notes: part one, angst, exes, no use of y/n, i know i promised a happy ending but part two is coming i swear 🫣
Growing up, you didn't believe in fairytales and soulmates and you certainly weren’t naive enough to think that high school relationships lasted forever. Until you met Dean. You fell hard and fast and he dove head first in with you. You were just kids when you met, barely 16, but you knew enough to know that the love you had for him was real and all-consuming. You’d gotten so used to having him as a fixture in your life that as graduation loomed closer, you thought you could ignore the pit in your stomach telling you it was the end.
You desperately tried to reason with Dean that you'd be perfectly happy at Briar, with him. But he found the scholarship letter from your dream university across the country and wouldn't have it. You both sat in his car, red-eyed and quiet, when it happened. “We could do long distance,” you tried, for maybe the dozenth time that night.
“We’d resent each other eventually. Every missed call and missed flight, it would build up,” his voice was hollow with his dozenth excuse of the night. You wanted to argue and tell him he was wrong, but you couldn't. That was the heartbreaking part, you knew he was right.
You agreed to keep in touch and maybe reconnect after you both finished your first year of college, but truthfully, the texts had stopped after the second week apart. You knew it wasn't because you had stopped loving each other, but because it hurt too much to dangle what you wanted in front of your face when you couldn't have it. Sometimes, you wished you had ended on bad terms. You wished you had a reason to hate him, to stop loving him.
That was three years ago. And you believed in the saying that time heals all wounds, but you also knew that first loves did cut the deepest. Dean was like a little scar on the back of your knee that you didn't always think about, but when you hit a certain spot or smelled a certain smell, it all hit you at once. You had dated since then, even had successful flings once or twice, but nothing ever got very far. You usually made it to the six month mark when the guy you were seeing wanted to take the next step and you tried to picture a future with him, but were caught up on blond hair and green eyes every time.
Dean had done the exact opposite of trying to date. He kept every hookup casual and locked all of his feelings for you up in a steel box deep in the back of his chest. It worked, for the most part. He avoided girls that reminded him of you and pretended not to stalk your Instagram, looking for signs that you had moved on. Then he met Allie, who had a sense of humor close enough to yours to make his head spin when she was around. In terms of looks, you were complete opposites, but Dean found that his feelings for Allie were the closest thing he’d felt to anything real since you.
And things had almost gotten far enough for him to picture it - a relationship with someone else. He could picture himself falling for Allie and having something real with her. So when it all came crashing down around him at Malone’s, he felt like he was hitting rock bottom all over again. And it wasn't even really Allie’s fault, it’s not like he ever opened up to her about you. It's not like she knew that she had the power to break his heart just by doing exactly what she said she would and sleeping with someone else. Not just someone else. Hunter Davenport. An extra twist of the knife in his gut.
You had pictured a million ways that you would run into Dean Di Laurentis again. You pictured bumping into him in a grocery store, finding yourselves back in your hometown during the holidays, every cheesy scenario you'd seen in a rom com, you pictured it. But you absolutely didn't picture finding him again sitting on the curb outside of a bar in handcuffs with a busted lip. Yet, there you were.
You noticed him before he noticed you. He was too distracted yelling across the sidewalk at another guy who was giving his statement to a police officer. There was an officer in front of him, trying to get him to calm down, but you knew Dean was nowhere near calm. You could see it in the red flush rising up his neck and the clench of his jaw. Before you could stop yourself or force yourself to think your actions through, you were leaving your group of friends and crossing the street to him.
“Dean?” You asked, shock clear in your voice like you weren't actually sure if it was him. He lifted his head towards you with his brows furrowed in confusion, but froze when he saw your face. He looked like shit, his lip was busted, his hair was a mess, and he was literally handcuffed on a curb. But when your eyes met, you didn't notice any of it, or maybe just didn't care. “Is everything okay? I can't say I expected to run into you like this,” you chuckled awkwardly and ran a hand through your hair, suddenly forgetting how to have a normal conversation with him.
“Uh,” he cleared his throat and looked around, maybe for someone else to witness that you were really here, talking to him, “shit, yeah, no. I mean, I'm fine, it's kind of a long fucking story, but… wow. I can't believe you're here, tonight of all nights,” he let out a breathless laugh and suddenly he didn't really care about kicking Hunter’s ass.
“Fuck, I'd really love to catch up, but I've obviously got my hands full at the moment,” he raised his arms slightly behind his back where they were cuffed and you had to cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh. Only Dean could make light of a situation like this, you thought. “But, how long are you in town? Can I call you? We could grab coffee or-” He cut himself off when a girl ran over to them, someone he clearly knew.
She looked like she'd been crying all night and she reached for Dean with a familiarity that left a sour taste in your mouth. She was pretty even with tear-stained cheeks and you found yourself hating the jealousy that ran through you. You lost the right to jealousy years ago, who were you to show up years later and judge a girl that you didn't even know?
“Dean, I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea who he was and- and we agreed! I was just keeping my end of the deal,” she talked a million miles a minute, not even realizing you were there until Dean’s eyes flicked back towards you. She looked between the two of you with a questioning gaze, but before she could ask any questions you were stepping back from them.
“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” you rushed out, refusing to meet his eyes as you mumbled out another apology. “Uh, you guys are clearly in the middle of something so I'm just gonna, yeah,” you jerked your thumb behind you somewhere before spinning on your heel and speed walking back to your group of friends. You thought you heard Dean calling your name after you, but you didn't dare turn around to find out.
Summary: One party. One unexpected connection. One morning where you leave before he wakes up, convinced you're saving yourself the heartbreak.
Except dean was hoping you'd stay.
note: super angsty dean short fic <B. I love a man who has to suffer lol, finished fic releasing one part each night!
Link to Other Parts || masterlist
PART l
You had been at the party for exactly forty-three minutes when you decided you had officially stayed long enough to leave without seeming rude.
Not that anyone would notice.
The thought came quietly, without bitterness. You had become good at slipping in and out of places without drawing attention. Lecture halls, dining rooms, dorm gatherings. You occupied space carefully, always conscious of where you stood and whether you were blocking someone’s way.
The hockey house was packed.
Music shook the walls, loud enough to pulse beneath your shoes, and every room seemed to hold twice as many people as it reasonably should. Someone had opened the windows despite the cold, but the air still smelled like beer, perfume, and too many bodies pressed close together.
Your roommate had promised she would stay with you.
She had said it three times while doing her makeup.
“We’ll go together, stay for an hour, and leave together.”
Twenty minutes after arriving, she had disappeared upstairs with a boy whose name you did not know.
You had received a text shortly afterward.
Don’t wait up! Love you!!!
You doubted she did.
Not in a cruel way. She simply did not know you well enough to love you. You had been assigned to live together at the beginning of the semester, and although she was friendly, there was a difference between being friendly and being friends.
You had learned that difference slowly.
You stood near the edge of the kitchen, holding a plastic cup filled with something fruity and overly sweet. You had taken two cautious sips before deciding you did not like it, but keeping it in your hand gave you something to do.
Around you, people shouted over the music.
A group of girls near the refrigerator laughed loudly at something one of them said. Two boys were arguing about a game you had not watched. Someone stumbled into you, sloshing beer over the back of your hand, and barely paused long enough to mutter an apology.
You wiped your fingers against the side of your jeans.
Forty-four minutes.
You could leave now.
You had already opened your phone to request a ride when someone spoke beside you.
“You look like you’re planning a prison break.”
You glanced up.
And then farther up.
Dean Di Laurentis stood beside you with one shoulder resting against the kitchen counter, a lazy smile curving across his face.
You knew who he was.
Everyone at Briar knew who Dean was.
Even if you had somehow missed the hockey games, the campus newspaper articles, and the stories repeated in whispered tones at parties, it would have been difficult not to notice him.
He was tall, blond, and unfairly handsome in the polished sort of way that made him look as though he had stepped out of an advertisement. His pale sweater fit him perfectly, pushed up at the forearms, and there was a confidence in the way he carried himself that suggested he had never once entered a room and wondered whether he belonged there.
