making it's way toward an even larger body. Turning your head towards your opponent, you were immediately transported out of mission mode.
Standing right next to you, the most attractive man you'd seen all night- scratch that- maybe even all year, let his eyes fall upon yours. You found yourself caught in the gaze of the greenest eyes you'd ever seen.
"Looks like we've got the same idea. Shots?"
It took you a second to realize he was speaking, his body turning casually to lean against the counter next to you. Finally finding your voice, you redirected your focus back to the stack of cups.
"Oh- no. Just water." you let out a chuckle to accommodate for the awkwardness, finally bringing a cup into your own grasp. Realizing the sink was on the other side of your opponent, you turned back to face him.
His eyes were unmistakably taking you in, so you figured it was only fair to return the favor. Messy blonde hair had been pushed back from his forehead, looking as though he'd spent the night running a hand through it. A worn Briar t-shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders, the sleeves a little tight around his biceps, hinting at an athletic build.
You suddenly felt self-conscious of your own appearance, hair most likely a mess and posture rigid at the intensity of the night.
Before you could fall down that rabbit hole, a smirk took over the stranger's face before he was speaking again. "I don't think we've met. I'm Dean."
His hand reached out between you, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it. His grip was warm and firm, and the simple touch sent an embarrassing flutter through your stomach. Heat bloomed across your cheeks as he held your gaze.
Oh.
Right. He was waiting for your name.
You managed to stammer it out before looking back up at him, only to find the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smile.
Before you could react, his hand was leaving your outstretched one to pluck the empty cup out of your other, his gaze determined as he placed both yours and his onto the counter before him.
His gaze swung back to you over his shoulder, assessing your reaction as his hand reached out to grab a bottle of liquor tucked further onto the counter. You went to protest, but decided against it when you realized you were indeed at a party, and your buzz had pretty much faded.
Deciding you'd need some liquid courage to continue this interaction, you let a small smile grace your features before you managed a quick nod at his silent question.
You weren't even sure what kind of liquor he had chosen, too enamored by watching his hands work the cap off of the bottle and pour a practiced amount into each cup.
You gasped when he quickly spun back around, your cup now hovering between you, outstretched in his steady grasp.
Grabbing the cup from him, you pretended not to notice the tingle that shot up your arm as your fingers grazed. Looking down into your cup, you felt a cringe already forming at the clear liquid sloshing in the bottom. You let your concerned gaze fall on him once again when you decided to ask, "Isn't there like... a routine for this?"
Dean chuckled at your question, bringing his gaze to your own. He lifted his cup, bringing it to tap against your own. His face turned into one of determination as he licked his lips and began explaining.
"Something like that." he muttered, a smirk forming on the corner of his mouth. "After we cheers, we tap the cup on the counter. Then you can take the shot."
You felt yourself nodding along to his explanation, palm suddenly becoming slick at the fear of the burn you were about to experience.
"Well, then. Cheers... I guess." you muttered, a slight shrug in your shoulders.
Your cups clinked again before you followed his movements and tapped your own on the counter, simultaneously with his.
Bringing the plastic to your lips, you scrunched your eyes and downed the liquid, the taste immediately taking over your senses.
Letting the cup fall back to your front, you shook your head as a grimace took over your features, tongue sticking out and one eye closing at the sour taste.
If you weren't already feeling the buzz travel through your body, you probably would've been embarrassed by the look on your face.
You glanced a look out of the corner of your eye at Dean, his expression mirroring your own before blowing out a breath and licking his lips once again.
"Wow. That was rough." he chuckled, reaching to grab the cup from your hand once again.
You almost paled when you thought he was pouring another, but relaxed when his body led to the sink instead. He rinsed out both cups before filling them each with water.
Once he came back to stand in front of you, you didn't give him the chance to reach his hand out before you were taking the cup from his grasp and taking a slow sip.
Dean just chuckled before doing the same, his eyes staying locked with yours over the rim of his cup.
You were momentarily pulled from his gaze at a loud cheer coming from outside the kitchen, reality reminding you to the fact that you were here with Allie and had been in this kitchen for a while.
You looked back to Dean with a small smile on your face, your hands coming to cradle the cup carefully in front of you. "Well, thank you for the shot, but I should probably go find my friend."
Dean nodded, his gaze dropping to your grip on the cup before coming back up to your face. "What's your friends name?"
You tucked a hair behind your ear before responding, a quick "Allie" tumbling past your lips. You realized he might actually know her, and added on "We're good friends with Hannah, Garrett's girlfriend."
He let out a strange "huh" before tilting his head and mumbling "I know Allie. I just want to know why I've never seen you before."
You let out a small giggle as your gaze fell back to your cup before raising your head once again. "I don't really go to parties."
Just as he went to respond, your name echoed off the walls of the kitchen. Allie had burst through the doorway, drink in hand as she shot her gaze accusingly between you and Dean.
Looking at it from an outside perspective, you were standing pretty close.
She quickly marched over to you, huffing in frustration at something you weren't entirely sure of. She latched onto your arm and began dragging you back towards the party, leaving you no time to react as you fell into step behind her, the drink sloshing in your cup.
Glancing over your shoulder, you took one last look at Dean, his hand running through his hair and eyes following your every step. He smirked as he let a small "Bye, y/n" fall past his lips.
You gave him a sympathetic smile before you rounded the doorway, the sight of him replaced by the crowd of people as you kept moving.
Kicking your shoes off at the door, you let Allie's grumbling voice fade as you made your way into the kitchen.
Deciding she wasn't done with you, she followed you into the room, throwing herself down into one of your barstools before continuing on.
"When I said you needed to get out there, I didn't mean to find the biggest man-whore on campus. You're lucky I saved you."
Ruffling through the freezer, you pulled out a bag of pizza rolls and let them fall on the counter with a thud. Turning back to your friend, you let your hands fall on the counter before sarcastically responding, "Jesus. I wasn't having sex with him Allie! We were just talking."
She rolled her eyes in annoyance before shooting back a quick "Talking turns into sex, y/n. And that's the last thing you need from Dean Di Laurentis."
You could hear the sneer in her voice at his name, turning back to place a handful of the pizza rolls on in the microwave.
Setting the timer, you shot a small "Message received Allie. No more Dean." over your shoulder at your friend.
You heard her deflate at your words, her body spinning in the stool before she stood. "Thank you. Now I'm going to crash on the couch. Goodnight."
At the fade of her footsteps, you let your eyes watch the ticking clock on the microwave, your fingers tapping along on the countertop.
Strangely, you felt a little disappointed at the thought of 'No more Dean'.
Almost a week had passed when you decided to meet up with Hannah and the boys at Malone's. You had been growing more comfortable with the group since Hannah began dating Garrett, and decided one night of getting out of your dorm wouldn't hurt.
Classes had been a nightmare this week, the next assignments falling into your lap before you could even finish the first ones. You were getting a drink, and that was decided.
Pushing through the glass door, you smiled at the familiar bell ringing at your entrance. Wow, the place was packed. Your eyes surveyed the booths before falling on Hannah, her arm quickly raising to wave you over.
You let an appreciative look fall over your face at her actions, your feet beginning their path to her table. Halfway there, you almost paused.
Across the booth from Hannah, with his back turned to you, sat an unmistakable head of blonde hair. Not letting yourself falter, you continued walking, your mind filling with regret at your choice of a Briar baby-tee and worn out jeans.
Finally making it to the table, you immediately slid into your seat as Hannah pushed her way further into the booth. Her arms came to wrap around you, the scent of her cherry perfume wrapping you in comfort. She lowly murmured "Someone was excited you were coming." before shooting her gaze towards Dean, bringing a shocked expression to your face. She just raised her eyebrows suggestively before giggling, letting her hands fall back to her drink.
Once she released you, you let your eyes fall on each other face at the table in silent greeting, your nerves building as you made your way to the final one.
Locking eyes with Dean, his green eyes captured yours from the first glance. You knew he had watched you sit down, the tingle on your profile alerting you to his stare.
Before either of you could say anything, the server approached right next to you, moving your attention to her introduction. She asked for your drink order and, feeling bold, you rambled off your choice of cocktail before she nodded and disappeared.
"Long week?" Hannah asked, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder with a friendly laugh.
You dramatically dropped your head into your hands, a muffled "Don't even get me started." coming from you before conversation picked back up again.
You found yourself following along with Garrett's dramatic story re-telling, a small smile on your lips as everyone laughed. Once again, the server approached your table, sliding your drink to you. You gave her a small 'thank you' before taking a heavy sip.
About to turn back to the conversation, you froze when you felt something graze against your foot. Shooting your gaze to the culprit, you gulped when you found Dean looking intently at you, leaned on his arms halfway across the table.
Feeling bold, you mirrored his movements, crossing your arms the same way as him before leaning in. You thought you saw his gaze following your mouth as you closed the distance.
His signature smirk took over his face as he took you in, and your heart stalled at the small "Hi" he sent your way.
Hoping he couldn't see the flush taking over your face, you mumbled back an even smaller "Hi" before bringing your lip between your teeth.
It felt like minutes had passed before he spoke again, the seconds filled with each of you sizing the other up.
Dean took a sip of his beer before he whispered, his tone playfully secretive, "Allie doesn't like me talking to you."
You giggled at that, your eyes dramatically falling around the booth before landing back on his. Leaning in even closer, you let your voice drop to match his. "Well, it's a good thing Allie isn't here, isn't it?"
His eyes lit up at your response, his tongue shooting out to moisten his lips before he leaned back in the booth once again. "Let's play a game."
You should've known better than to partake in any game Dean had come up with. You were on your third drink, your mind becoming delightfully fuzzy as the night went on.
It was some twisted form of 21 questions, but instead of just asking and answering like normal people, each time one of you answered the other had to take a sip. The rules led to some pretty deep questions, and you were feeling confident enough to give honest responses knowing it lead to him tipping back his bottle.
Your cheeks were hurting from how much you were smiling, Dean taking the time to animatedly dive into your answers. When you admitted you had a hidden tattoo, that remained the subject of conversation for a while.
"You can't tell me that and not tell me what it is. Now I'm intrigued." he had said, his eyes narrowed from across the table. You only shrugged and pointed at his drink smugly. "That wasn't the question. Drink, Di Laurentis."
By drink four and the 21st question, you were on top of the world. The others had joined in on the game, the rules now accommodating for everyone at the table. Now each player got to choose who they asked about, and well... the drinking basically turned into everyone sipping after every question.
You didn't fail to notice how Dean had continued only asking you questions, though.
The game had come to an end and everyone was happily chatting, laughs buzzing around the booth. Your mind kept drifting to the blonde across from you, curious why Allie had made such a point to keep you away from him. He seemed great, even if you weren't considering a hook-up. Sadly, that was not the case.
Your stomach fluttered at the thought, the drinks coursing straight to your core with the images flashing through your mind. Clenching your thighs together, you almost shot out of the booth when you felt another brush against your leg.
Dean was looking at you again, a tilt to his head and a suggestive look on his face. Had you said something out loud?
Just as you went to defend yourself, he cut you off, rising from the booth and offering you his hand. "Get a drink with me?"
Letting your fingers fall into his grasp, you rose out of the booth. You didn't realize the place had become even more crowded, your anxiety rising at the crowd you were about to have to navigate... while heavily tipsy.
Before you could begin to panic, you felt Dean tug on your hand, bringing himself in front of you to push through the crowd. His hand never left yours, his head turning every few seconds to make sure you were still behind him.
Once you made it to the bar, your cheeks heated instantly when he placed himself behind you, his arms falling on either side of your waist to grip the bar counter. He communicated something with the bartender over your head, the only thing you picked up being the bartender's quick nod and shuffle to the other end of the bar.
Turning around to question him, you gasped when you realized how close he was to you, his chest practically pressed against your own. Dean didn't falter, instead it felt like he moved even closer, his gaze finding your own.
"What did you get us?" you almost yelled, the band's volume causing you to strain your voice. Dean angled his ear towards your mouth before smirking. He simply shrugged, a teasing grin spreading across his face.
Your breath caught as he wrapped himself around you, your face coming close to the juncture of his neck. Your brain short-circuited before he leaned back again, two small shot glasses in his hand. The scent of his cologne lingered, a dark woodsy scent you knew you'd be dreaming about.
Lifting one of the glasses to you, you gave him a suspicious look. He just laughed before leaning into your ear, slightly yelling "It's our tradition, baby."
You just scoffed before grabbing the glass from his grip, holding it up between you before a moment of confidence overtook you. Wrapping your hand around the back of his neck, you brought his ear down to your mouth before questioning "Any special routines this time?"
Letting yourself fall back onto your heels, you took in the look on his face. His eyes had darkened, and his gaze was jumping between your own. After a second of hesitation, he snapped back to reality, bringing his forearm to wrap around your own. He leaned down closer and signaled to the shot in your hand. You only nodded before bringing it to your lips, him doing the same.
You realized as soon as the fluid hit your tongue that he had ordered the same shot you took at the party, the burn hitting instantly. Downing it quickly, you felt your body take a screenshot at the intensity of it. Scrunching your face, you vigorously shook your head, your hair flying all around you.
Dean laughed from somewhere in front of you, your closed eyes keeping his location unknown. You felt his hand come down onto your hair to smooth it as his chest vibrated against your own.