You immediately became aware of everything you were doing.
The way your hair had started to frizz near your temples.
The awkward bend of your elbow.
The fact that you had been staring at your phone like it contained emergency evacuation instructions.
“I wasn’t planning a prison break,” you said.
Dean glanced at your phone.
“You were looking at ride prices with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.”
You locked the screen.
“I was thinking about leaving.”
“Already?”
“I’ve been here almost an hour.”
He looked around the crowded kitchen as if taking inventory.
“Honestly, that might be enough.”
You stared at him.
That was not the response you had expected.
Dean lifted his own cup toward the room.
“Someone broke a lamp twenty minutes ago, Garrett is threatening to ban half the freshman class from the house, and I’m pretty sure there’s a guy crying in the laundry room.”
“Why is he crying?”
“No idea. I didn’t ask. He looked like he needed privacy.”
A surprised laugh escaped you.
Dean’s smile widened.
It was not the practised grin you had seen him give girls across campus. It looked warmer up close. Less calculated.
“There it is,” he said.
You frowned. “What?”
“I was starting to think you couldn’t smile.”
Your face heated.
“I smile.”
“I believe you now.”
You looked down at your cup, suddenly wishing you had left two minutes earlier.
He must have noticed the shift because his expression softened.
“That came out wrong,” he said. “I only meant you looked miserable.”
“That isn’t much better.”
“You’re right.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I’m doing terribly.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Dean leaned closer, though not enough to crowd you.
“Can I start over?”
“You can try.”
He straightened and extended his hand with exaggerated formality.
“Hi. I’m Dean.”
You looked at his hand.
“I know.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“Everyone knows who you are.”
“Good things, I assume.”
You raised your eyebrows.
He sighed.
“Devastating.”
You hesitated before slipping your hand into his.
You told him your name.
His fingers closed around yours briefly, warm and gentle.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.
Something about the way he said it made the words feel sincere.
You pulled your hand away before you could think too much about it.
Dean gestured toward your cup.
“What are you drinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s concerning.”
“My roommate handed it to me.”
“Where’s your roommate?”
“Upstairs.”
He followed your gaze toward the ceiling, understanding arriving quickly.
“And she left you down here alone?”
“She didn’t force me to stay.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You shifted your weight.
“She wanted to have fun.”
“And you don’t?”
“I do.”
Dean looked around again.
“Just not like this?”
You nodded.
He studied you for a second, not in a way that made you feel inspected, but as if he were genuinely considering what you had said.
“What do you do for fun?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“You said you like having fun. What does that look like?”
You almost asked whether he was making fun of you, but his face held only curiosity.
“I read.”
“Scandalous.”
“I go to the movies.”
“Alone?”
“Usually.”
He frowned slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it.
Not because there was anything wrong with going to the movies alone. You told yourself that often enough. But people tended to react in one of two ways: pity or disbelief.
Dean surprised you again.
“What was the last thing you saw?”
You told him.
He had seen it too.
Within a few minutes, the party receded around you.
He had strong opinions about the ending. You disagreed with nearly all of them. He accused you of defending a character who had made objectively terrible choices, and you argued that he was ignoring the entire point of the story.
“You’re wrong,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are, but it’s cute that you’re committed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you always become condescending when someone disagrees with you?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“You must be condescending a lot, then.”
He grinned.
“There she is again.”
You tried not to smile.
You failed.
Dean took your untouched drink and exchanged it for a sealed bottle of water from the refrigerator. He did not make a comment about it or ask whether you had had too much. He simply handed you the bottle and continued talking.
You noticed things about him gradually.
He listened.
Actually listened.
When you mentioned transferring to Briar, he asked why. When you said your previous school had not been a good fit, he did not push for details. When you told him your major, he asked what you wanted to do with it rather than making the same tired joke everyone else made.
You learned that he was studying history.
You had not expected that.
“You sound surprised,” he said.
“I am.”
“You thought I was majoring in hockey?”
“I thought you were majoring in parties.”
“That’s my minor.”
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed.
People interrupted him constantly.
A girl touched his arm and asked him to dance. One of his teammates shouted something from the living room. A boy you vaguely recognized wanted to know where the extra cups were.
Dean responded to each of them, but he always turned back to you.
As if the conversation had not ended.
As if you had not become invisible the moment someone more interesting appeared.
It was such a small thing.
It should not have mattered as much as it did.
After nearly an hour, the kitchen became too crowded to breathe comfortably.
Dean noticed before you said anything.
“Want to go somewhere quieter?”
The question sent a small pulse of alarm through you.
He seemed to read it immediately.
“The porch,” he clarified. “Not a bedroom.”
Mortification flooded your face.
“I didn’t think—”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
You looked away.
Dean smiled, but there was no cruelty in it.
“We can stay here.”
The kitchen erupted into shouting as someone attempted to climb onto the counter.
You winced.
“The porch is fine.”
He led you through the crowd without touching you until someone stumbled into your path. Then his hand settled lightly at the small of your back.
It was barely there.
Still, you felt it through the fabric of your sweater.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold.
You inhaled deeply.
The porch wrapped around the side of the house, dimly lit and mostly empty. Music still filtered through the walls, but it was muted now. The night felt calmer beyond the glow of the windows.
Dean dropped onto the top step and looked up at you.
“You can sit. I don’t bite.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
He stared at you for one stunned second before laughing.
The sound was bright and genuine.
You smiled despite yourself and sat beside him, leaving a careful amount of space between you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You watched your breath fog in front of you.
Dean leaned back on his hands.
“So why did you really come tonight?”
“My roommate asked me.”
“That’s the only reason?”
You considered lying.
Instead, you shrugged.
“I thought maybe I should try harder.”
“At parties?”
“At meeting people.”
His expression changed.
Only slightly, but enough for you to notice.
“You don’t know many people here?”
“I know people.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
You picked at the corner of the water bottle label.
“I transferred at the beginning of the semester. Everyone already had their groups. It’s hard to join when people have known each other for years.”
Dean was quiet.
You worried you had made the conversation uncomfortable.
You usually did that eventually. People liked quiet girls until the quietness revealed itself to be something heavier. Loneliness made others uneasy when spoken aloud.
You rushed to soften it.
“It’s fine. I like being alone.”
“Sometimes,” he said.
You glanced at him.
Dean’s gaze rested on the dark yard ahead of you.
“Sometimes you like being alone,” he continued. “Other times, you’re alone because no one thought to invite you.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked down.
“That sounded depressing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s just…”
“Accurate?”
You nodded.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Then Dean bumped his shoulder against yours.
“Tonight wasn’t a complete failure.”
“No?”
“You met me.”
You let out a small laugh.
“And you’re very humble.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.”
“I don’t think you know what humble means.”
“I’m a history major, not an English major.”
“That excuse doesn’t work.”
“It was worth trying.”
You smiled at your shoes.
His shoulder remained against yours.
You did not move away.
The conversation shifted again. Somehow, you ended up telling him about getting lost during orientation and walking into the wrong lecture hall. He told you about accidentally calling one of his professors “Dad” during freshman year.
“You did not.”
“I did.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Full lecture hall.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Your mother and I are disappointed in you.’”
You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.
Dean watched you.
The laughter faded when you realized he was staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
The air between you changed.
Not suddenly.
It had been changing all night, growing warmer beneath the jokes and easy conversation, but now there was nowhere else to look.
Dean’s eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.
Your pulse jumped.
You knew his reputation.
You had heard the stories.
Dean Di Laurentis did not flirt without purpose. He did not sit on cold porch steps discussing movies and embarrassing freshman memories because he wanted friendship.
You should have stood.
You should have thanked him for the conversation and ordered your ride.
Instead, you remained still.
Dean lifted one hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your cheek.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You keep telling me how I feel.”
“You keep lying.”
You swallowed.
His thumb lingered near your jaw.
“Tell me to stop.”
You should have.
Instead, you whispered, “I don’t want you to.”
Dean’s expression softened.
Then he kissed you.
You had expected confidence.
You had expected him to kiss like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and knew that you knew it too.
You had not expected gentleness.
His mouth moved slowly against yours, warm and careful. He did not pull you closer until you leaned toward him first. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck while the other settled at your waist.
The kiss deepened.
Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater.
Dean smiled against your mouth.
“What?” you murmured.
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I know.”
“That’s distracting.”
“Sorry.”
He kissed you again, and he did not sound sorry at all.
The porch door swung open.
Cold light spilled across the steps.
“Dean, have you seen—”
The boy stopped.
You jumped away so quickly you nearly dropped the water bottle.
Dean turned, visibly annoyed.
“Logan.”
Logan’s gaze moved between the two of you.
A slow grin appeared.
“I didn’t see anything.”
“You’re currently looking directly at us.”
“I’m going blind as we speak.”
“Go away.”
Logan lifted both hands.
“Garrett wants to know where the spare keg is.”
“In the garage.”
“Thanks.”
He disappeared inside, still grinning.
You covered your face with both hands.
Dean laughed.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Your friend is going to tell everyone.”
“Logan has walked in on much worse.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
Dean gently pulled your hands away from your face.
“Hey.”
You looked at him reluctantly.
“No one’s going to bother you.”
You believed he meant it.
That frightened you more than if he had been careless.
Because this was supposed to be simple.
He was Dean.
You were a girl he had met at a party.
You knew how this worked.
You knew better than to confuse attention with affection.
Still, when he asked whether you wanted to leave the porch, you did not say no.
His room was quieter than the rest of the house.
You stood just inside the doorway while Dean closed it behind you, leaving the noise on the other side.
For the first time all night, uncertainty crossed his face.
It disappeared quickly, but you saw it.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He stepped closer.
“Do you?”
You nodded.
Dean studied you for a moment.
Then he reached for your hand.
His fingers threaded through yours.
“Tell me what you want.”
No one had ever asked you like that before.
Not as a challenge.
Not impatiently.
As if the answer mattered.
You looked at him, at the boy everyone claimed never cared enough to ask.
“You,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened.
He kissed you again.
The rest of the night became a collection of soft, blurred moments.
Quiet laughter when your knee bumped awkwardly against his.
His forehead resting against yours.
The way he asked if you were all right and waited for an answer.
The unexpected tenderness of his hands.
The room growing still around you.
And eventually, sleep.
You woke before sunrise.
For a few seconds, you did not know where you were.
The room was dark except for the faint gray light filtering through the curtains. A heavy comforter covered you, warmer than the thin blanket in your dorm. Something solid rested against your waist.
Then you remembered.
Dean slept beside you.
He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm curved loosely across the space where your body had been. His blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and without the easy smile or bright confidence, he looked younger.
Softer.
You watched him breathe.
A dangerous warmth opened in your chest.
Last night returned in pieces.
The porch.
His laugh.
The way he had listened to you.
The way he had looked at you as though you were someone worth noticing.
You turned toward him.
For one foolish moment, you imagined staying.
You imagined him waking and smiling when he saw you. Maybe you would talk for a while. Maybe he would remember the things you had told him. Maybe he would ask to see you again.
Then reality settled over you.
You knew who he was.
More importantly, you knew who you were.
Dean Di Laurentis woke beside beautiful, confident girls who understood the rules. Girls who could leave smiling because they had never expected anything more.
You were already making last night mean too much.
You could feel it happening.
The way your heart had tightened when he asked what you did for fun. The way you had stored every small kindness as though it were rare.
For him, it had probably been easy.
Dean was charming because charm came naturally to him. He made people feel special because he knew how.
That did not mean you were special.
The thought hurt, though it should not have.
You had agreed to one night.
He had never promised more.
The kindest thing you could do for both of you was leave before he had to make that clear.
Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out of bed.
Dean shifted.
You froze.
He murmured something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
Your chest ached.
You found your clothes quietly.
His sweater lay across the desk chair, and for a moment, you remembered him draping it around your shoulders when you had complained about the cold.
You picked it up.
The fabric still smelled faintly like him.
You almost put it on.
The thought was so embarrassing that you folded it instead, smoothing the sleeves before placing it neatly on the chair.
Your phone had several messages.
Two from your roommate.
One asking whether you were safe.
Another, sent an hour later, containing nothing but several question marks and a winking face.
You ignored them.
Before leaving, you looked back at Dean.
You considered writing a note.
Thank you for last night.
Too formal.
I had a nice time.
Too hopeful.
Maybe I’ll see you around.
Too pathetic.
You opened the door without writing anything.
The hallway was empty.
Downstairs, the house looked different in the early morning. Cups covered every surface. Someone was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing. The air smelled stale and sour.
You stepped outside.
The cold hit your face immediately.
By the time your ride arrived, the sky had begun to lighten.
You did not look back.
Dean woke reaching for you.
His hand moved across the sheets, searching for warmth.
He found only an empty space.
His eyes opened.
For a moment, he thought you might be in the bathroom.
He rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling while the memories of the night before returned.
You laughing on the porch.
Your fingers curled into his sweater.
The sleepy way you had said his name.
A smile formed before he could stop it.
He had not planned anything beyond the party.
He rarely did.
But he wanted breakfast.
He wanted to know whether you drank coffee.
He wanted to finish the argument about the movie because you were still wrong and he had thought of three more reasons to prove it.
The bathroom door stood open.
Empty.
Dean sat up.
Your clothes were gone.
His sweater had been folded carefully on the chair.
He stared at it.
Something unpleasant shifted in his chest.
“Hello?”
The room remained silent.
He checked his phone.
Nothing.
He had given you his number at some point, hadn’t he?
No.
He frowned.
He had been too busy talking. Too busy kissing you. Too certain there would be time in the morning.
Dean got out of bed and pulled on sweatpants.
He checked the hallway.
Then the kitchen.
Then, absurdly, the porch.
You were gone.
No note.
No number.
Nothing.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the door.
This was new.
Girls did not usually leave before he woke up.
Some did, of course. He was not arrogant enough to think it had never happened. But usually there was a text. A number written on a receipt. A teasing message sent later.
You had disappeared as if the night had never happened.
Logan wandered into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and boxers.
He stopped when he saw Dean.
“You look weird.”
Dean ignored him.
Logan opened the refrigerator.
“Where’s your friend?”
“Gone.”
Logan glanced over his shoulder.
“Already?”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Apparently.”
“You get her number?”
“No.”
Logan slowly closed the refrigerator.
“You didn’t get her number?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
Logan looked around the empty kitchen.
“Solid plan.”
“Shut up.”
Dean poured himself coffee from the pot someone had left on overnight, took one sip, and immediately poured it into the sink.
Logan leaned against the counter.
“What was her name?”
Dean told him.
“Do you know her last name?”
“No.”
“Major?”
Dean answered.
“Dorm?”
Dean hesitated.
“No.”
Logan stared.
“Wow.”
“Why do you keep saying it like that?”
“Because you usually know everything about a girl within five minutes.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is absolutely true.”
Dean dragged a hand through his hair.
He could still hear your voice.
You had told him you transferred. You had told him what you studied. You had mentioned a lecture building and a professor you liked, but he could not remember the professor’s name.
He should have asked more.
He thought he had.
He thought there would be more time.
Logan’s amusement faded.
“Do you want to see her again?”
Dean looked toward the front door.
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Logan noticed.
His eyebrows rose.
Dean pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ask whether you had finally developed human emotions.”
“Go put on pants.”
Logan grinned.
“This is incredible.”
“There is nothing incredible happening.”
“You like her.”
“I met her last night.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“You checked the porch.”
Dean went still.
Logan’s grin widened.
“I saw you through the window.”
“I thought she might be outside.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you were hoping she hadn’t actually left.”
Dean hated him.
He hated that Logan was right more.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Garrett entered the kitchen, looking exhausted.
“Why are you two arguing before nine in the morning?”
“Dean has a crush,” Logan said.
“I do not.”
Garrett paused.
He looked at Dean.
Then at Logan.
“On who?”
“No one.”
“The girl from last night,” Logan supplied.
Garrett opened a cabinet.
“The quiet one?”