Letting your eyes fall back open with a scarred look on your face, you muttered "That was almost worse than last time."
Dean just laughed again before licking his lips, your eyes locking in on the movement of his tongue. He started yelling something back to you, but the fog in your brain made his voice blend in with your surroundings. Gaze still locked on his mouth, he brought his hand up to your chin and raised your head to look at him properly.
A blush took over your face as you realized he was waiting for a response, but all you could do was look at him in confusion. He brought his mouth toward your ear, his hand falling from the bar top to land on your hip. Your breathing stuttered as he lowly teased "You're staring."
Letting your gaze meet his once again, a flushed "Sorry" fell past your lips as he took you in. His eyes had darkened again.
Before you could ask him to repeat himself, his mouth fell to your ear for the second time in a minute, heat rushing straight to your core at his words.
"I really like it when you look at me."
Flopping back into the booth, you turned to find Hannah giving you a questioning look, her eyes shooting from yours to Dean and back again. Before you could manage a word, Dean shouting from beside the booth brought your attention elsewhere.
"Beau! What's up man?" he yelled, quickly taking a few steps away to greet what you assumed was his friend. Hannah didn't let you forget about her, her hand pulling you back to the silent question.
You managed a small shrug before a simple "He's cute." fell from your lips. She just laughed and wrapped her arm around you, dropping a friendly peck to the side of your head.
Getting back into conversation with the table, you slowly realized how late it was. Your eyes began drooping before yawns started forcing their way past your lips every few seconds. Turning to Hannah, you leaned in to ask her if she had plans for a ride home.
"I'm staying at Garrett's but we can drop you off at your dorm. We were just about to leave anyways." she assured, her hand falling to Garrett's to signal it was time to go.
Dean hadn't returned to the booth by the time the three of you were standing to head out, your eyes discretely searching the crowd for him. Your heart fell to your stomach when you finally spotted his blonde hair, but not in a good way.
Tucked under his arm in a booth across the bar sat a beautiful blonde girl, her hand on his chest as she whispered something into his ear. Your eyes burned at the sight, choosing to quickly look away before he caught you staring.
Gulping down the last sip of your drink, Hannah grabbed your arm to lead you to the door, the fluttery feeling you'd had all night staying behind at the booth as the bell dinged above your head.
Texting Hannah you'd made it in the dorm safe, you left your phone on the nightstand charging before heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed. You stared at yourself as you brushed your teeth, your eyes losing focus as you took in the events of the night.
He likes it when you look at him? Well he seemed to like it when that other girl did, too. Allie was right. It took Dean all of five minutes to forget your presence, while you were itching for his return like a desperate schoolgirl. Letting out a sigh you rinsed your mouth before heading back to your room. Chucking on whatever oversized shirt you could find you flopped into bed.
Staring at the ceiling contemplating for a while, you felt your eyes burn at the sting of rejection you were feeling. You were not going to cry over Dean Di Laurentis, no matter how bad you wanted to.
Just as your blinks were getting longer, a harsh buzz on your nightstand almost sent you flying out of bed. Grabbing your phone and squinting at the brightness, you felt your brow furrow at the unsaved number on your phone.
The message read "No goodbye?" before a second one rolled in, a simple "It's Dean" popping up beneath the first.
Feeling petty, you typed and sent a quick "You seemed busy"
You unconsciously began biting at your nails, watching as his typing bubble appeared and disappeared repeatedly. Realizing you were craving his attention again, you let out a frustrated huff before turning your phone completely off and slamming it onto the nightstand.
Sure, you'd had boyfriends while in college, but none of them had made you feel the way Dean already has. The relationships were very vanilla, and none of them lasted more than a handful of months. Dean had made you feel more alive in a week than the last guy had in sixteen of them. Maybe that's just apart of the playboy charm Allie had warned you about.
When you awoke the next day, you had no new messages waiting for you. He hadn't even had the decency to respond. Deciding you were over it, you closed out of the messenger app before deciding to see if Hannah wanted to grab breakfast. You were definitely feeling the after effects of the alcohol you'd consumed last night.
You and Hannah ended up talking for a good 15 minutes, you her and Garrett (from the background of the call) had decided to eat at Waffle House in an hour.
Throwing your hair in a clip, brushing your teeth, pulling on a sweat set, and plopping the largest pair of sunglasses you owned over your eyes... you were ready to face the day.
Garrett's jeep was parked in front of the dorm when you stepped out, both of them greeting you as you slid into the backseat. Garrett quickly whipped out of the lot before you were on your way, your stomach growling at the thought of food.
You had just placed your order when Garrett's voice caught your attention. "What happened with Dean last night?" tumbling past his lips as he glanced at you. Your mouth went dry at the question, a quick "What do you mean?" passed back to him before you were chugging your water.
"He came home not long after us saying something about 'fucking everything up' before he started begging us all for your number. I finally gave it to him to get him to calm down, but when I did he just stormed up to his room and shut the door. I was just curious if something happened between you two."
You let your mind wander at his admission, the gears turning in your head at what you were hearing. Finally clearing your throat, you thought about your response before carefully stating "Nothing really. I thought we were kind of hitting things off but when we went to leave Malone's I saw him cuddled up with some girl across the room. I figured it was just the 'playboy' Dean finally making his appearance."
You added on an unbothered shrug, hoping that what you'd just said hadn't exposed how hurt you were by the situation. Thankfully, with the monstrous glasses on your face the couple couldn't see the dampness in your eyes.
Hannah let out a "huh" at your explanation, her fingers curling the straw wrapper around repeatedly before she was adding her own opinion into the conversation.
"That's really shocking to me because he hasn't stopped talking about you all week. It took me three days to realize every time he said y/n he was talking about you and not a different person. I don't know how it started but he definitely seemed enamored by you. I'm surprised he would be willing to ruin it like that."
Twisting your fingers under the table, you let out a soft sigh before bringing an end to the conversation, deciding to brush off the intensity with a snap back to reality.
"Well, it's not like we were dating or anything so I can't really be upset. I should've known what I was getting myself into."
Hannah just gave you an apologetic look before changing the topic, bringing up something Logan had said at the bar last night instead.
Your mind raced as you scarfed down your food, confusion and agitation blending in your chest. You would definitely be over analyzing this conversation later.
Flipping through Netflix documentaries, your mind was still racing hours after breakfast. You had decided to have a chill day, wrapped in a matching pj set and face mask applied as you lounged on the couch. You had come home and immediately exfoliated all of your regrets in the shower before deciding to have a full spa moment.
You had just pressed play on a submarine documentary when there was a knock at the door. Realizing it was Saturday and your roommates were all out on the town, you huffed before marching toward the door, expecting the visitor to be your RA or another girl down the hall.
Your heart stopped beating when you swung open the door to find none other than Dean Di Laurentis on the other side.
To anyone who has watched off campus and then watched the Jimmy Fallon show where the actors tried to explain the term puck bunny as a funny term that women fans use to describe themselves as hockey fans, that is not a term of endearment!!
Puck Bunny is used as a derogative term in place of saying that women only watch hockey for the guys and not for the actual sport (I’m not saying you can’t do that but the term is often used by men to try and say women aren’t actually fans of hockey and don’t actually care about the sport).
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader
WC: ~ 7.5k
A/N: never done a concept like this before, so let me know if you liked it!
off campus masterlist
UNKNOWN NUMBER
3:47 PM
Unknown: If you tell Coach I missed practice, I'll deny everything.
***
You stared at your phone, eyebrows furrowed as you reread the message. The number wasn't saved in your contacts, and you definitely didn't know anyone on a sports team, at least not well enough to be covering for their missed practices.
You: Who is this?
The response came almost immediately.
Unknown: Very funny, Tucker. I'm serious. I overslept and if Coach finds out I missed another conditioning session, he'll bench me for the next game.
You: I think you have the wrong number. I'm not Tucker.
There was a longer pause this time. You watched the three dots appear and disappear twice before the next message came through.
Unknown: Shit. Sorry. Wrong number.
You should have left it there. A simple "no problem" and moved on with your day. But something about the panic in those first messages made you smile, and before you could think better of it, your fingers were typing.
You: So did Tucker tell Coach?
Unknown: What?
You: About you missing practice. Did he snitch?
Unknown: I don't know. I haven't actually texted him yet. I texted you instead, apparently.
You: Sounds like you're having a great day.
Unknown: The best. Overslept, missed practice, texted a complete stranger my problems. Really killing it today.
You: At least you're honest about it. Most people would've just stopped responding after realizing their mistake.
Unknown: Yeah, well. I'm full of surprises.
You: Clearly. So are you going to text the real Tucker now, or are you just going to let fate decide your athletic future?
Unknown: I like how you assume I'm athletic. What if I'm on the chess team?
You: Are you on the chess team?
Unknown: No. Hockey. But I could've been a chess prodigy for all you know.
You: A chess prodigy who oversleeps and panics about missed practice. Sure.
Unknown: You're kind of a smartass, you know that?
You: I've been told. So, hockey player whose name I don't know, are you going to fix your Tucker situation or not?
Unknown: Dean. My name's Dean. And yeah, I probably should. Thanks for... I don't know, entertaining my wrong number panic?
You: Anytime, Dean. Good luck with your coach.
Dean: Thanks, mystery person.
You smiled at your phone, expecting that to be the end of it. A weird, random interaction that you'd maybe tell your roommate about later as a funny story. You set your phone down and went back to your laptop, trying to refocus on the essay that was due in two days.
Your phone buzzed five minutes later.
Dean: So I texted Tucker. He said he won't tell, but now I owe him my notes from History.
You bit your lip, fighting back a grin.
You: Sounds like a fair trade. Your athletic career for some history notes.
Dean: When you put it like that, it sounds dramatic.
You: It IS dramatic. This is your whole future we're talking about.
Dean: You're right. I should probably be more grateful. Tucker is a real one.
You: Unlike you, who texts random people in a panic.
Dean: In my defense, his number and yours are really similar. Just one digit off.
You: That's actually kind of crazy. What are the odds?
Dean: I don't know, but apparently high enough for me to bother you twice in one day.
You: I don't mind. My essay is boring anyway.
Dean: What's it about?
And just like that, you were talking. Really talking. He told you about his hockey team, how he'd been playing since he was a kid, how the pressure from his coach sometimes made him want to quit but the game itself never did. You told him about your major, your roommate who never cleaned her dishes, the coffee shop on campus that made the best iced matcha.
The conversation flowed easily, naturally, like you'd known each other for years instead of hours. When you finally looked up from your phone, it was dark outside and your essay remained exactly as unfinished as it had been before Dean's first text.
You: I should probably actually work on this essay.
Dean: Yeah, I should probably do something productive too. Like sleep, since that's apparently a problem for me.
You: Revolutionary concept.
Dean: I'm full of them. Hey, is it weird if I text you again? Like, not by accident this time?
Your heart did a small, unexpected flip.
You: Not weird. I'd like that.
Dean: Cool. Night, mystery person.
You: Night, Dean.
You saved his number in your phone, hesitating over what name to put. Finally, you just typed "Dean (wrong number)" and smiled at how ridiculous it looked.
***
Dean (wrong number)
12:23 AM
Dean: You still up?
It had been two days since the initial wrong number text, and you'd been exchanging messages on and off throughout. Nothing deep, just random observations, funny things that happened during the day, the occasional meme. But this was the first time he'd texted this late.
You: Yeah, can't sleep. You?
Dean: Same. Just got back from a party. It was loud and boring.
You: Sounds like a great combination.
Dean: The worst. I left early. Everyone was talking about people I don't care about.
You: Why'd you go then?
Dean: My friends dragged me. Said I've been "off" lately.
You: Have you been?
There was a pause. You watched the dots appear and disappear several times.
Dean: Maybe. I don't know. I've just been thinking about stuff.
You: Deep, philosophical stuff or regular stuff?
Dean: Regular stuff, I guess. Like what I'm doing with my life. Whether hockey is really what I want or just what everyone expects from me. Whether the people I hang out with actually know me or just know the version of me I show them.
You: That's actually pretty deep for 12 AM on a Friday.
Dean: Sorry. That was heavy. Forget I said anything.
You: No, don't apologize. I get it. I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Like they're performing a version of themselves.
Dean: Yeah?
You: Yeah. It's easier to show people what they expect than to risk showing them who you really are and having them not like it.
Dean: Exactly. Fuck, that's exactly it.
You: So who are you really, Dean?
Dean: I don't know if I know anymore. Who are you?
You: Also not sure. But I think I'm someone who's weirdly comfortable talking to a stranger at midnight about existential stuff.
Dean: Same. This is weird, right? That we're doing this?
You: Probably. But I like it.
Dean: Me too.
You talked until almost 2 AM that night. About everything and nothing. He told you about the pressure from his family to maintain his hockey scholarship, about how sometimes he felt like he was living someone else's life. You told him about your own fears: that you'd chosen the wrong major, that you were drifting through college without any real direction, that you felt like everyone else had it figured out except you.
It was the kind of conversation you'd never had with anyone, not even your closest friends. There was something about the anonymity of it, the fact that you'd probably never meet, that made it safe to be honest.
Dean: Can I ask you something?
You: Sure.
Dean: Why haven't you asked what I look like? Or for my Instagram or whatever?
You thought about it.
You: I don't know. I guess I like this. Just talking without all the other stuff getting in the way.