Dean frowned. “You saw her?”
“She was sitting with you on the porch.”
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
Dean’s shoulders fell before he could hide it.
Garrett noticed.
He turned slowly.
“Wait.”
Dean reached for a clean mug.
“Don’t.”
“You actually want to find her?”
“I said don’t.”
Garrett smiled.
It was worse than Logan’s grin because Garrett looked genuinely delighted.
“Dean Di Laurentis has been ghosted.”
“I have not been ghosted.”
“She left without giving you her number.”
“We forgot.”
“You forgot?”
“We were talking.”
Both boys stared at him.
Dean’s irritation sharpened.
“What?”
Logan looked at Garrett.
“He didn’t get her number because they were talking.”
Garrett nodded solemnly.
“This is serious.”
“You’re both idiots.”
Dean abandoned the mug and headed for the stairs.
Behind him, Garrett called, “What does she look like?”
Dean stopped.
He turned despite himself.
Garrett’s expression was still amused, but there was something helpful beneath it.
“If we see her around campus,” he said, “we can tell you.”
Dean described you.
He began with your hair.
Then your eyes.
The sweater you had worn.
The way you tucked your hands into the sleeves when you were nervous.
Logan’s amusement slowly disappeared.
Garrett stared at him.
Dean realized he had said too much.
He cleared his throat.
“She’s short,” he finished. “Quiet.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched.
“Very helpful.”
Dean flipped him off and went upstairs.
His room felt wrong when he returned.
Too quiet.
He picked up the sweater from the chair and unfolded it.
One strand of your hair clung to the fabric.
He brushed it away.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.
He searched your first name.
Too many results.
He added Briar.
More results appeared, but none were you.
He tried your major.
Nothing.
Dean dropped the phone beside him.
This was ridiculous.
He barely knew you.
One night did not mean anything.
He had spent countless nights with girls he never saw again. That was the arrangement. No expectations. No disappointment. Everyone left happy.
You had left.
So why did it feel different?
He looked at the empty side of the bed.
Because he had not wanted you to.
The realization sat heavily in his chest.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he had gone to sleep beside someone already looking forward to the morning.
And you had vanished before it arrived.
You avoided the hockey house after that.
It was not difficult.
You had never gone there before, and you had no reason to return. Your roommate asked questions for nearly three days, but you gave vague answers until she lost interest.
You had met someone.
You had left with him.
It was fine.
You were fine.
You repeated that last part often.
In the mornings, while getting dressed for class.
At night, when the dorm became too quiet.
Whenever you saw blond hair across the quad and your heart reacted before your mind could correct it.
You did not regret the night.
That was the problem.
You remembered too much of it too fondly.
You remembered how Dean had made space for you in every conversation. How he had noticed when the kitchen became overwhelming. How carefully he had touched you.
You had expected to feel embarrassed afterward.
Instead, you felt lonely.
Lonelier than before because now you had something to compare it to.
For one night, someone had seen you.
Then you had left before he could look closely enough to change his mind.
It was better that way.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
Dean would move on quickly.
He might not even remember your name.
And eventually, you would stop glancing toward every crowded room, searching for him despite praying he would not be there.
You would return to your quiet routines.
Classes.
The library.
Dinner alone with a book propped open beside your plate.
You would become invisible again.
It had always been safer that way.
What you did not know was that across campus, Dean Di Laurentis had begun looking for you everywhere.
And each day he failed to find you, he became a little less convinced that one night had been enough.
⌯⌲ SYNOPSIS: When you find yourself in Dean Di Laurentis’ bed, you’re over the moon about it. You’d liked him for so long, it felt like a dream when he’d asked if you wanted to spend a night with him… But that dream is quickly crushed, along with your heart, when you overhear a conversation Dean and Allie Hayes have.
⌯⌲ CONTENT: 18+ — mentions of sexual situations, not in detail. angst. dean uses reader. strong language.
“So you slept with the Dean Di Laurentis? Don’t just leave me hanging girl, how was it?!” your best friend squeals, making you laugh while also shushing her.
“Calm down, I’ll give you the details,” you pause, looking up to see Dean entering the library, a small smile tilting your lips as memories from the night before flash through your mind. “Tomorrow though, I gotta go, love you!”
Gathering your books, papers and pens, you shove everything into your bag, quickly standing from your chair. Your best friend looks in the direction your attention is glued to, a mischievous smile tilting her lips now.
“Oh, I see you, girl. Dirty details later, don’t think you’re getting out of this one Y/L/N!”
You narrow your eyes, playfully giving her the middle finger before you turn and head straight towards Dean.
He’s standing at the very back of the library now, tucked away behind large, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with books ranging from old as dirt to brand new. You inch closer to Dean, ready to talk to him about last night, but the conversation he’s already having with none other than Allie Hayes, stops you dead in your tracks.
“I completed the assignment, Allie-Cat, and I have to be completely honest, I didn’t really feel good doing it.”
Allie scoffs, her brown eyes shining with amusement as she looks back at Dean. “Oh, come on, Dean. You were this campuses biggest playboy when I first met you, I don’t believe for a second you didn’t enjoy whoever you slept with last night.”
Her words are like a knife to your heart. They’re discussing you. They’re discussing what you and Dean did last night, and Dean called it an “assignment”, what the fuck does that even mean?
Dean steps closer to Allie, his hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her wild, curly hair behind her ear. The way she looks at him… eyes full of adoration. How could you have been so blind? So stupid?
You’ve liked Dean for as long as you can remember, so when he came up to you at Malone’s last night, bought you a drink and charmed the pants off of you — literally — you thought it meant he liked you.
Not that you were some fucking assignment, which you’re still unsure what the hell that even means.
“I like you, Al, I told you this. I completed the stupid assignment because you did. You said if I completed it, we’d be even, and then we could move forward, so why are you-”
You can’t listen to anymore, you make your presence known, stepping into view of both Allie and Dean.
Clearing your throat, you lock eyes with a very stunned Dean.
“What the hell is the assignment you completed, and why am I somehow part of this?”
Dean stutters, his blue eyes wide as they volley back and forth between you and Allie.
You raise a single brow, placing one hand on your hip, waiting on him to explain.
“Any fucking day now would be great, Dean. Why the hell are you telling Allie you ‘completed the assignment’ and she’s saying you enjoyed whoever you slept with. You slept with me last night, so please, explain any fucking time.”
“Okay, listen..” Dean begins, but Allie quickly cuts him off.
“I’m sorry, you didn’t tell her that it wasn’t going to be more than sex, Dean?”
Dean’s pretty eyes find Allie, looking shameful as he says, “It didn’t really come up, no, but I also didn’t even want to complete your stupid assignment and didn’t think about saying anything because I knew what it was for me.”
Allie blinks, her eyes wide with bewilderment at what Dean just said.
“Dean, girls have bigger feelings than… boys.” she points at him, her hand waving up and down while she does. “You needed to be transparent with her, now you’ve probably hurt this poor girls feelings.”
Your narrowed eyes slide to Allie, not necessarily angry at her, but not liking being considered a “poor girl”, that just makes it seem like you’re someone who needs to be pitied, and you don’t want that.
“Okay, listen, yeah it sucks, but I don’t want or need your pity, I’m just waiting on Dean here to explain himself.”
Dean sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His blue eyes lock on yours, finally giving you the explanation you’ve been waiting on.
“I didn’t mean to use you, my intentions weren’t to hurt you either, I just…” he runs his hand through his hair again. “Allie and I started a no-strings attached type of relationship a few months back, we both started catching feelings, but she wasn’t ready for that, so we made a pact, kind of, we called it the assignment.” Dean pauses to take a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he gathers his thoughts.
“The assignment was basically for each of us to sleep with someone else to prove the feelings weren’t that strong, that we could remain no-strings. You were the girl I was drawn to last night, so, while yes you were my way of completing the assignment, I really was into you… I know that probably doesn’t make anything better, but, you weren’t just a girl I used, I mean.. not really at least.”