Dean: Yeah. Me too. It's nice not being judged on anything except what I say.
You: Exactly.
Dean: Okay, mystery person. I really should sleep now. Early practice tomorrow.
You: Try not to oversleep this time.
Dean: No promises. Night.
You: Night.
You fell asleep with your phone on your pillow, a smile on your face.
***
Three Weeks Later
Dean (wrong number)
2:34 PM
Dean: EMERGENCY
You: What happened??
Dean: I just realized I've been walking around campus for the last hour with my fly down.
You: Oh my god.
Dean: I had a presentation in my Business class. I stood in front of 30 people. My fly was down the ENTIRE TIME.
You: I'm so sorry but I'm laughing so hard right now.
Dean: I'm glad my humiliation amuses you.
You: Did anyone say anything?
Dean: No! That's the worst part! They all just let me stand there like an idiot!
You: Maybe they didn't notice?
Dean: My boxers are bright red. They noticed.
You actually laughed out loud in the middle of the library, earning annoyed looks from the people around you.
You: I'm never letting you live this down.
Dean: I expect nothing less from you.
You: How did you even realize?
Dean: I went to the bathroom and caught my reflection. Wanted to die immediately.
You: At least it's a good story?
Dean: I hate you.
You: No you don't.
Dean: No, I don't.
***
That night, he sent you a meme about embarrassing moments, and you sent him one back. It became a thing between you — trading memes, inside jokes building on inside jokes. He started sending you songs he thought you'd like, and you did the same. You learned he was obsessed with 90s hip-hop and had a secret love for sad indie music. He learned you had terrible taste in reality TV and an encyclopedic knowledge of true crime podcasts.
You: If you were a serial killer, what would your signature be?
Dean: What kind of question is that?
You: A valid one. Everyone should know their hypothetical serial killer signature.
Dean: I feel like this says something concerning about you.
You: You're avoiding the question.
Dean: Fine. I'd leave a hockey puck at every crime scene.
You: That's so boring! You'd get caught immediately!
Dean: Okay, what would yours be?
You: I'd leave a note with a terrible pun related to how they died.
Dean: That's actually psychotic.
You: Thank you.
Dean: That wasn't a compliment!
You: Agree to disagree.
The conversations came easier than breathing. You texted throughout the day: during boring classes, between activities, late at night when neither of you could sleep. Your friends started commenting on how much you were on your phone, but you brushed them off. How could you explain that you were falling for someone you'd never met? Someone whose face you'd never seen, whose voice you'd never heard?
Because that's what was happening. You were falling.
***
Dean's POV
"Dude, are you even listening?"
Dean looked up from his phone to find Garrett staring at him with an annoyed expression. They were at Malone's, their usual spot, surrounded by the rest of the guys — Tucker, Logan, and Beau — and Dean had completely zoned out of the conversation.
"Sorry, what?"
"I said, are you coming to the Sigma party this weekend?" Garrett repeated, exchanging a look with Tucker.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Dean's phone buzzed and he immediately looked down at it.
Mystery person: I just saw a dog wearing a sweater that said "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy" and I thought of you.
Dean: Why would that make you think of me??
Mystery person: Because you're both in denial about your true nature.
Dean: I'm not fluffy!
Mystery person: Sure, hockey player. Sure.
He was smiling at his phone like an idiot, completely forgetting where he was until Tucker snatched the phone out of his hands.
"Hey!"
"Who are you texting?" Tucker demanded, holding the phone out of Dean's reach. "You've been glued to that thing for weeks."
"None of your business. Give it back."
"Is it a girl?" Logan leaned in, interested now. "Are you seeing someone?"
"No. I'm not seeing anyone. Now give me my phone."
Tucker scrolled up, reading the messages, and his eyebrows shot up. "Dude, you have like hundreds of messages with this person. Who is 'mystery person'?"
Dean felt his face heat up as he grabbed his phone back. "Just someone I've been talking to. It's not a big deal."
"Not a big deal?" Garrett laughed. "Bro, you've turned down six different girls in the past two weeks. You never turn anyone down."
"Maybe I'm just not interested anymore."
"In anyone? Or just anyone who isn't ‘mystery person’?" Beau made air quotes around the name, grinning.
Dean shoved his phone in his pocket, trying to ignore the knowing looks his friends were giving him. "Can we drop this?"
"No way," Logan said. "This is too good. Dean Di Laurentis, campus heartbreaker, is hung up on someone. What does she look like? Do you have pictures?"
"I don't... we haven't exchanged pictures."
The table went silent. Then Garrett burst out laughing.
"You're kidding. You're falling for someone and you don't even know what they look like?"
"I'm not falling for anyone," Dean protested, but even he could hear how weak it sounded.
"Dude," Tucker said, his expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "You're on your phone constantly. You smile at it like an idiot. You've stopped hooking up with random girls. You're literally exhibiting every sign of being whipped, and you've never even met this person?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" Logan challenged.
Dean didn't have an answer. What was it like? How could he explain that talking to you felt like coming home? That you were the first person he thought about when he woke up and the last person he talked to before bed? That he'd rather text you than do anything else, including things he used to love?
"It's just easy," he finally said. "Talking to them. I don't have to be anyone except myself."
His friends exchanged another look, this one softer.
"That's great, man," Tucker said. "Really. But don't you think you should, like, meet them? Figure out who they are?"
"We've talked about it. We both like it this way. No pressure, no expectations. Just... talking."
"But what if you're building up this person in your head and they're nothing like you imagine?" Garrett asked.
Dean had thought about that. Late at night, when he couldn't sleep, he'd wondered what you looked like. Whether you'd be disappointed if you met him. Whether the connection you had through text would translate to real life.
But then you'd send him a message — something funny or thoughtful or completely random — and none of that mattered. Because whoever you were, whatever you looked like, you got him in a way no one else did.
"Then I guess I'll deal with that if it happens," Dean said.
Logan shook his head, but he was smiling. "You're in deep, man."
Yeah. He really was.
***
Two Months Later
Dean (wrong number)
1:47 AM
Dean: You awake?
Mystery person: Yeah. Can't sleep. You okay?
Dean: Had a shit game tonight. Missed the game-winning shot. Cost us the championship.
Mystery person: I'm sorry. That sucks.
Dean: Everyone's pissed at me. Coach barely looked at me after. My dad called and I couldn't even answer because I knew he'd be disappointed.
Mystery person: Dean, it's one game. One shot. That doesn't define you.
Dean: Feels like it does. Hockey is supposed to be my thing, you know? The one thing I'm actually good at. And I fucked it up.
Mystery person: You're good at lots of things. You're smart, you're funny, you're kind even when you pretend not to be. Hockey is something you do, not who you are.
Dean: How do you always know what to say?
Mystery person: I don't. I just say what I think, and hope it helps.
Dean: It does. You have no idea how much it does.
Mystery person: For what it's worth, I think you're pretty amazing. Championship or not.
Dean stared at that message for a long time, something warm and terrifying spreading through his chest.
Dean: I really want to meet you.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Dean's heart was pounding.
Mystery person: I want to meet you too. But I'm scared.
Dean: Of what?
Mystery person: That it won't be the same in person. That we've built this up too much. That you'll be disappointed.
Dean: I could never be disappointed. Not in you.
Mystery person: You don't know that.
Dean: Yes, I do. I know you. Maybe not what you look like or what your real name is, but I know YOU. The important parts.
Mystery person: The important parts?
Dean: Yeah. I know you're the kind of person who sends me stupid memes when I'm having a bad day. Who listens to me complain about my dad without judging me. Who makes me think about things differently. Who makes me want to be better. That's what matters.
Mystery person: You're going to make me cry at 2 AM.
Dean: Sorry.
Mystery person: Don't be. They're good tears.
Dean: So... maybe someday? We could meet?
Mystery person: Maybe someday.
Dean: I can live with maybe.
Mystery person: Me too. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.
Dean: How do you know?
Mystery person: Because you'll wake up and I'll send you a good morning text with a terrible joke, and you'll groan but you'll smile. And then you'll go to practice and you'll nail every shot because you're talented and one bad game doesn't change that. And then you'll text me about your day and I'll tell you about mine and everything will be okay.
Dean: You really believe that?
Mystery person: I really do.
Dean: Okay. Goodnight, mystery person.
Mystery person: Goodnight, Dean.
He fell asleep with his phone in his hand, feeling lighter than he had in hours.
***
Y/n's POV - Three Months In
"Earth to Y/N!"
You jumped, nearly dropping your phone. Your roommate, Sophie, was standing in front of you with her hands on her hips.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to go to that party at the hockey house this weekend. But you were too busy smiling at your phone like a crazy person." Sophie sat down next to you on the couch. "Okay, spill. Who is he?"
"What makes you think it's a he?"
"Because you've been glued to your phone for months, you're always smiling, and you turned down that cute guy from your Psych class. So, who is he?"
You bit your lip. You hadn't told anyone about Dean. It felt too private, too special to share.
"Just someone I've been talking to."
"Talking to or talking to?" Sophie waggled her eyebrows.
"Just talking. We're friends."
"Friends who text 24/7 and make you smile like that? Sure."
You sighed. "It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"We've never met. We don't even know what each other looks like."
Sophie's eyes widened. "Wait, is this like a catfish situation? Y/N, please tell me you're being careful —"
"It's not like that," you interrupted. "It started as a wrong number thing and we just... kept talking. And now it's been months and I know it sounds crazy but I think I'm falling for him."
"You think or you know?"
"I know," you admitted quietly. "I'm falling for someone I've never met and it's terrifying."
Sophie was quiet for a moment, then she pulled you into a hug. "That's not crazy. It's actually kind of beautiful. But also yes, terrifying. Have you guys talked about meeting?"
"Sort of. We both want to but we're both scared."
"Of what?"
"That it won't be the same. That we've built each other up too much in our heads. That the real versions of us won't match the text versions."
"Or," Sophie said gently, "it could be even better. You won't know until you try."
"I know. I just... I don't want to lose this. What we have right now is perfect."
"Nothing stays perfect forever, babe. Things have to grow and change. That's not a bad thing."
You knew she was right. But knowing something and being ready to act on it were two different things.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean (wrong number): I just saw someone trip over literally nothing and I had to pretend I wasn't laughing. Thought you should know.
You smiled despite yourself.
You: That's amazing. Did they notice you laughing?
Dean: Oh, they definitely noticed. I'm a terrible person.
You: The worst.
Dean: Hey, are you doing anything this weekend?
Your heart skipped.
You: Not really. Why?
Dean: There's this party. At my place, actually. My friends are making me go. I was thinking... maybe you could come too? We don't have to meet or anything. But we'd be in the same place. I don't know, maybe that's weird.
You: Which party?
Dean: The one at the hockey house. Saturday night. You know where it is?
You froze. Sophie was literally just asking if you wanted to go to that exact party.
You: Yeah, I know where it is. My roommate was just asking if I wanted to go.
Dean: Is that a weird coincidence or fate?
You: I don't believe in fate.
Dean: Me neither. But I'm starting to reconsider.
You: So we'd both be there. At the same party. And we still wouldn't know who each other is.
Dean: Yeah. Crazy, right?
You: Completely insane.
Dean: So you'll come?
You looked at Sophie, who was watching you with curious eyes.
You: Yeah. I'll come.
Dean: Cool. Maybe we'll walk right past each other and never know.
You: Or maybe we'll figure it out.
Dean: Maybe. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?
You: I guess we'll find out.
***
The Party - Dean's POV
Dean had changed his shirt three times before Garrett physically dragged him out of his room.
"Dude, you look fine. Why are you so nervous? This is our house. You throw parties here all the time."
"I'm not nervous," Dean lied.
"Right. And I'm the Pope."
The truth was, Dean was terrified. You were going to be at this party. Somewhere in his own house, you'd be there, and he'd have no idea who you were. He'd spent the last three days trying to figure out if there was some way to identify you — some detail you'd mentioned that would give you away — but you'd both been so careful not to reveal too much.
He knew you were in college, probably at the same one as him based on the timing of your messages and the places you mentioned. He knew you liked iced matcha and true crime podcasts. He knew you had a roommate named Sophie who never did her dishes.
But he didn't know your name. Didn't know what you looked like. Didn't know if you'd be wearing red or blue or black.
The house was already packed when the party started. Music pounded through the walls, and people were everywhere: dancing, drinking, talking in clusters. Dean scanned the crowd automatically, even though he had no idea what he was looking for.
"You looking for someone?" Tucker asked, appearing at his elbow with a beer.
"No. Maybe. I don't know."
"Is mystery person here?"
Dean had eventually told his friends the full story, enduring endless teasing in the process. But they'd been surprisingly supportive, even if they thought he was crazy.
"Yeah. Somewhere."
"That's both romantic and completely insane," Logan said. "What's your plan? Just wander around hoping you magically recognize each other?"
"I don't have a plan."
"Clearly."
Dean pulled out his phone.
Dean: I'm here. You?
Mystery person: Yeah. This is surreal.
Dean: Tell me about it. I keep looking at everyone wondering if it's you.
Mystery person: Same. I've made eye contact with like five different people and panicked each time.
Dean: What if we walk right past each other?
Mystery person: What if we already have?
Dean looked around the room again, his heart racing. You could be anyone. The girl by the kitchen laughing with her friends. The one dancing in the living room. The one standing alone by the window, looking at her phone.