You scoff. His explanation makes sense in a way, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did use you. He may not have intended to use you, or hurt your feelings, but the bottom line is, he wasn’t upfront and honest with you. He didn’t tell you what last night was, and that is just plain unacceptable.
“So I was just, what? A game basically? You sleep with me, prove to Allie you don’t have strong feelings for her and the two of you can continue your friends with benefits relationship? I mean seriously, Dean, did you just not think I’d ever find out? That I wouldn’t want to talk to you today?”
Dean lets out another sigh, a look of defeat on his face. “I’m sorry, I truly wasn’t thinking. I never meant for this to happen.”
Rolling your eyes, you grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Fuck you, Dean. I truly didn’t ever want to believe the shit that’s said about you around this campus, but of course, that was just plain stupid of me. You are the fuckboy everyone says you are.”
Dean cringes, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools it. “I understand.”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”
Turning on your heel, you rush out of the row of bookshelves the three of you were in. Rushing past the table you and your best friend were occupying, you see she’s now gone. You keep your head down, hiding the tears that are already threatening to fall. Fuck Dean. Fuck him and his little “assignment” that he and Allie had going on. He used you. The fact that he used you hurts so much more than the feeling of being invisible to him.
You rush out of the library doors and into the crisp fall air, letting the first tear fall. You rush all the way back to your dorm room, letting the tears flow as you try and clear your mind of Dean and his stupid assignment.
☄︎ Warnings: Body Insecurties, Negative Self-image, Self-talk, Cute!Dean, A lil Angst, not proofread
☄︎ Pairing: (bigger/plus-size) F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG. (references to smut but no smut)
☄︎ Words: 3266
💭: I was thinking back to the old steve rodgers / sharon carter insecure fics and the logan / hannah ones and really wanted one for dean that felt relateable, so here we are.
as far as i'm concerned, it's absolute cannon that dean would not give af
Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Dean Masterlist here.
When your brain was being rational, it told you that Dean was with you because he loved every part of you. And when you struggled to love yourself, he was always there to remind you why you should.
Dean was a very vocal advocate of women. He was a proud, unapologetic, ladies’ man and he knew, with a label like that, he had a responsibility to treat women well. Priding himself on the deep, unshakeable respect he had for women, he made it his mission to understand that womanhood was a beautiful, but complicated, experience that left its mark. It meant that women came in all shapes, and all sizes. It meant that boobs wouldn’t always be perfectly perky or that parts of the body could be darker than the rest of the body. He knew about chafing, stretch marks, and how the skin could jiggle. He loved every part of womanhood, and you knew that.
Logically, you knew there’d be no benefit to Dean being with you if he didn’t want to be.
However, at times like these, logic didn’t mean a damn thing.
You didn’t always feel this way about yourself. Sometimes you just existed, going about your day as any other person. But then, there would be times when you’d get a harsh, unsolicited, reminder that society wasn’t built for people who were bigger. People like you.
You’d go shopping with your friends and try on a pair of jeans, only for the largest size on the rack to barely pass your thighs. You’d notice people looking uncomfortable when you squeezed into the empty seat next to them on the train. You’d worry about what you ordered at restaurant, terrified someone would judge you for eating too much.
It was exhausting.
You couldn’t get away from it at home either. You’d rifle through your closet, looking for something to wear, you’d pick up clothes and think to yourself ‘that’s so big, there’s no way it fits me.’ Only for it to be a perfect fit. Or, even worse, too small.
You really didn’t feel like this all the time. You had worked on yourself and your self-esteem. There were times where you’d wear a crop top because it looked cute, telling yourself that others wore crop tops, so why couldn’t you. Sometimes you’d wear a tight dress because it showed off your curves.
It wasn’t easy to get there, and you weren’t fully there all the time, your mind was a prison sometimes. And society didn’t help. But that’s why you loved Dean. He was so carefree and couldn’t give a toss about societal standards.
That morning had started out fine. You had excitedly put on the form hugging outfit that you were wearing for that reason. However, as you watched the scene in front of you, it all came flooding back.
Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at something Allie Hayes, his ex-girlfriend, was saying.
And, as if a magician had snapped their fingers, the mental gymnastics began.
Allie was gorgeous, fitting effortlessly into the swimsuit-model category. She could wear his oversized hockey jersey and look like a delicate dream, rather than looking like she was a defenseman on the team. And, to top it off, she was a lovely person. She had done everything she could to make you feel welcome when you had first started to date Dean, never once made you feel like it was her territory you were stepping into. You honestly couldn’t understand why they had even broken up.
Your brain started to calculate the maths that made sense to nobody but you. You wondered if people looked at the two of you together and couldn’t add the pieces together. The golden-haired hockey god with the sculpted physique and you, a woman who took up space in a society that expected women to shrink. How did that add up?
They wouldn’t do that with Allie. Those pieces made sense together; the maths was simply 2+2 = 4 there.
Your mind, venomous and sharp, kept spinning out of control. Does he look at her and remember how easy it was? Are they laughing together about how he traded down? Is he pleading with her to take him back?
Suddenly, you became very aware of your outfit. The fabric felt suffocatingly tight in all the wrong places. Your curves felt like they were drawing the eyes of everyone in the room as they protruded out over your high-waisted jeans.
At times like these, your brain was a masterclass in self-sabotage.
It didn’t matter that Dean had spent hours tracing your stetch marks like they were roads to heaven.
It didn’t matter that he publicly looked at you with a hunger that made your knees weak.
It didn’t matter that he gently coaxed you into being comfortable sleeping together with the lights on and that he hadn’t run away when he finally saw all of you.
None of that mattered. Your brain was screaming over the bass of the music, over every rational thought you’d ever had, drowning it all out. He wants to get back with Allie. She is everything, and I’m nothing.
It was a horrible, ugly thought that was entirely unfair to yourself and to Dean, who had never given you a single reason to doubt his love and loyalty. But, your insecurities didn’t care about fairness.
You took a shallow, shaky breath, your chest tightening as you watched them. The way everything she did looked effortlessly charming and feminine.
A suffocating, bitter, knot rose in your throat, choking your breath. You had to get out of there before anyone could see the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room until they locked directly onto yours, as if he had a red alert that signalled to him that you needed him. The easy smile he had been sharing with Allie shifted into something deeper, something warmer, as he looked at you.
He put his cup down on the counter, murmured a quick goodbye to Allie, and began sliding his way through the sea of drunk college students, heading straight for you.
You were standing with two of your friends, desperately trying to signal to them with your eyes that you all should go. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You felt like you couldn’t move because you knew he would follow. Then you’d have to face him.
Within seconds, Dean arrived and threw a possessive arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne, usually a smell that provided you with comfort, suffocated you. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another kiss on you. “I missed you.”
Your friends immediately giggled and exchanged knowing glances. “Okay, so that’s our cue to leave!” one of them teased.
“Yup, see you in class tomorrow girlie,” the other said.
They vanished into the crowd before you could even protest, leaving you feeling alone in Dean’s arms.
You forced yourself to tilt your head up, pressing a quick peck to his jaw.
“I missed you too,” you managed out, forcing a smile to hide how you felt.
But Dean knew you better than that, your smiles always reached your eyes. His eyebrows furrow in slight confusion. His eyes scanned your face with an intense scrutiny and he saw the slight glassiness in your eyes.
“Hey,” he said. He dropped his arm to cup your cheeks in both hands. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
The concern in his eyes almost broke you. It would be so easy to tell him, but the shame of your own insecurity felt too heavy, especially with Allie still in the room.
“Nothing,” you lied, voice tight. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, you didn’t like to lie, especially to Dean. He was big on trust.
You gently pulled away from his touch, his hands dropping from your face. “I’m just… really tired, Dean. I think I need to go.”
“Okay,” Dean said easily. “I’ll come upstairs with you.”
“No,” you rushed out too quickly and too loudly. “I need some space; I need to go… home.”
Dean blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Home? But I thought you were staying here tonight? Your bag is upstairs.”
He was panicked now, eyes searching yours again for some sort of understanding of what was happening. A rare flash of sadness crossed his features and you wanted so desperately to kiss it away but your brain couldn’t stop telling you that this was the right move. That it would be better for him if you left. If you pushed him to want you gone.
“Talk to me, babe. Did I do something wrong? Let’s just go upstairs, just you and me.” The panic in his voice sent a painful pang straight through your chest.
“No, it’s not that,” you choked out, unable to look him in the eye. The sound of voice was enough to make you cry, if you combined that with the look on his face, you were done for. “I just need to be in my own bed tonight. Please.”
Dean felt completely helpless. He hated to let you go, but he also respected your boundaries too much to keep pushing for you to stay when he knew you didn’t want to.
He reached into his pocket, his jaw clenching. “Okay. Okay, yeah. If that’s what you need. I’ve had a few beers, so I can’t drive you.” He sounded incredibly mad at himself for that, as if he could have known he needed to stay sober. “I’m ordering you an Uber.”
You didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone, or pick up your bag from upstairs, as you weaved your way outside. Dean followed you, keeping a protective hand on the small of your back the entire way.
He waited on the porch with you in the chilly air. There were a few couples out here, cuddling together and giggling as they whispered into each other’s ears. Dean so desperately felt the urge to pull you in and not let go.
After a few long minutes of standing in the heavy silence, the car finally pulled up. He opened the door for you. When you slipped inside, you expected him to shut it immediately, but he didn’t. He kept a tight hold on the handle, leaning down as he pleaded, “text me the second you get in. Please.”
Blue eyes trembled as they watched for your response. Dean looked devastated as he chewed his bottom lip. Unable to bear it, you put on another fake smile and nodded. Anything to get him to go. He closed the door gently, but, to you, it felt like that was the door closing on your entire relationship.
As the Uber pulled away, the tears finally fell. You looked back to see Dean still standing there, watching your car until it disappeared around the corner.
He didn’t wait for you to get home to start texting you.
Dean (22:10): I don’t know what I did, but I’m so sorry. Please let me fix it.
Dean (22:10): I love you. So much.
Dean (22:11): Just tell me what you need from me.
By the time you unlocked your front door twenty minutes later, your chat history with him looked like a wall of messages.
You stared at your phone screen, the words blurring together through another wave of tears. You wanted to reply. You were going to reply. But how could you? What could you say that would make any sense? That would justify this?
You crawled into bed and immediately pressed your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds of your sobs. Your body convulsed as you cried harder, the weight of everything hitting you at once.
You cried until exhaustion finally took over your body. You cried yourself to sleep without even realising it.
The next morning, you woke up with a splitting headache and dry throat. Memories of last night came flooding back to you. You were supposed to respond to Dean’s messages, at least to let him know you’d gotten back safely. Instead, he would have seen that you left him on read.
You hurriedly reached for your phone, your heart dropping into your stomach as you saw he had continued to send messages throughout the night.
Dean (02:14): Still haven’t heard from you. Getting worried. Please just let me know you’re safe.
Dean (03:45): I know you asked for space but I cannot sleep until I know you’re okay.
Dean (06:11): I’m coming over.
The last message was sent barely half an hour ago. You jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to brush your teeth and try to make yourself look presentable. Your eyes were bloodshot from the tears; you hadn’t even washed the make-up from your face last night.
A heavy, frantic, pounding echoed from your front door. Your mind raced again, given the timing of his texts, you doubted if he had even slept. He should not have been behind the wheel. And how fast did he have to drive to get to you in this time?
You hurriedly wrapped your dressing gown around yourself and padded down the hallway. When you opened the door, the sight of Dean stopped the breath in your lungs.
He looked completely wrecked. He had changed from since the party; but his clothes were already wrinkled. His usually stupidly perfect hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d spent all night running his fingers through it. There were dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He really hadn’t slept.
A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he saw you. “Thank God.”
Before you could say a word, he stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and pulled you into his arms. He held you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic thumping of his heart. He was trembling.
“You terrified me,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “You told me you needed space from me, didn’t text or answer my calls. I thought you got into an accident, I thought someone hurt you. But then I saw you were reading my messages and… I thought… I thought you were leaving me.”
The rational part of your brain roared back to life, screaming at you to see how much he loved you. He wasn’t thinking about Allie or anyone else. He was falling apart because he thought he had lost you.
“Dean, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m soso sorry, I’m okay.”
He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs gentle wiped away a stray tear that you hadn’t even noticed had fallen.
“Are you leaving me?” he asked, voice fragile.
“No,” you sighed, leaning into his touch. “Not if you don’t want to leave me.”
“Of course I don’t, babe. But can you please just talk to me?” he pleaded, his blue eyes searching yours with pure desperation. “Please, I’m losing my mind here.”
He would never admit it to anyone else, but he was a deeply emotional man. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders while acting like nothing fazed him. But, in front of you, that act was dropped.
You looked down, unable to hold the weight of the guilt you felt. Swallowing hard, the truth came tumbling out of you, tasting bitter and heavy on your tongue.
“I… I saw you talking to Allie and my brain just… it just went haywire. It’s great that you have a healthy relationship with your ex, it just speaks to the kind of man you are but…I… I just...” Your fingers bunched into the fabric of his top as your words trailed off.
He stayed silent, patiently giving you the time you needed to collect your thoughts.
“She’s amazing and she looks better than I do… physically.” Your voice lowered, it was so embarrassing admitting this out loud to him. No matter how much you trusted him with your feelings. “I just worry that you’re going to wake up one day and realise what you lost.”
Dean let out a sharp, pained, breath, his jaw tightening. Before he could interrupt, you pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me finish, please.”
He gave you a tight, silent nod, urging you continue.
“I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t a problem that you created, Dean. It’s an insecurity inside of me. I just… yeah, I guess I just have more of a mountain to climb than I thought. I don’t want to leave you, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave me so you don’t have to deal with all of this.”
Dean was quiet for a long moment. When you looked up at him, he didn’t look angry at your explanation or relieved that you had given him an out from this relationship.
“Okay,” he said finally. His voice was steady. “Let me be clear. There is no comparison between you and Allie. She’s my past, which I cherish, but you are my present, and my future. Understand?”
You nod your head, you needed to hear that.
“I have no reason to leave you. No desire to leave you,” he continued. “I’ll admit, I’m not a big fan of the radio silence last night, but I love you. I love us. Part of that love means that we go through some tougher times together, and you are completely insane if you think that I’m leaving you to climb any part of a mountain alone.”
You didn’t know what to say, a thick knot of emotion blocking your throat. Instead of trying to speak, you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down to you. Dean didn’t hesitate; he met you halfway as you pressed your lips to his in a kiss. The softness of the kiss showed all the words you wanted to say.
“Thank you,” you mumbled against his mouth before kissing him again.
“I mean it, we’ll work through anything together,” he vowed, his hands sliding down over your curves to rest securely on your hips. “What do you need from me? How can I be better at supporting you?”
You let out the breath that you felt like you’d been holding since last night, the tension finally melting out of your muscles. “Just… please be patient with me while I fight my way back to reality, I guess.”
Dean nodded instantly, his expression serious. “Done.”
“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
“Never. Now,” he murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. “Seeing as neither of us slept well last night, I highly suggest we go catch up on some lost sleep.”
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he dropped his voice to a suggestive whisper. “And once we’re rested, I am going to show you, very slowly, exactly how obsessed I am with you and your beautiful body. Does that sound good?”
You nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
“Good,” he said. Without another word, he hooked his arms under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly and carrying you down the hall into your bedroom.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)
Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut
Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone
a/n: i'm in the mood for heartbreak latly, idk why😅😭 i wanted to write some and i hope you will like it! Requests of cors are open!❤️🔥
You always knew Dean Di Laurentis wasn't the kind of guy who settled.
You knew it the first time he kissed you after a party, grining against your lips like it was the easiest thing in the world.
You knew it the first time he climbed through your apartment window at two in the morning because he couldn't sleep.
You knew it every time you woke up tangled in his sheets only to watch him throw on a backwards cap, flash you that stupid smile, and say, "See you at practice"
No promises, no labels and no expectations. Just Dean.