His phone buzzed.
Mystery person: I'm scared.
Dean: Me too.
Mystery person: What if this ruins everything?
Dean: What if it makes everything better?
Mystery person: Always the optimist.
Dean: One of us has to be.
"Dean! Come do a shot!" Beau called from the kitchen.
He ignored them, too focused on his phone.
Mystery person: Are you having fun at least?
Dean: Not really. I'm too busy trying to figure out which person you are.
Mystery person: Any guesses?
Dean: Everyone and no one.
Mystery person: Helpful.
Dean: You're not making this easier either.
Mystery person: I know. I'm sorry. I just... I don't want to lose you.
Dean's chest tightened.
Dean: You won't. No matter what happens tonight, you won't lose me.
Mystery person: Promise?
Dean: Promise.
***
Y/n's POV
You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.
Sophie had abandoned you twenty minutes ago to dance with some guy from her Chemistry class, leaving you standing awkwardly by the drinks table, clutching your phone like a lifeline.
Dean was here. Somewhere in this house, breathing the same air, drinking the same cheap beer, existing in the same physical space as you for the first time in three months.
And you had no idea who he was.
You'd been scanning the crowd constantly, trying to match faces to the person you'd built up in your mind. But it was impossible. Dean could be anyone. The tall guy with dark hair by the stairs. The one playing beer pong in the corner. The one who just walked past you to grab a drink.
Your phone was your anchor, the only thing keeping you from completely spiraling.
Dean: Still here?
You: Yeah. Still terrified.
Dean: Same. I've never been so nervous at a party in my life.
You: At least we're nervous together.
Dean: There's something poetic about that. Two people, same place, same fear, completely unaware of each other.
You: Or maybe we're totally aware and just don't realize it yet.
Dean: That's a nice thought.
You looked up from your phone and scanned the room again. A group of guys near the kitchen were laughing about something. One of them was on his phone, smiling at the screen.
Could that be him?
Your heart raced as you watched him type something. Your phone buzzed.
Dean: I wish I knew what you looked like. Just so I could stop wondering.
It wasn't him. The guy by the kitchen was still laughing with his friends, phone forgotten.
You: Would it change anything?
Dean: No. But it might make this easier.
You: Or harder.
Dean: How so?
You: Because then it becomes real. Right now, we exist in this bubble where nothing can touch us. The second we meet, that bubble pops.
Dean: Maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe bubbles are meant to pop.
You: When did you become so philosophical?
You:: When I started falling for someone I've never met.
You stopped breathing. He'd never said anything like that before. You'd danced around it, implied it, felt it, but never said it.
You: Dean...
Dean: Sorry. Too much?
You: No. Not too much. Just... unexpected.
Dean: I've been holding that in for weeks. Felt like the right time to say it.
You: At a party where we're both present but can't find each other?
Dean: Exactly. If I'm going to be vulnerable, might as well go all in.
You smiled despite your nerves.
You: For what it's worth, I'm falling too.
Dean: Yeah?
You: Yeah. Pretty hard, actually.
Dean: That's good. I'd hate to be falling alone.
You: You're not alone. You're never alone.
You looked up again, and this time your eyes landed on someone new. A guy standing with a group of friends, tall and athletic-looking, with blonde hair and a strong jaw. He was on his phone, and something about the way he smiled at the screen made your stomach flip.
He looked up, and for a second, your eyes met across the room. Then someone bumped into you, breaking the moment, and when you looked back, he was talking to his friends again.
Dean: I have a crazy idea.
You: I'm listening.
Dean: What if we give each other a hint? Something small. Just to narrow it down.
You: Like what?
Dean: I don't know. A piece of clothing we're wearing? Where we're standing?
Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it over the music.
You: That's terrifying.
Dean: I know. But I really want to meet you. And I think if we don't do it tonight, we might never do it.
He was right. You could feel it; this was the moment. The tipping point. You either took the leap or you stayed in the safety of your bubble forever.
You: Okay. One hint.
Dean: You go first.
You: Why me?
Dean: Because I'm nervous and I need a minute to work up the courage.
You laughed, the sound getting lost in the noise of the party.
You: Okay. I'm wearing a black top. Your turn.
Dean: That's like half the people here.
You: I know. Your turn.
There was a pause. You watched the three dots appear and disappear multiple times.
Dean: I'm wearing a white shirt. And I'm standing near the kitchen.
Your head snapped up. The kitchen. White shirt.
There were three guys near the kitchen. One in a grey shirt. One in black. And one in white.
The one you'd made eye contact with earlier.
He was looking at his phone again, and you watched as he typed something. Your phone buzzed.
Dean: This is insane.
You: Completely.
Dean: I think I might throw up.
You: Same.
You started walking toward the kitchen, your legs shaking. This was it. This was actually happening.
You were about ten feet away when someone grabbed your arm.
"Y/N! There you are!" Sophie appeared out of nowhere, slightly drunk and very enthusiastic. "You have to come meet this guy, he's so funny —"
"Sophie, not now —"
"It'll just take a second —"
She was dragging you away from the kitchen, away from the guy in the white shirt, and you wanted to scream. You looked back over your shoulder, trying to catch another glimpse of him, but he'd turned away, talking to his friends.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean: Where are you? I'm by the kitchen but I don't see anyone in a black top looking for me.
You: I'm trying to get there but my roommate grabbed me. Give me a second.
Dean: No rush. I'm not going anywhere.
Sophie finally released you after introducing you to some guy whose name you immediately forgot. You made your excuses and headed back toward the kitchen, your heart in your throat.
But when you got there, the guy in the white shirt was gone.
You spun around, scanning the crowd, but you couldn't see him anywhere.
You: I'm by the kitchen but I don't see you.
Dean: I'm here. White shirt, blonde hair.
You: There's no one matching that description here right now.
Dean: What? I'm literally standing right here.
You looked around again, confused and frustrated. There were people everywhere, but no one in a white shirt near the kitchen.
You: I don't understand. Where are you exactly?
Dean: By the drinks table. Next to the fridge.
Your stomach dropped. The hockey house was huge. There were multiple areas that could be considered "the kitchen" — the main kitchen, the bar area, the back kitchen where they kept extra supplies.
You were in the wrong place.
You: Oh my god. There are multiple kitchen areas. Which one are you in?
Dean: The main one. First floor, front of the house.
You: I'm in the back kitchen. I'm coming to you.
You pushed through the crowd, your heart racing. This was it. You were about to meet him. After three months of texting, of falling for someone you'd never seen, you were about to put a face to the name.
You rounded the corner into the main kitchen and stopped dead.
There were at least fifteen people crammed into the space. And three of them were wearing white shirts.
You: Okay, I'm here. But there are multiple people in white shirts. I need another hint.
Dean: I'm holding a red cup. And I'm talking to three other guys.
You scanned the room. Two of the guys in white shirts were alone. But the third —
He was tall, with blonde hair that fell slightly into his eyes. Athletic build, broad shoulders, the kind of face that probably broke hearts without trying. He was holding a red cup and talking to three other guys — one brunet, one with a cap, one with a bright smile.
And then he looked down at his phone. You watched him type.
Your phone buzzed.
Dean: I'm the one who just checked his phone.
It was him.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. Dean — your Dean, the person you'd been falling for through months of texts — was Dean Di Laurentis. Star hockey player. Campus heartthrob. The guy who had a different girl on his arm every week.
Or at least, he used to.
Your mind was reeling. All those conversations about feeling like he was living someone else's life, about the pressure from his family, about hockey being both his passion and his prison — that was Dean Di Laurentis.
And he'd been texting you. Falling for you.
You must have made a sound — a gasp or a laugh or something — because suddenly his head snapped up and his eyes locked on yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stared at each other across the crowded kitchen, recognition dawning on both your faces.
Then his eyes widened. His phone slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.
"No way," he said, loud enough for you to hear over the music.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only watch as he pushed through the crowd toward you, his friends calling after him in confusion.
He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, could smell his cologne, could feel the heat radiating off him.
"It's you," he said, his voice rough with disbelief. "You're — it's you."
"It's me," you managed to say.
"Y/N," he said, testing your name on his tongue. "Your name is Y/N."
"And you're Dean Di Laurentis."
"You know who I am?"
"Everyone knows who you are."
He laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. "I can't believe this. All this time, I've been texting you. You've been right here, on campus, and I had no idea."
"I had no idea either."
"I've seen you before," he said suddenly. "In the library. You're always in the corner by the window. And in the coffee shop — you order iced matchas."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you. I just didn't know it was you I was noticing."
Your head was spinning. This was too much, too fast, too overwhelming.
"I need air," you said.
"Okay. Yeah. Let's go outside."
He grabbed your hand — actually grabbed your hand, his fingers lacing through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world — and led you through the crowd. People called out to him, tried to stop him, but he ignored them all, focused entirely on you.
The backyard was quieter, cooler. There were a few people scattered around, but Dean led you to a corner away from everyone else. He didn't let go of your hand.
"I can't believe this," he said again. "You're real. You're here. You're you."
"Did you think I wasn't real?"
"No, I just — I built you up so much in my head. I was terrified you'd be disappointed when we met."
"Disappointed? Dean, have you looked in a mirror?"
He laughed. "That's not what I meant. I meant disappointed in who I am. The real me, not the text version."
"The real you is the text version. That's the whole point."
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the intensity in his gaze made your knees weak.
"You're beautiful," he said softly. "I mean, I knew you would be. But you're really beautiful."
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it's not fair. You're Dean Di Laurentis. You're —"
"I'm the guy who's been falling for you for three months," he interrupted. "That's who I am. Everything else is just noise."
"Dean —"
"I know this is crazy. I know we just met, technically. But I feel like I've known you forever. Like I've been waiting to find you."
"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Yeah?" He stepped closer, and you could feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him. "Can I tell you something else?"
"Okay."
"I'm really glad I texted the wrong number that day."
You laughed, the sound breaking through your nerves. "Me too."
"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "I've been wanting to kiss you since the moment I realized it was you."
"We just met."
"We've known each other for three months."
"That's different."
"Is it?" He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Because it doesn't feel different. It feels like I've been waiting for this moment since that first text."
Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might explode. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"You can kiss me."
He smiled — that same smile you'd imagined a thousand times but never seen — and leaned in. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and then his lips were on yours.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid you might disappear. But then you kissed him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, and something ignited between you. The kiss deepened, became more urgent, three months of tension and longing and falling pouring into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"Wow," he said.
"Yeah."
"That was —"
"I know."
He laughed, resting his forehead against yours. "I don't want this night to end."
"It doesn't have to."
"No?"
"We could stay out here. Actually talk face to face for once."
"I'd like that." He pulled back slightly, his hands still on your waist. "But first, I need to know something."
"What?"
"Remember that thing you said about the penguin who thought he was a flamingo? The one who kept trying to stand on one leg and kept falling over?"
You laughed. "Yeah, you said it reminded you of yourself at formal events."
"Exactly. And you said —"
"I said at least the penguin was trying, which is more than most people do."
His face broke into the biggest grin you'd ever seen. "That's our thing. That's how I know it's really you."
"We already know it's really us, Dean."
"I know. But it's nice to have proof." He pulled you closer. "The penguin who thought he was a flamingo. That's going to be our inside joke forever now."
"Forever?"
"Yeah. Forever. If you'll have me."
Your heart swelled. "I think I can manage that."
He kissed you again, slower this time, sweeter. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here."
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't care. Anywhere. As long as it's with you."
You smiled, reaching up to touch his face. He was real. Solid. Here.
"Okay. Let's go."
He grabbed your hand and led you back through the house. His friends — Garrett, Tucker, Logan, and Beau — were standing in the kitchen, watching with knowing grins.
"Dean, who is that?" Garrett called out.
Dean looked at you, his eyes bright with happiness and something that looked a lot like love.
"Someone I've been waiting for," he said.
***
Later That Night
You ended up at a 24-hour diner on the edge of campus, sitting across from each other in a corner booth. It was nearly 2 AM, and the place was almost empty except for a few other late-night stragglers.
Dean had ordered pancakes. You'd gotten an iced matcha, which made him laugh.
"Of course you did."
"What? You knew I liked them."
"I know. It's just nice to actually see you drink one."
You talked for hours. About everything and nothing. All the things you'd already discussed over text, but better now because you could see his expressions, hear his laugh, watch the way his eyes lit up when he got excited about something.
"I still can't believe it was you," he said for the hundredth time. "All those times I saw you on campus and thought you were cute, and it was you."
"You thought I was cute?"
"Are you kidding? I almost talked to you like five different times. But I always chickened out."
"Why?"
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I don't know. You always seemed so focused, so in your own world. I didn't want to bother you. Plus, I had this reputation, you know? The guy who hooks up with everyone. I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me."
"I wouldn't have judged you."
"Yeah, well. I know that now." He reached across the table and took your hand. "I'm really glad we found each other. Even if it was by accident."
"Me too."
"So what happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we've been doing this backwards. We fell for each other first, and now we're meeting. So what's the next step?"
You thought about it. "I guess we just... keep doing what we've been doing. Talking. Getting to know each other. Except now we can do it in person."
"I like that plan." He paused. "Can I take you on a date? A real one?"
"This isn't a real date?"