And somehow... that had been enough. At least, that's what you kept telling yourself; you were his best friend before you were anything else.
The person he'd call after a bad game, the first one he'd text when something funny happened and the one who knew exactly how he took his coffee and exactly how to calm him down before exams.
You were there for movie nights, road trips, lazy Sundays on the couch while the rest of the hockey house argued over video games. You practically lived with the team at this point. Garrett joked you deserved your own locker and Logan insisted you were an honorary Briar Hockey member.
Dean always rolled his eyes before throwing an arm over your shoulders. "She's been around longer than half of you idiots!"
It made your chest warm every single time and maybe that's why you let yourself hope. Not because Dean ever said he loved you. He never did. Not because he hinted at a future together.
He didn't.
But there were moments like the way he'd absentmindedly reach for your hand while watching a movie, the way he'd steal your hoodies because they smelled like your perfume, the way he'd fall asleep with his head in your lap after practice.
Little dangerus things. The kind that made it easy to imagine maybe, someday, he'd get tired of random hookups. That maybe someday he'd look at you and realize you'd been there all along.
It was a stupid hope and you knew that but you kept it anyway. Thats when Allie Hayes showed up.
At first, she was just another girl Dean mentioned between classes. "You should meet Allie. You'd like her" and "She just got out of a relationship. Guy sounds like an asshole"
You smiled, you listened, you asked questions because that's what best friends did.
Dean didn't notice how your smile became a little tighter every time her name came up. He didn't notice you stopped teasing him whenever he checked his phone and smiled at a text.
He definitely didn't notice the way your stomach twisted when he casually admitted one night, "I think she's just looking for something casual right now. She's still getting over Sean"
You nodded, pretending to focus on the movie playing in the background. "That makes sense"
"Yeah" Dean leaned back on the couch beside you. "I don't mind. We're just... hanging out"
Just hanging out.
You almost laughed.
That's exactly how the two of you had started; just hanging out, just hooking up, just having fun. Until one person wasn't.
You glanced at him. He looked happier than you'd seen him in weeks and he talked about Allie without realizing he was talking about her. The little stories started piling up:
"Allie said the funniest thing today"
"I grabbed lunch with Allie after class"
"Allie wants to learn ice skating"
"Allie this"
"Allie that"
"Allie"
You wondered if he could hear his own voice, you wondered if everyone else already knew before he did and you wondered why your heart still hoped you were imagining it, then, one Friday night, Dean cancelled your usual movie night.
"Sorry" he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I already made plans"
You smiled because that's what you always did. "No worries"
"What are you gonna do instead?"
"Oh... probably stay home"
"Cool. I'll text you later"
He never did.
The next morning, Garrett accidentally mentioned Dean had spent the night with Allie.
He froze the second the words left his mouth.
You smiled before he could apologize. "It's okay"
It wasn't.
That afternoon, you opened your conversation with Dean; hundreds of messages. Years of memories.
You stared at the screen for a long time then you turned your phone over and decided, for the first time since meeting Dean Di Laurentis...
You weren't going to be the one to text first.
Another problem with Dean was that your messeges became like a second nature but it was almost always him who reached out to you.
Since meeting Allie those invitations, small conversations and quick questions stopped and it was you who had to text first.
Until you stopped and it shoudnt be a big deal after all. So why was this so hurtful?
So you waited and... nothing. Monday turns into Tuesday. Dean finally texts Wednesday afternoon.
DEAN: You alive?🤨
You smile despite yourself.
YOU: Unfortunately🥸
Three little dots appear almost instantly.
DEAN: Dramatic enough huh?
DEAN: Hockey house tonight?
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Normally, you would've answered before he even finished typing and normally, you'd already be figuring out what snacks to bring.
Instead...
YOU: Can't, busy...🤷🏻♀️
It isn't entirly a lie as you could go, you just know he'll be there and so she probably will be too.
Dean replies with a thumbs up and nothing else.
You stare at your phone for a long moment before locking it. That... was easier than you expected which somehow hurts even more.
The next few weeks become an exercise in self control. You stop showing up at the hockey house unless someone specifically invites you.
You stop waiting outside the rink after practice, you stop leaving coffee on Dean's desk before his morning lectures and not because you're angry.
You aren't but you're trying to do the mature thing.
Trying to give yourself enough distance that maybe, eventualy, your heart will catch up with your brain because your brain already knows.
Dean likes Allie, like really likes her. You can hear it every time he talks about her.
"You're avoiding him"
You glance up from your notebook to find Garrett droping into the chair across from you in the student center.
"I'm studying"
"You're hiding"
"I'm literally in public!"
Garrett snorts. "You know what I mean"
You shrug, pretending to highlight the same sentence for the third time. "I've just been busy"
"Bullshit"
You sigh. "Garrett..."
His expression softens. "I miss seeing you around. We all do"
Your throat tightens. "I miss you guys too"
"So come over"
You force a smile. "It's not that easy"
He watches you carefully. You hate that staring because it means he knew and if he knew that means they all do..
"I didn't..." Garrett rubs the back of his neck. "I didn't know it was like that... I mean we all suspected but..."
You laugh quietly. "Yeah..."
He reaches across the table and squiezes your hand. "I'm sorry"
You blink rapidly. "It's okay"
"No" His voice is gentle. "It isn't"
For a second, you think you're going to cry right there in the middle of the student center.
Instead, you smile. "I'll be okay"
Garrett studies your face. "You love him and you won't be okay for a long time"
It isn't a question.
You look away. "I never meant to love him like that..."
Dean notices your empty seat before practice then again the next day and the day after that. By the end of the week, he corners Logan while they're walking off the ice.
"Have you talked to Y/N?"
Logan shrugs. "A little"
"Is she okay?"
"Why wouldn't she be?"
"I don't know..." Dean frowns. "I feel like I haven't seen her in forever"
Logan gives him a long look. "Dude..."
"What?"
"You seriously haven't noticed?"
Dean blinks. "Noticed what?"
Logan opens his mouth and closes it again. "Forget it. It's not my place..."
"What isn't?"
Logan shakes his head. "Just forget i said anything..."
"Why?"
"Just don't!"
Dean watches him walk away, more confused than before.
Friday night used to belong to the hockey house. Movie night, pizza, someone yelling at Tucker for cheating at Mario Kart.
Dean stealing half your blanket because he refused to admit he was cold.
Tonight, you stay home and your phone buzzes around eight.
DEAN: You sure you don't want to come?
You stare at the message, for just a second, you're tempted.
One night won't hurt as you could pretend and force smile, maybe even augh at his jokes and ignore the way he'd inevitably end up sitting beside Allie. Pretend every glance between them doesn't make your chest ache.
Instead, you type:
YOU: Have fun ❤️
His reply comes almost imediatly.
DEAN: You okay?👀
You read the message three times and you almost tell him the truth that every time he says Allie's name it feels like someone is slowly twisting a knife between your ribs. That you've spent weeks trying to stop loving him because he deserves to fall for someone without carrying the weight of your feelings. That you're terifid one day he'll introduce you as "my best friend" while holding another girl's hand, and you'll have to smile like it doesn't destroy you.
Instead, you send the easiest lie you've ever written.
YOU: Yep. Just tired...
He reacts with a heart.
You put your phone on silent before he can send anything else then, for the first time since you met Dean Di Laurentis...
You let yourself cry over someone who was never really yours to lose.
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blurb: One unread text, one bad decision, and Dean Di Laurentis standing close enough to make you forget why you cared in the first place.
warnings: 18+ only, smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, Dean being cocky/smug, breakup angst, emotional vulnerability, alcohol mention, phone/ex texting drama, jealousy/possessive tension, making out, slight public/semi-public tension
꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs
The bottle was cold against your palm.
That was the first thing you noticed, because it was easier than noticing anything else. Easier than the bass shaking the floorboards beneath your shoes, easier than the laughter spilling from the living room, easier than the fact that half the people in this house were having the kind of night you were supposed to be having.
A normal one.
A fun one.
The kind where you put on something cute, let Hannah drag you out because she said fresh air would be good for you, and then pretended you weren’t checking your phone every seven minutes to see if he had texted.