"This is a 2 AM diner run after a party where we discovered we've been accidentally falling in love for three months. That's not a date, that's a rom-com plot."
You laughed. "Fair point. Yes, you can take me on a real date."
"Tomorrow?"
"Eager much?"
"I've been waiting three months. I'm done waiting."
"Tomorrow sounds perfect."
He smiled, that same smile that had been making your heart race all night, and squeezed your hand.
"I'm really glad I texted the wrong number," he said again.
"Me too, Dean. Me too."
***
Epilogue - Three Months Later
Dean ❤️
11:47 PM
Dean ❤️: You still awake?
You: Yeah. Missing you.
Dean ❤️: I literally just dropped you off.
You: I know. Still missing you.
Dean ❤️: You're ridiculous.
You: You love it.
Dean ❤️: I really do. I’m here.
You: I thought you left?
Dean ❤️: Didn’t want to leave you.
You: Sophie's at her boyfriend's. We're alone.
Dean ❤️: In that case...
Two seconds later, there was a knock on your door. You opened it to find Dean standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair messy from sleep, grinning at you.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi yourself."
He pulled you into his arms, kissing you softly. "This is better than texting."
"Agreed."
You pulled him inside, and he collapsed onto your bed, pulling you down next to him. You curled into his side, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I was thinking," he said, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.
"Dangerous."
"Shut up. I was thinking about that first text. The wrong number."
"What about it?"
"I don't think it was wrong. I think it was exactly right. Like the universe knew we needed to find each other."
"I thought you didn't believe in fate."
"I didn't. But then I met you."
You tilted your head up to look at him. "You're such a sap."
"Only for you."
"Good. I'd hate to share."
He laughed, pulling you closer. "Never. You're stuck with me now."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both."
You kissed him, slow and sweet, and thought about how crazy it was that a simple wrong number had led to this. To him. To the best thing that had ever happened to you.
"Hey Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember the penguin who thought he was a flamingo?"
He smiled against your lips. "How could I forget? That's our thing."
"I think we're like that penguin. Trying to be something we're not, until we found each other and realized we were perfect just the way we are."
"That's really deep for midnight."
"I have my moments."
"You have a lot of moments. All of them perfect." He kissed your forehead. "I love you, you know that?"
Your heart skipped. He'd never said it before. Not like this. Not out loud.
"I love you too," you whispered.
"Good. Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
And somewhere in the universe, fate smiled, knowing it had gotten this one exactly right.
I was at a 12-hour orgy yesterday and halfway through someone decided they wanted to put a hockey game up on the projector. you're the only reason I know anything about hockey. I don't even know who was playing but they were blue and red and there was a guy named Gotstobehere. half the group immediately stopped orgy-ing in favor of hockey. this took up about? Three hours of time? tits were flashed when a team scored a goal. People stopped fucking when fights broke out cause it was more interesting.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you. I feel like SOMEONE in the hockey community needs to know about the game that derailed an orgy.
there are people living all kinds of lives out there
She met Dean Di Laurentis at a party she didn’t even want to attend.
That was usually how these things happened.
Loud music. Cheap alcohol. Bodies pressed too close together in overheated rooms. Someone dragging her there because “you seriously need to stop isolating yourself.” Then eventually some guy would look at her a little too long, she’d smirk back, and for a few hours neither of them would have to think too hard about anything.
Easy.
Temporary.
Safe in the way detached things always were.
Dean noticed her because she looked bored.
Not shy. Not awkward. Not trying too hard to look cool like half the girls there. She stood against the kitchen counter wearing an expression that practically screamed this is beneath me, slowly stirring melting ice around in her cup while people shouted over each other around her.
Dean liked difficult things.
So naturally he walked right over.
“Tell me you’re judging everyone here.”
Her eyes lifted toward him lazily. “Including you?”
Dean grinned. “Especially me.”
That got the smallest twitch of amusement out of her. Barely there. But enough to make him interested.
Most girls reacted to him immediately. They laughed too hard at his jokes or rolled their eyes while secretly enjoying the attention. Dean knew exactly how to handle those situations. Flirting was easy. Familiar. Like muscle memory.
But this girl looked at him like she could take him or leave him.
It drove him insane.
“You always flirt with girls who look emotionally unavailable?” she asked.
“Only the pretty ones.”
“Tragic for you then.”
He laughed loudly at that, genuinely surprised, and she finally looked at him properly. Tall. Hockey player build. Stupidly attractive in the irritatingly effortless way rich boys often were. But there was something lighter about him than she expected. Less arrogant than people described.
Still dangerous though.
Boys like Dean always were.
She should’ve walked away then.
Instead she stayed.
One drink turned into two. Two turned into sitting on the back porch steps together while the party blurred into noise behind them. Dean talked easily, comfortably, like silence didn’t scare him. He told stupid stories about his teammates and terrible hookups and things professors had yelled at him for. She mostly listened, occasionally throwing in dry comments that made him laugh harder than necessary.
He noticed quickly that she never talked about herself unless directly asked.
Even then, her answers were short.
“What about your family?”
“They exist.”
“Ouch.”
“What? You wanted a slideshow?”
Dean smirked, but he noticed the way she shut down after questions like that. Like every personal detail cost something.
Interesting.
Complicated.
His favorite kind of person.
Eventually he kissed her because of course he did.
And she kissed him back like she was trying not to feel it.
That was the first thing he noticed.
No hesitation. No nervousness. She clearly knew what she was doing. But there was something detached about it too, like she’d perfected the art of giving people just enough without actually giving them anything real.
Dean should’ve recognized it immediately.
He was good at casual too.
So when she pulled away afterward and said, “Just so we’re clear, I don’t date,” he only smirked.
“Who said anything about dating?”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed.
That should’ve warned him.
Because girls usually got disappointed when Dean didn’t want more.
She looked relieved.
It became a thing after that.
Not official. Not exclusive. Not anything, really.
Sometimes she showed up at his apartment at midnight wearing one of his hoodies she’d stolen weeks ago. Sometimes Dean found her sitting in the back row of hockey parties looking bored until he sat beside her. Sometimes they spent entire nights together and she disappeared before morning without leaving a note.
No expectations.
No questions.
No vulnerability.
At first Dean genuinely didn’t mind.
She was fun. Sharp-tongued and clever and impossible to embarrass. She challenged him constantly, insulted him creatively, and somehow made him work for attention in a way nobody else did.
But slowly, without meaning to, he started noticing things.
Little things.
Like how she froze whenever someone touched her unexpectedly.
How she laughed things off whenever conversations got emotional.
How she never stayed asleep beside him for long.
Dean would wake up at three in the morning and find her sitting against his headboard staring at nothing in the dark.
“You okay?” he asked once, voice rough with sleep.
“Fine.”
“You always lie this casually?”
She looked over at him then, expression unreadable.
“You always ask questions people don’t want to answer?”
He should’ve dropped it.
Instead he lifted the blanket silently in invitation.
For a second she just stared at him like she didn’t understand what he was offering.
Then slowly, carefully, she laid back down beside him.
Not close.
Just beside.
Dean didn’t touch her after that.
But sometime during the night she shifted toward him in her sleep anyway.
The problem started when Dean realized he was looking for her.
At parties.
In class.
Around campus.
His mood changed depending on whether she texted back.
It was pathetic.
Worse, Garrett noticed.
“You like her.”
Dean scoffed immediately. “I like lots of girls.”
“Not like this.”
Dean threw a hockey tape roll at his head.
But Garrett was right.
Because Dean started paying attention in ways he never had before.
He noticed she never talked about exes.
Never mentioned childhood memories.
Never called anyone when things went wrong.
Everything about her screamed self-reliance so aggressively it stopped looking healthy.
And then there were the hookups.
Or rather, how weirdly disconnected she became afterward.
The first time Dean really understood it, they were lying in bed after another night together. She was sitting against the headboard pulling her clothes back on immediately while Dean watched her quietly.
“You know,” he said carefully, “most people hang around for at least ten minutes before fleeing the scene.”
“I’m not fleeing.”
“You literally have one shoe on already.”
She shrugged.
It should’ve been funny.
Instead Dean felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest.
“Hey,” he said softer this time.
She glanced up.
“You don’t have to leave every single time.”
For a moment her entire expression changed.
Not angry.
Not annoyed.
Panicked.
Gone almost instantly, but Dean saw it.
“I know,” she said quickly.
Then she left anyway.
After that, he started seeing the pattern everywhere.
Whenever Dean did something soft, she didn’t know how to react.
When he brought her coffee before class, she stared at it suspiciously.
When he remembered small details about her, she changed the subject.
When he casually kissed her forehead one morning, she went completely still.
Dean pulled back immediately. “Was that weird?”
Her eyes flickered away from his. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because I wanted to?”
People didn’t look confused by affection unless affection was unfamiliar.
That realization hit Dean harder than he expected.
Because underneath all the sarcasm and casual confidence, she genuinely seemed convinced that closeness came with conditions. Like care was temporary. Transactional.
Like eventually everyone got tired of her.
Dean hated that.
More than he should’ve.
The fight happened two months later.
Not screaming. Not dramatic.
Honestly, that made it worse.
She had disappeared for nearly a week without answering texts. Dean finally found her at a campus café studying like nothing happened.
“There you are,” he said, irritation slipping through immediately.
She barely looked up. “Hi.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
Dean stared at her. “Maybe explain why you vanished?”
Her jaw tightened instantly. “We’re not dating, Dean.”
“I know that.”
“Then stop acting like I owe you explanations.”
The words landed sharper than she intended.
Dean leaned back slowly, hurt flashing across his face before he hid it behind frustration.
“I was worried.”
Something flickered in her expression again.
That same panic.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Why?”
“Because people who worry end up expecting things.”
Dean frowned. “What does that even mean?”
She laughed quietly, but there was nothing amused about it. “It means eventually you’ll realize I’m too much work for something that was supposed to stay easy.”
Dean went silent.
And suddenly he understood.
This wasn’t someone avoiding relationships because she wanted freedom.
This was someone convinced she was fundamentally impossible to keep.
His anger disappeared almost instantly.
“Hey,” he said gently.
She looked away.
Dean moved closer anyway, lowering himself into the seat across from her.
“Who taught you that?"
Her face shut down immediately.
“No one.”
“Bullshit.”
The words came out softer than usual. Careful. Like he already knew pressing too hard would make her run.
She swallowed hard and stared down at her coffee.
Dean had never seen her look small before.
“I just…” Her voice cracked slightly, frustrating her immediately. “I don’t do soft things, okay? People always want more eventually and I can’t—” She stopped abruptly.
Dean waited.
“I can’t be the person they want.”
The honesty in that sentence nearly wrecked him.
Because she sounded so certain.
Like this wasn’t insecurity anymore. It was fact in her mind.
Dean reached across the table slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
His fingers closed gently around hers.
“You know what I think?” he said quietly.
She shook her head once.
“I think somewhere along the line, somebody made you feel hard to love.”
Her eyes immediately filled with tears she clearly hated.
Dean felt his chest physically ache at the sight.
“And I think,” he continued softly, thumb brushing across her knuckles, “you got so used to people leaving that now you leave first before they get the chance.”
Silence.
Then finally, barely above a whisper:
“You make it sound so sad.”
Dean looked at her for a long moment.
“It is sad."
That was the moment she broke.
Not loudly.
No dramatic sobbing.
Just this tiny shattered sound before she covered her face with both hands like she was embarrassed to be seen hurting at all.
Dean moved without thinking.
One second he was across the table.
The next he was kneeling beside her chair pulling her carefully against his chest while she trembled.
And what destroyed him most was how shocked she looked by the comfort.
Like she genuinely expected him to leave once things became real.
Dean held her tighter.
“You don’t have to earn softness,” he murmured against her hair. “You know that, right?”
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Warnings: Mentions of cheating, swearing, slut shaming.
Word Count : 5.5k
Summary: After a scandal leaves Y/N isolated and broken, she discovers that it was her rival who has been quietly fighting for her all along.
A/N: Pictures from Pinterest, credits to owners!
Masterlist
The history professor tapped his pen against the podium, after scattering the graded midterms across the front desks, beaming. “The whole class performed better than I expected. I'm proud of you.”
Y/N was nervously tapping her fingers against her desk, waiting for the graded paper in anticipation. When the blue-inked paper landed on the desk in front of her, the first thing she saw was the grade circled in red: 94. She let out a breath she was holding in. She was happy with her score. It was an A, and to Y/N, it was a respectable grade. And she was proud of it until a smug voice drifted from the seat just behind her.
"Ninety-four? Tough break, sweetheart. I’m sure there’s a tutor center somewhere that handles remedial reading."
She didn’t even have to look over to know exactly who was talking. She turned, her eyes narrowing as she met Garrett Graham’s gaze. He was leaning back in his chair, holding his own exam paper towards her to show her his score. The 98 stared back at her and she rolled her eyes, annoyed.
"It’s not remedial reading, Graham. Unlike you, I don't need to dedicate my entire existence to a GPA just to feel superior." she snapped.
The class was over and students were packing their bags for the next lecture.
That infuriating, lopsided smirk that he always saved for her, had smoke coming out of her head from how angry she was. He tucked his exam into his bag. "Well, some of us prefer winning to whatever it is you do. I saw you with your boyfriend at the union yesterday. Does he help you with your history notes, or does he just carry your books so your delicate arms don’t get tired?"
Her jaw tightened. He knew exactly which buttons to push, and he’s been doing this since freshman year. "Leave Jackson out of this, Graham. Just because you have a stick up your ass doesn't mean you have to take it out on my relationship."
"Relationship? Is that what we’re calling it?" He snorted, standing up. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes glinting with a mocking amusement. "I’m just saying, it must be exhausting dating a guy who probably thinks the Emancipation Proclamation is a brand of protein shake. I’m surprised you have survived three years with him."
"He’s a good person who actually has a personality, unlike your brand of 'I-play-hockey-therefore-I-am-god.' Seriously, do you ever get bored of being a cliché?" she countered. It seemed like that spike of adrenaline only ever happened when she was around him.
Garrett chuckled.
"I’m never bored, sweetheart. But think about it, you’re just lucky I’m generous enough to keep you on your toes. Without me, who would you have to be better than?"
"I don't need to be better than you, I am competing with myself. And I’m doing just fine."
"Keep telling yourself that," he said, pushing off the desk and straightening his jacket, though he didn't walk away immediately. His gaze drifted over her face as if he were trying to memorise the way her eyes sparked when she was angry. "Say hi to your golden boy for me. Tell him if he ever wants to learn how to handle a real sport he knows where to find me."
He turned and sauntered toward the exit, leaving Y/N seething. She watched him go, her fingers clutching the edge of her 94-grade exam until her knuckles turned white.
It was always like this. It had always been this constant, exhausting dance of insults and intellectual jabs. It seemed like they were perpetually locked in a rivalry. She shoved her books into her bag, her mind already racing with the next comeback she should have thrown at him. He was arrogant, he was insufferable, and he was absolutely the most irritating person on this campus. But as she walked out into the crisp afternoon air, she couldn't ignore the way her skin felt like it was humming like a residual electricity left behind by his proximity. She hated Garrett Graham. She hated the way he dismissed Jackson, and the way he hovered, or the way he made her feel like she had to be perfect just to earn his attention. But as she rounded the corner and saw the hockey rink in the distance, she couldn't help but look for his black sedan in the parking lot.
It was a sick, twisted game they played, a cycle of antagonism that kept them both hyper-aware of each other’s every move. If she got an A, he had to get an A-plus. If she was seen at a study group, he had to crash it. There was this constant bickering between them, this back and forth they both seemed to enjoy(?) for some weird reason. And don't even get her started on how much he seemed to hate her boyfriend. And he never shied away from telling her that either. He knew what the touchy subjects were and how he could push her buttons so that he could get her to snap back.
The debates in the class were on a whole another level. The professors knew that it would be a great debate if they were placed in the opposing teams because they were both intelligent and competitive. It had even bordered on a screaming match once.
She tucked the exam into her bag, walking toward the football field where she knew Jackson would be practicing. She hoped the sight of the football team would settle her nerves.
"He’s just a jerk," she whispered to herself, stepping onto the grass.
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't that simple. Garrett Graham wasn't just a jerk. He was more like an obsession. And the worst part was that she had a sneaking suspicion that for him, the feeling was mutual.
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A month later, her world was flipped upside down, taking her with it. It all went down with a sickening chime on her phone that had divided her life into a before and after. Jackson had decided that if he couldn't have her, he would destroy her, after he was caught by her in bed with another girl. He had apologised to her over and over again but Y/N could not take him back. Not after three whole years of being each other's, not after the betrayal. Jackson was angry that she didn't take him back and hurled some curses at her before walking away. In Y/N’s mind, this was the worst thing that could happen to her, and she spent her weekend in her dorm with a tub of ice cream, wallowing in sadness. Until she got a message from Rori, her friend, on Sunday, that a private video of Y/N was leaked. Apparently someone had shared it in a group chat under a fake name. Y/N didn't even have to think who would have leaked it, because the only other person who had it was none other than her now-ex, Jackson. The video was private, a relic of a time she had been foolish enough to trust him. But now? Her privacy had been violated and she was treated like commodity. The video was shared in group chats and whispered about in lecture halls. It was plastered across the screens of strangers who didn't know anything about her.
Y/N could not handle the humiliation, she felt like she had nobody who could console her. She had stayed holed up in her dorm, the curtains drawn tight against a world that had suddenly turned predatory towards her. Every time her phone lit up with a notification, she flinched as though it struck her like lightning. She didn't dare check social media. She knew what was there, and she couldn't handle the slurs and the slut-shaming yet. Was this what she was to them? Was she nothing more than a scandal? A headline? Was that all she was worth?
The silence of her room was deafening. She spent her days staring at the ceiling, wondering how quickly "being the smart girl" turned into "being the girl in the video." Her friends, or at least the ones who claimed to be, had been hesitant and awkward. They didn't know how to look at her anymore, and truth be told, she didn't know how to look at herself. It felt like she had lost the thread of her own life. The exams, the history debates, the sharp, witty comebacks she used to fire at Garrett… they all felt like memories from a different lifetime. She wasn't an academic weapon anymore. She was just the girl who had been burned alive, and it felt like everyone was still watching the embers glow.
On Monday, after a whole week of being holed up in her room, she finally forced herself out. But it turned out there were people who were out to get her. She was booed and called names until she had to run to a washroom where she sobbed and sobbed, earning a few sympathetic looks from some of the girls. After spending more than half an hour in the washroom, waiting until she was certain no one was outside, she slipped out with her head bowed and the hood of her oversized sweatshirt pulled low. She walked straight to the library, finding a dark corner to hide. But as she sat there, staring at a page of text she couldn't comprehend, she eventually sensed a familiar presence approaching. She didn't need to look up to know it was Garrett. The scent of his signature cologne was unmistakable, cutting through the dusty smell of old books. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Of course. It had been a week, and he was the only one who hadn't taken a dig at her yet. The king of the jabs, the master of the insult. He was probably there to deliver the final blow. She braced herself, the tears she’d been holding back for seven days threatening to finally spill. She was ready for him to tear her apart. She kept her eyes fixed on the textbook in front of her, waiting for him to be done with whatever cruelty he was gonna throw at her. She was tired of everything. And when he stayed silent, she let out a shaky laugh, "Well?" she asked, her voice barely rising above a whisper. He didn't reply. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling like a stone. "Aren't you going to say anything? Isn't this the part where you tell me how pathetic I look? How I’ve finally managed to live down to your expectations?"
She finally looked up at him, bracing for the smirk. But it wasn't there. Garrett was standing over her, one hand hooked loosely around the strap of his backpack. His posture was rigid. And for the first time in the three years she’d been engaged in this war of attrition with him, he didn't look amused or like he was sizing up a challenge. But, he looked furious, like he wanted to burn the building down around them.
"Everyone else already had their turn," she continued, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. She gestured vaguely to the rest of the library, where she knew people were watching and waiting for her to break. "Might as well let you have yours. The captain of the hockey team wouldn't want to miss the main event, would he?"
His jaw tightened, a muscle pulsing in his cheek. "What?"
She let out a bitter, wet laugh. "Oh, come on, Graham. Drop the act. You don't have to pretend you're a decent person today. Just get it over with so I can go back to hiding."
"I'm not pretending anything," he bit out.
"Really?" she challenged, her eyes burning with unshed, angry tears. "Because you've spent three years finding new, creative ways to make my life difficult. Why stop now when I’m already at rock bottom? Isn't that the dream?"
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, the curse sharp enough to make her flinch.
His expression shifted instantly. He didn't soften, but it looked like his anger was replaced by something that resembled guilt.
Y/N looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. "I know what everyone is saying. I know what they think of me. I’m the punchline."
"Stop."
She blinked, startled by the sheer force behind that command. "What?"
"I said stop. I don't want to hear it." His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight.
He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. The wood scraped against the floor.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
"Sitting."
"No, I mean, why are you here? Did someone tell you I finally crawled out of my hole? Did you come to see the trainwreck for yourself?"
He looked at her. His eyes were dark and unreadable. It was true, though.He’d heard she was back on campus. Somebody had mentioned seeing her near the quad, and he had spent the last hour pacing, scouring the library until his chest felt like it was going to collapse.
"Go ahead," she challenged, her voice breaking. "Call me a slut. Isn't that what you're gonna say?"
His face went completely blank and it was terrifying. Y/N looked down at her desk, her eyes stinging. "That's what everyone else is doing."
He moved leaned forward, invading her personal space. His eyes were scanning her face, the way she was shaking like a leaf.
"Who called you that?" he asked.
"What?"
"Who? Give me names."
"Why would you care?"
"Because I asked," he growled.
"I don't know," she whispered, exhausted. "It doesn't matter."
He nodded, a single, sharp motion. But he kept his gaze locked on hers. "Have you eaten today?"
She was bewildered. Who is this Garrett?
"What?"
"Food. When was the last time you had a decent meal?"
"You came all the way here to play nutritionist?" she asked, a hysterical note entering her voice.
"You look like shit."
“Gee, thanks.” She muttered. It wasn't funny, but the absolute lack of pretense in his voice made it impossible to do anything else.
Garrett looked marginally relieved and his shoulders dropped a fraction at her reply.
He stood up, his gaze heavy. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Cafeteria."
"No," she said, her tone final. "Absolutely not."
Garrett sighed, a sound of pure frustration. "Y/N."
He had never called her by her first name before, not once. It was always her surname, or sweetheart or genius.
"You need to eat," he said. "I'm not asking."
"Why?Why are you doing this?”
she asked, the question slipping out before she could catch it. Garrett looked away for a split second, his jaw working. When he looked back, he looked utterly miserable, but at the same time, entirely determined.
"We can talk about that later," he said. It wasn't a confession, but it was a promise. And as she looked at him, she felt relieved. In his presence, she somehow found solace. She stood up, her legs wobbly, and let him lead the way.
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The walk to the cafeteria with Garrett was surprisingly comfortable. It was bizarre because the boy who had spent three years turning Y/N’s life into a competitive sport was now walking beside her, carrying her backpack. He had just taken it from her shoulders without a word, and she’d been too exhausted by the last week, to even protest.
They were halfway down the corridor when a shout echoed off the lockers.
"Graham!"
Garrett groaned. A hockey teammate was jogging towards them.
"I'll be right back".
Y/N went to stop, her instinct to retreat kicking in. "No, it's fine. I'll be there in a minute," he interrupted, not breaking stride.
So she kept walking, her heart beating fast against her ribs. In the cafeteria were people laughing, eating, living lives that hadn't been shredded into pieces.
She kept her head down and joined the sandwich line. The girl behind the counter offered a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile. Y/N pretended she hadn't seen it. She just wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She paid for her sandwich, her hands trembling as she turned around, and that was when she heard it.
"Look who finally decided to show her face."
Her stomach dropped. It was Tyler, one of Jackson’s teammates, flanked by a group of football players who were watching her like vultures circling a carcass.
Tyler stood up, leaning against the table with a sneer. "You happy now, huh?"
She froze, her brow furrowing. "What?"
"You got him kicked off the team," he spat.
"Tyler what are y—"
"No, seriously," he laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. "You ruin his life and then come strolling in here like nothing happened? Like you’re the victim?"
Y/N’s throat tightened. She could feel tears glazing her eyes. "He ruined his own life."
Tyler’s nostrils flared, and he scoffed at her like she was a disgusting creature. "You're unbelievable. What did you expect, anyway? You send videos like that and then act shocked when people see them?"
A ripple of uncomfortable silence moved through the surrounding tables. Tyler leaned in, his voice dripping with venom. "God, you're such a—"
The rest of the sentence died in his throat as a hand snatched the front of his shirt hard. The sound of a chair clattering to the floor echoed like a gunshot. Y/N’s breath hitched. It was Garrett.
Tyler slammed back against the nearest wall and the cafeteria went silent.
Garrett’s voice was booming. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Tyler looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. "Graham—"
"What."
"I... I didn't know you were—"
"What. Did. You. Just. Say." He growled.
Y/N hadn't seen Garrett angry before. It was scary. Tyler’s bravado shattered, his face draining of color. "Sorry."
Garrett let out a humorless laugh. "Sorry?"
Tyler nodded frantically, his eyes wide. "Yeah, man. Sorry."
Garrett tightened his grip and pulled Tyler closer until they were eye-to-eye. "I told every single one of you not to say a fucking word to her."
Y/N blinked, the room spinning. He told them what?
"Didn't I?" Garrett prompted, his voice dangerously low.
"Y-yeah."
"And yet here we are."
"I'm sorry, man," Tyler squeaked.
"You do it again, and you'll wish Coach was the one dealing with you. Do you understand me?" Garrett whispered.
Tyler looked ready to pass out. "It won't happen again."
"Damn right it won't."
Garrett shoved him off, and Tyler stumbled backward, turning and practically sprinting out of the cafeteria. Nobody moved, everyone looked shocked to see the altercation. Garrett turned to the rest of the room, his eyes scanning the tables angrily. "What the fuck are you all looking at?"
The room collectively snapped back to attention. Conversations resumed, but they were hushed.
Garrett turned to Y/N, his expression shifting instantly. The rage vanished, replaced by concern.
"Come on."
He led her to a booth in the back, far from the prying eyes of the crowd. He sat across from her, his presence shielding her, but for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"What was he talking about Jackson getting kicked off?" she finally whispered.
Garrett sighed and down at his hands, his jaw tightening. "I talked to their Coach."
Y/N felt a chill wash over her. "You got him kicked off the team?"
"I didn't get him kicked off," Garrett corrected, his voice hardening. "He leaked a private video. He—"
"Garrett—"
"He got himself kicked off, Y/N. He chose to be the kind of person who does that. That’s on him,” he said, looking up, his gaze intense.
Y/N looked away, the weight of the last week, the shame and humiliation crushing down on her again. She felt exposed and vulnerable.
Garrett’s hand moved across the table, his fingers grazing her wrist before he pulled back, as if afraid to overstep. "Don't do that, Y/N."
She looked up, startled. "What am I doing?"
"Please don't look at yourself like that."
The words made her realise that the wound was still raw. A single tear escaped her eyes, tracing a hot line down her cheek. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice cracking. "We’ve been rivals for years. You’ve spent three years trying to get under my skin."
Garrett leaned back, looking uncomfortable. It was as if he were wrestling with his own internal monologue. "I never hated you."
"You sure had a funny way of showing that," she retorted, a ghost of a smile touched her lips despite the tears.
"Yeah," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable register. "I'm sorry…I just... I didn't know how to talk to you. I didn't know how to bridge the gap."
He leaned forward, his focus absolute. "And about what that asshole did… What happened wasn't your fault. You don't deserve any of this."
It was the first time anyone had said those words to her. It was the first time someone had stripped away the judgment and just offered the truth. She nodded, unable to say anything because she was sure she would just break down if she opened her mouth to speak. And for the first time after that horrifying incident, Y/N felt like she had someone. Which was weird because it was none other than someone she was sure hated her guts.
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The next day was better. Nobody shouted things at her from across the hallways, though people stared at her occasionally. It was strange. And Y/N was happy that Hannah was there.
By lunchtime, Y/N found herself sitting across from Hannah in the cafeteria, who was finally back after spending the entire week in another town for a major singing competition. Hannah always had a soft spot for Y/N. She was Garrett’s best friend and Justin’s girlfriend. She looked at Y/N with a mix of fierce protectiveness and sorrow as she’d heard bits and pieces of the nightmare as soon as she’d stepped back onto campus.
For a while, the conversation stayed safe as they talked about classes and other stuff and for the first time in days, Y/N felt like she was actually breathing again. That was when Hannah made the mistake of getting too comfortable.
"Honestly, if Garrett hadn't stepped in so fast, it would've been so much worse.”
she said, tapping her fingernails against her water bottle. Y/N froze, the sandwich hovering halfway to her mouth. "What?"
Hannah’s eyes widened, the realization hitting her like a freight train. She bit her lip, looking everywhere but at Y/N.
"Oh, shit," Hannah breathed.
A sinking, heavy feeling settled deep in Y/N’s stomach. "What do you mean, if Garrett hadn't stepped in?"
"Nothing," Hannah deflected, reaching for her bag. "I just meant... Uhhh…you know. It’s a big campus."
Y/N set the sandwich down. Her voice was dangerously steady. "Hannah. Look at me."
Hannah looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
"I thought he told you, Y/N."
"Told me what?"
Hannah sighed, a long, defeated sound. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried across the table. "After that video leaked... Garrett lost his mind."
Y/N was confused. "What?"
"I'm serious. I was out of town, but I heard the stories the second I got back. He went on a tear. He was going around to the fraternity presidents, the hockey captains, the football leads and everyone who holds any sway on this campus."
Y/N stared at her, her heart beating out of her body, "What for?"
Hannah looked at her, her expression unreadable. "To shut everyone up. He told them if he caught a single person sharing that video or even mentioning your name in a derogatory way, they’d be answering to him personally. And he wasn't exactly asking nicely."
"He did all that? Why?"
Hannah laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Are you kidding? Because he’s been obsessed with you since like forever, Y/N."
Y/N’s breath hitched. "What?"
Hannah sat back, her eyes wide as she realised what she’d just let slip. "Oh my God."
"What?" Y/N pressed, leaning over the table.
"You don't know."
"Know what, Hannah?"
Hannah slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting around to see if anyone was listening. She shook her head violently. "Nope. Absolutely not."
"Hannah, don't you dare do this to me. Tell me."
"I am not touching that with a ten-foot pole," Hannah said, grabbing her tray and standing up with a panicked energy. "Garrett would actually end my life if he knew I spilled that."
"Spilled what? Hannah!"
Hannah was already walking away, pausing only to look back with a smirk that was entirely too pleased with herself. "Talk to Garrett, Y/N. Talk. To. Garrett."
And just like that, she was gone, leaving Y/N sitting alone in the middle of the crowded cafeteria, her head spinning with a question she was terrified to ask.
Y/N stared at the spot where Hannah had disappeared long after she was gone.
The cafeteria buzzed around her, but it all sounded muted, like she was submerged in deep water because she could only think about what Hannah said a few minutes ago.
“Because he’s been obsessed with you since like forever, Y/N.”
No. That wasn't possible, there's absolutely no way. Garrett Graham didn't have the capacity for obsession. If anything, he was a creature of conflict, a walking, talking thorn in her side who had spent three years turning every interaction they had into a blood sport. He was infuriating and arrogant. And yet, as she sat there, the memories began to play in her head like a reel of film. Garrett showing up at her sophomore study group, despite not being invited, just to argue about her notes, or him appearing out of thin air every time she mentioned a competition or a presentation, his eyes glinting with intensity. Garrett hating on Jackson all the time like he had done something personally to him. Garrett making jabs on Jackson any moment he gets. Maybe Hannah wasn't completely insane? Which meant Garrett might be? She needed answers, and there was only one person on this entire campus who could give them to her.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The history section of the library was a ghost town. Most students favored the lower floors because they were the ones with better lighting and easier access to the vending machines. But it appeared that Garrett preferred the silence of the stacks. She found him in his usual corner. He was reading through a heavy textbook that lay open in front of him; and there was a half-finished coffee cooling beside his laptop.
For a moment, she just stood in the shadows of the shelves, watching him. She was trying to see him differently, just to see if she could find the man Hannah had described. The man who had spent a week playing bodyguard when she wasn't even looking; the man who had apparently threatened half the fraternity system on her behalf.
Garrett must have felt the weight of her gaze because he looked up after a few seconds. The second his eyes locked with hers, he went still.
"Hey," he said.
Y/N crossed her arms, leaning against the bookshelf. "We need to talk."
His expression shifted instantly. "What did I do now?"
The familiar response almost made her smile. "You tell me."
Garrett slowly closed his textbook, his fingers lingering on the cover. "I don't like that tone."
"Well, too bad."
His eyes narrowed, flicking over her face. "That bad, huh?"
Y/N pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
"Hannah told me something," she said, cutting straight to the marrow.
The color visibly drained from Garrett’s face. He let out a sharp breath. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
Despite the tension, Y/N let out an incredulous laugh. "That's your response?"
"Because Hannah has the survival instincts of a goldfish," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
"So it's true?"
Garrett groaned and leaned back, his chair creaking. "What did she tell you?"
He dragged a hand down his face, and Y/N suddenly realised that Garrett was nervous. His leg was bouncing under the table.
"You went around threatening people," she pushed.
"I wasn't threatening people," he countered defensively.
"You literally intimidated Tyler yesterday."
"That was different because he deserved it."
She stared at him, daring him to continue. Garrett stared back, raising a brow. Finally, he sagged, his shoulders losing their rigid tension. "Fine."
"So you did it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Garrett looked away instantly, his gaze fixing on a point on the wall behind her.
"Hannah also said something else," she whispered.
His entire body went rigid. "Y/N." The warning in his voice was thick, but it only fueled her resolve.
"What did she mean?"
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck, clearly wishing he could be anywhere else on the planet. "She talks too much."
"What did she mean, Garrett?"
Garrett suddenly became fascinated by the steam rising from his coffee.
"Garrett."
"Y/N, don't ask questions you already know the answer to."
"Hannah said you’ve been obsessed with me."
Garrett closed his eyes slowly.
"Oh my God," the words slipped out before she could catch them.
He opened his eyes, and despite the gravity of the moment, he looked genuinely, deeply offended. "Well, obsessed is a strong word."
Y/N let out a disbelieving, jagged laugh. "You threatened half the campus, Garrett!"
"Okay, fine," he conceded, his voice dropping.
A genuine laugh escaped her. Garrett’s expression softened.
Garrett looked down at the table, traced the lines on the wood with his finger and then looked back up, his eyes twinkling .
"I like you," he said.
The words settled between them and she could sense the sincerity of his words.
"You like me," she repeated, trying to wrap her mind around the reality of it.
"Yeah."
"For how long?"
His wince was immediate, a physical reaction to the question. Y/N’s eyes widened and the realisation hit her like a cold bucket of water being sloshed down her head.
"No."
"Yeah."
"Garrett—"
"I know," he interrupted, his voice thick.
She sat in stunned disbelief. Three years. Three whole years of wasted time, and of battles fought in the wrong war. Every debate, every insult, every ridiculous, manufactured competition, everything they had between them... it hadn't been about winning. It had been about proximity. He just wanted to be close to her this whole time?
"Oh my God," she breathed again.
"That seems to be your favorite phrase today," he quipped, though the bite was missing.
"I’m just... I’m trying to catch up."
Garrett watched her, his expression a strange mixture of hope and fear.
After a few moments, she asked him
"So, what happens now?"
Garrett leaned back, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I don't know, I mean... nothing has to happen. I didn't tell you because I expected something. Honestly?" He offered a small, crooked smile. "Right now, I just want my rival back."
A strange happy feeling bloomed in her chest.
"You haven't argued with me properly in weeks," he added, gesturing toward her textbook.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. But his smile faded suddenly, his voice dropping an octave as he moved into the territory that actually mattered. "What happened to you was awful, Y/N. And I know you're hurting."
He tapped his fingers nervously against the table.
"But if you'll let me, I'd like to help. Maybe remind you to get food occasionally. Or stop you from hiding. Help you remember who you were before all this," he said, his voice careful.
Y/N felt her throat tighten.
"And when you're okay again, if you'll have me, I'd like a chance. But if you don't..." He shrugged, though his gaze remained fixed on hers. "We'll stay friends? Or maybe academic rivals? I'm sure you'll keep trying to beat me academically."
"I do beat you academically," she shot back, a spark of her old fire returning.
"Delusional."
"And you'll continue being obnoxious."
"There she is, the Y/N I missed."
For the first time in weeks, Y/N laughed.
“I think I'd like that.”
Thank you so much for reading, lovelies. Feedback is very much appreciated. If you have any requests, feel free to send them in! And if you want me to tag you, please lmk.
Or Dean’s girlfriend makes a drunk decision without thinking how he’ll react…
Some suggestive content but nothing crazy <3
The best ideas always happen at 1am. Said no one. Like, ever.
You blamed the combination of cheap tequila, loud music, and your three best friends encouraging you with the enthusiasm of people who wouldn’t have to explain the consequences to their boyfriend afterward.
“Do it!” Allie shouted over the music.
Hannah was flushed and giggling “c’mon babydoll”
Jules raised her glass. “To questionable decisions!”
You should’ve known better, hell, even the tattoo artist asked three times if you were sure
You were absolutely not sure. So why instead of a resounding no, did the words, “yep, right here” leave your mouth.
You tapped your ribs. The artist let out a laugh. Or a sigh. Who can remember.
It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t artistic but 5 minutes later there it was.
66.
Dean Di Laurentis’s hockey number.
The number that now, thanks to several shots of tequila and a complete lack of judgment, was permanently inked onto your skin.
At the time, it felt romantic. The next morning, it felt catastrophic.
⸻
“Oh my god.”
You stared at your reflection.
The tattoo stared back.
“Oh my god.”
The throbbing head wasn’t helping and neither was the fact that Dean was due back from an away game that afternoon.
You pressed a hand over the fresh ink hoping somehow when it lifted the numbers would be gone. Didn’t work.
The gentle knock on your bedroom door came moments later.
“Still alive?” Hannah called.
“No.”
The door opened anyway. She took one look at your face and bit her lip trying to hide her smile.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Oh no of course not”
“Hannah.”
“You tattooed your boyfriend’s jersey number on your body.”
“Okay, well, it sounds bad when you say it like that”
“There’s literally no way to say it that sounds normal.” She replied, causing you to let out a groan, head in hands.
Because she wasn’t wrong. But the thing was Dean had changed. Before you, commitment had been a foreign concept to him. He’d spent years charming his way through campus, never staying with one girl for very long. He was six flags for crying out loud.
Then he met you, and he fell fast. He fell hard.
Regardless of your year long relationship, a tiny part of you still worried. Shit. What if seeing his number permanently etched onto your skin scared him? What if he thought you were insane?
What if-
“So when are you gonna tell him?”
“Never if I can help it”
Hannah sighed, “this is going to blow up in your face.”
You stared down at the tattoo. You hated when Hannah was right.
⸻
So naturally, you did the mature thing and avoided Dean. Not completely, but enough for him to notice
The first day, you claimed you had a migraine.
The second day, you said you had to study.
The third day, you suddenly remembered three months worth of errands that apparently couldn’t wait.
Dean noticed immediately. Because it was you.
By Friday, he’d had enough. You were sitting in the library when your phone buzzed.
Dean: Are you mad at me?
You blinked. Shit.
You: What? No.
Dean: Then why have I barely seen you all week?
You: Busy. Like, super busy.
Dean: Liar.
You: Rude.
Dean: Come over tonight.
You stared at the message, practically feeling the burn of the tattoo.
Dean: Please?
Dean: I’ll behave
Dean: scouts honour
Your heart squeezed as a chuckle escaped.
You: you were never a scout…
The response came instantly.
Dean: Me and Beau tried - never let us in for some reason
Dean: Tried though and that’s gotta count for something
You: I’ll be there soon
Dean: Knew you’d cave.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile on your face.
⸻
Before you could even knock the door swung open and there he was. Grinning, eyes soft and looking at you like you were his favourite person in the world.
“Hey, babydoll.”
Before you could answer, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him pressing his lips to your head, breathing you in.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mumbled against the strands
“Have not” you muffled into his chest. His shirtless chest.
You could practically see his eyebrows lift in your head.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
“A little?” He let out a breathy chuckle, “baby, you practically vanished.”
Guilt twisted in your stomach, feeling you tense he pulled you inside and shut the door.
“Seriously. What’s going on?”
Nothing. Everything. A very stupid tattoo. You forced a smile.
“Just stressed.”
He studied you for a moment. Early on, Dean had developed an annoying ability to see through your lies.
He sighed, “okay”
Your shoulders dropped in relief. Until he added, “you’re staying tonight.”
“Dean-”
“Nope.”He grabbed your hand, “you owe me. We’re making up for lost time.”
⸻
The way you missed Dean became painfully obvious in the next few hours. You missed the way he constantly touched you, the way he stole bites of your food, the way he made you laugh until your stomach hurt and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
Like you were something precious.
Like loving you was the easiest thing he’d ever done.
By the time midnight rolled around, you almost forgot about the tattoo entirely. Almost.
It wasn’t till you were lying together on his bed with his fingers tracing lazy circles along your side. Your heart nearly stopped.
Thankfully the number lay hidden under your bra strap.
He broke the silence, “I missed you,” he admitted quietly.
Your chest tightened and guilt lined your stomach.
“Yeah?”
He pulled you impossibly closer.
“Yeah.”
The softness his voice made your heart melt, because this wasn’t the Dean everyone else knew. This wasn’t the cocky flirt who’d once been terrified of commitment. This was your Dean.
You tilted your face up, he met you half way. The kiss started slow, soft, comfortable. Your fingers slid into his hair and gave it a tug. The groan rumbled in his chest and the kiss deepened, him moving over you. When you finally broke apart, his lips moved to your neck. Down and down till his hands reached the end of your shirt pulling it off.
You could faintly hear it. The alarm bell ringing in your head. That was until his teeth grazed your hip and hands reached for your bra clasp. And suddenly all you could think was Dean Dean Dean.
You tensed and he pulled back.
“Babydoll?”
You gazed up at him and he tried again.
“Sweetheart?”
Your resolve crumbled.
Maybe if you told him now-
But before you could speak, he kissed you again and every coherent thought vanished.
You felt his smirk against your mouth and before you knew it your bra was flung across the room.
He carried on pressing kisses towards the line of your underwear teasingly slow.
And then he stopped. Because there it was in black ink, impossible to miss to the one person who knows your body.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“Is that…”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Oh my god.”
There it was.
The horror.
The disgust.
The inevitable breakup.
You prepared for impact.
Instead, his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
“Dean?”
Then he looked at you, the expression on his face wasn’t horrified, angry or even shocked anymore.
It was something far more dangerous.
Because Dean looked ridiculously pleased.
“Babydoll…”
You covered your face.
“I was drunk.”
His grin widened and his eyes darkened.
“You got my number tattooed on you.”
“Please stop saying it.”
“You literally have sixty-six on your body.”
“Dean.”
“You’re obsessed with me”
“Di Laurentis I swear-“
He pressed his body against you, you squeezed your eyes shut feeling the warmth. He placed a kiss on your neck before his eyes dropped back to the tattoo.
“I’m getting it removed.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
“Baby…” he groaned.
Your stomach flipped.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“You hate it.”
The words came out before you could stop them.
Dean immediately looked up, “hate it?”
You shrugged, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
“It was stupid.”
“Yeah.”
You frowned opening your mouth to reply.
“It was definitely stupid.” He continued
“Dean.”
“But I don’t hate it” his grin returned.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m absolutely not lying.”
“You should hate it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“Oh absolutely.”
“Dean.”
His eyes sparkled.
“But it’s also kind of hot.”
You nearly choke, “what?!”
“Babydoll I’m fucking obsessed with you. Knowing you’re obsessed with me too? Fuck” he dropped his head, “does it feel like I hate it?” He flexed his hips against yours as blush coated your cheeks and mumbled into your neck about never avoiding him ever again.
summary: when girls keep on trying to get Deans attention, you can’t help but get into your head about it.
request: yes/no
warnings: drinking, swearing
word count: 1.86k
authors note: hey you lot! I have just finished uni for the semester so the updates will be back to a more regular schedule!
The first time you met Dean, you assumed he was flirting as a joke.
Because guys like Dean Di Laurentis didn't look at girls like you.
Not really.
And definitely not twice.
But most certainly not in the way he was looking at you.
You were standing in line at a campus coffee shop, bundled into an oversized sweater, trying very hard not to notice the hockey players who had just walked in.
Then one of them stepped beside you “hey." That voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand.
You looked up.
Dean smiled.
Not a smirk.
Not some cocky grin.
Just a smile that, if you didn’t know any better felt genuine "hi?" You looked behind you as if he was looking through you, only to stupidly be faced with his teammates.
"I've seen you around."
Your immediate thought was that he was either blind or just s
Your second thought was that he was making fun of you.
But then he asked for your name.
And remembered it.
Because he showed up again a few days later.
And then again.
And somehow, against all logic, Dean kept choosing you.
Which six months later, left you still trying to understand why.
Not because Dean gave you any reason to doubt him. It was exact opposite, actually.
He was the most affectionate boyfriend you'd ever seen.
Which for a man that lived and breathed casual, it felt like you were waiting to wake up from this always.
Always touching you.
Always pulling you into his lap.
Always kissing your forehead.
Always looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in every room.
The problem was that your brain refused to let your heart accept it.
Years of insecurity didn't disappear because one beautiful hockey player loved you.
So most of the time they crept back in.
Like tonight.
You and Dean were at a team party.
The house was packed.
Music thumped through the walls.
Girls crowded around the hockey players.
And every few minutes you caught someone staring at Dean.
A blonde near the kitchen.
A brunette by the stairs.
Another girl who literally laughed and touched his arm while he was talking.
You knew Dean wasn't encouraging it because you knew he loved you.
But the little voice in your head was being particularly cruel tonight.
Look at them.
Look at you.
Of course they'd want him.
Why wouldn't they?
You found yourself drifting toward a quieter hallway.
Just for a minute.
Just to breathe.
Your feet carried you up to his room, the place you found yourself most nights.
A few minutes later you heard footsteps.
Then Dean's voice "thought I’d have to get some missing posters up soon.” You looked up to see him holding two drinks.
One for him.
One for you.
You forced a smile as your fingers dropped your bracelet “hey.” Dean immediately narrowed his eyes.
He knew you too well. In the few short months that you had been together, this man could read you like a book "what’s wrong?" He cocked his head as he shut the door behind him.
Dean handed you your drink as you frowned “it’s nothing.” You shook your head.
The boy crouched down in front of you “liar." He rested his hand on your knee as you looked away.
You knew it was one of those things that shouldn’t have been picking at your heart but it rang in your ears "it’s stupid." You pursed your lips together as you sucked at your teeth.
Deans fingers traced random shapes on the inside of your thigh "tell me anyway." You twisted the cup in your hands, clearly letting the mental coin toss play in your head.
He waited.
Patiently.
Eventually you sighed.
Tugging your fingers through your hair "I just-" You sipped at your drink as if it could buy you time.
Because you hated saying it out loud "I don't know." You shrugged almost wishing that he hadn’t caught you upstairs.
Dean stayed quiet.
So you continued "I look around at girls at these parties and they're all gorgeous." Your voice got smaller trying not to look stupid “then there's me."
Dean's entire face fell.
Not in annoyance.
In heartbreak.
Like hearing that hurt his soul “baby.” His hands pulled away from you.
As if he was walking on a tight rope trying to avoid hurting you.
You shrugged "it’s fine." You tried to convince yourself that it was normal to feel that way.
Dean was quick to disagree with you “it is absolutely not fine." You laughed weakly as you picked at the edge of your nail.
"It's not your problem."
The words didn’t get a chance to hang in the air before Dean decided that he had enough "the hell it isn't." Dean set his drink down on the floor and turned fully toward you.
His hands rested on your thighs "look at me." You hesitated and it made him repeat himself.
"Look at me."
So you did.
His expression was unbelievably serious "you think I settled for you?" He cocked his head as you almost looked annoyed.
Your eyes widened "what? No-" you went to explain yourself but he cut you off.
Dean wasn’t trying to argue with you but he really wanted to make sure that you got what he was saying “that's what you're saying." The hockey player sucked at his teeth “you think I looked at every girl on campus and somehow ended up with you by accident?"
You blinked as Dean leaned closer "I chose you." His words were both sweet and somehow effortless at the same time.
Your heart throbbed “Dean,” you couldn’t help it when you cracked a small smile.
His voice was barely a whisper “please listen to me.” His hand found yours as his squeezed.
It was as if you could hear a pin drop in here that’s how quiet Deans room was around you both "I like the way you laugh." Another finger intertwined with yours.
Still your heart pounded in your chest "I like the way you get excited when you're talking about something." All of the guys were used to listening to your tangents about what meats go on a sandwich or why the boys picked the wrong star in whatever Real Housewives collection they let you put on.
He licked his lips before he continued "I like that you snort when something's actually funny." You groaned knowing that it was something that he really wouldn’t let you live down.
Dean smiled as he nodded "I like every inch of you." Heat flooded your face as you scrunched your nose.
You sounded like a teen boy that had just been smothered in kisses by their grandmother "Dean." Your eyes rolled trying to act like you didn’t feel like you were drowning in love.
If you gave him the chance he’d kiss every inch of your body he’d do it "I do." Dean brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed your fingers.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles "you’re beautiful." You shook your head automatically.
Dean immediately caught it "nope." He narrowed his eyes at you like he had all the time in the world to deal with this.
"Dean-“
"No." He poked your cheek cutting you off "you don't get to argue with me about my own girlfriend." You laughed despite yourself.
"That's not how that works."
He stuck his tongue out at you "it is,” as he nodded.
"It isn't."
The two of you sounded like children "it absolutely is." His arm wrapped around your waist.
Strong.
Secure.
Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.
"Besides."
He lowered his voice “do you know how obsessed I am with you?" His words sent shivers down your spine, shooting straight to your core.
You covered your face "oh my God." You shook your head as it was buried in your hands
"I'm serious."
You held back a laugh "you're ridiculous." Your cheeks were sore as you wanted his bed to swallow you.
Dean pulled your hands away as he wanted to see you "I am." He kissed your nose.
He had that smug look on his face as he had your total attention “but I'm also right." It was the truth.
Then your forehead.
Then your cheek.
Then finally your lips.
Slow.
Soft.
Patient.
The kind of kiss that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold winters morning.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “you know what I see when I look at you?" You swallowed almost nervous about what you’d hear.
"What?"
His eyes dropped to your stomach before they quickly went back to your eyes “the girl I want to come home to." Your chest tightened as you knew all about how he wanted three kids.
His thumb drew circles against your wrist “who I want in my jersey at every game." Getting to see you sat in the crowd was almost just as good as getting to get you out of the jersey.
Another kiss on your lips.
He stopped as he took the chance to really look at you, "the girl I can't stop thinking about." His voice was soft as if he was worried he’d scare you.
And just like that he was ready to hit what felt like the nail in the coffin "the girl I love." Your eyes immediately filled and Dean noticed instantly.
"Oh no."
You laughed.
You raised your hand to stop him "don’t." You blinked rapidly to avoid tears falling.
He was quick to tease you "oh, she's crying." You sniffled as you shook your head.
"I'm not crying."
The hockey player laughed as he shook his head "she’s definitely crying." You shoved his shoulder.
Dean grinned as he sat down next to you, quickly pulling you onto his lap.
The moment you settled against him, he wrapped both arms around your middle and squeezed.
Tight and protective.
Like he was proud to be holding you.
Like he wanted the entire world to know you were his “you know," he murmured into your hair, "those girls at the party?" You groaned, shoving your head into the crook of his neck.
The boy grinned as he ran his fingers through your hair “they can look." If anything he enjoyed getting the chance to show you off.
He didn’t stop there, no he was actually convinced he was going to be the most insufferable boyfriend that day “they can stare." It made him smirk how you squirmed.
Your cheeks reddened as you whined, "stop." He laughed as he shook his head.
His fingers danced over the waist of your pants "because at the end of the day?" His lips brushed your temple as he let out a soft breath.
Dean let his fingers rest under your chin as he forced you to look at him "I get the girl I want." That was more than any public claim mattered.
And somehow, tucked safely against his chest while he held you like the most precious thing he'd ever touched, you almost believed him when he said it.
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