He hadn’t.
Of course he hadn’t.
Your ex had a talent for leaving silence behind and making you feel stupid for standing in it.
You shifted the vodka bottle in your hand, thumb rubbing over the edge of the label. You weren’t even sure when you’d picked it up. One second, you were in the kitchen, wedged between a counter full of red cups and some guy loudly arguing that he could outdrink half the hockey team, and the next, you were standing there with the bottle in your hand like it was a decision.
Not a drink.
A decision.
“Give it here.”
You turned your head.
Hannah stood beside the island, one hand extended, her expression too soft for you to fight with. That was the worst part. If she’d come over snapping at you, you could’ve snapped back. If she’d rolled her eyes and made a joke, you could’ve pretended this wasn’t anything. But she just looked at you the way she had been looking at you all week.
Like she could see the damage even when you kept smiling over it.
“Hannah—”
“No.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Not tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything.”
“You’ve been standing here for five minutes trying to decide if you want to feel worse now or later.”
That shut you up.
Your fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, not because you wanted it that badly, but because there was something humiliating about being seen so clearly. Hannah didn’t move closer. She just kept her hand out, patient in that stubborn way of hers.
You looked away first.
The party kept going around you. Someone laughed too loudly near the fridge. A cabinet slammed. Music poured through the doorway, some terrible playlist Logan had probably taken credit for even though it sounded exactly like every other party playlist at Briar.
For a second, you thought about arguing. You thought about saying you were an adult, that you could handle one drink, that everyone else in this house was drinking and no one was hovering over them like you were a cracked glass.
But then Hannah’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter, face down beside your elbow.
You hated that, too.
How everyone knew.
How everyone could look at you and know there was a boy-shaped bruise sitting right in the middle of your chest.
Slowly, you handed her the bottle.
Hannah took it without making a big production out of it. She set it behind her on the counter, out of your reach but not dramatically. Not like she was punishing you. Like she was helping you put something down before it got heavier.
“You can be upset,” she said. “You can be angry. You can hate him. You can cry in my room later if you need to. But I’m not letting you drink until you don’t recognize yourself tomorrow morning.”
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
“That’s very bossy of you.”
“I learned from Garrett.”
Across the room, Garrett Graham was leaning against the doorway with a beer in his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the fact that he had no idea he’d just been insulted. Or maybe he did. With Garrett, it was always hard to tell. He caught Hannah’s eye, smiled at her like the party had gone quiet and she was the only thing in it, and lifted his beer in a lazy salute.
Hannah rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
You looked away before the ache in your chest could turn mean.
You loved them. You did. Garrett and Hannah were good together in a way that made the world feel less terrible sometimes. But tonight, their easy little glances felt like a hand pressing down on a bruise. You didn’t want to resent them for being happy.
You just didn’t know where to put your own hurt.
“I’m getting you water,” Hannah said, studying your face. “And you’re staying here.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re my friend.” She pointed at you as she backed toward the fridge. “Different thing. Same level of supervision.”
You huffed despite yourself.
That tiny almost-laugh must have been enough for her, because Hannah gave you one last look before turning away.
You barely had a second alone before a voice slid in from behind you, smooth and amused and much too familiar.
“She’s scary when she gets quiet.”
You closed your eyes for half a second.
Of course.
Of course he was here.
Dean Di Laurentis was leaning against the opposite counter like he’d been placed there for decoration, all golden hair and expensive ease, looking like he’d never had to stand in a kitchen and talk himself out of doing something pathetic. He wore a faded Briar Hockey sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and somehow even that looked deliberate on him. Like casual was a rich man’s costume he wore better than everyone else.
His eyes weren’t on the bottle.
They were on you.
“You were listening?” you asked.
Dean’s mouth curved. “Hard not to. Wellsy has range.”
“Nobody invited you into this conversation.”
“I was already here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I was in the area.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means I’m innocent.”
“You’ve never been innocent a day in your life, Di Laurentis.”
His smile widened, pleased like you’d complimented him. That was the thing about Dean. Insulting him only worked if he agreed it was an insult, and most of the time, he seemed to take everything as proof that people were paying attention to him.
Which, annoyingly, they usually were.
He pushed off the counter and reached past you for a bag of chips, moving close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours. He smelled clean and expensive, soap and cologne and something warm beneath it.
You hated noticing.
“You know,” he said, opening the bag, “for the record, she’s right.”
You gave him a flat look. “Still not your conversation.”
“No, but I thought I’d bring a male perspective.”
“God forbid.”
“It’s valuable.”
“It’s unwanted.”
Dean popped a chip into his mouth and looked at you with that lazy half-smile of his. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
You should’ve walked away. Really, you should have. Dean was exactly the kind of person you didn’t have the emotional energy for tonight. Too confident, too pretty, too aware of both. The kind of guy who made flirting seem like breathing, who probably didn’t even know when he was doing it because the world had always flirted back.
And still, you didn’t move.
Maybe because he wasn’t hovering.
Hannah had been careful with you all night. Garrett kept giving you space in that quiet, protective way of his. Allie had spent the first half hour checking your face whenever you got too quiet, like she was waiting for the moment you finally broke down.
Dean just looked at you like he was trying to figure you out.
It should have annoyed you. It did annoy you, actually. He had no right to stand there in the middle of the kitchen with that lazy, golden-boy confidence, watching you like your bad decisions were something he could see coming from a mile away.
His eyes dropped to the phone in your hand.
“You’re going to regret that,” he said.
You looked up. “Regret what?”
Dean tilted his head, gaze flicking over your face with irritating accuracy. “Whatever you’re about to do with that phone.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Sure.” He took one step closer, close enough that you caught the clean, expensive smell of his cologne beneath the beer and noise of the party. “You’ve only looked at it six times since I walked in.”
You hated that he’d counted.
You hated even more that he was right.
“Maybe I’m checking the time.”
Dean glanced at the clock on the microwave behind you. “It’s been ten twenty-three for the last four minutes.”
You stared at him.
He smiled a little. “Bad lie.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
“I’ve been told.” His eyes went back to your phone. “So what is it? Waiting for him to text you, checking if he posted something, or writing out some pathetic little ‘hope you’re doing okay’ message you’ll hate yourself for sending?”
The words landed harder than you wanted them to.
Your fingers tightened around your phone.
Dean’s smile faded just enough for you to notice.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
“What?”
“Act like you know me.”
“I don’t have to know you to know that texting him tonight is a bad idea.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I know Hannah took vodka out of your hand like she was defusing a bomb.” His voice lowered, less teasing now. “And I know you looked more upset when your phone didn’t light up than you did when she called you out for it.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
That was the problem with Dean Di Laurentis. Half the time he sounded like he was joking, and then suddenly he’d say something too sharp, too close to the truth, and you had no idea what to do with it.
Your phone buzzed.
The sound cut between you.
Your whole body reacted before you could stop it.
Dean noticed.
Of course he noticed.
You looked down before pride could stop you.
His name sat on the screen.
you out?
Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even enough effort to pretend he missed you.
Just a hook.
A stupid, lazy hook.
And still, for one awful second, your thumb hovered.
Dean moved fast.
The phone was gone from your hand before you could unlock it.
“Hey—”
“Nope.”
You blinked at him. “Give it back.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
His brows lifted slightly when you said his name, but he only held the phone higher. “Absolutely not.”
You reached for it, and he stepped back, his stupid mouth curving like this was funny to him. Like he hadn’t just snatched the one thing in the room you were trying not to need.
“Give me my phone,” you snapped.
“Say you’re not answering him.”
“That is none of your business.”
“Then you don’t need the phone.”
You lunged again, catching his wrist this time. Dean let you shove him back a step, still holding the phone above your head, still looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Dean, I swear to God—”
“You keep saying my name like that, and I’m going to start thinking you want my attention.”
“I want my phone.”
“No,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “You want a reason not to answer him.”
Your hand stilled against his chest.
Dean noticed.
His smile softened into something worse. Something knowing.
“See?” he murmured. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve done all night.”
You pushed at his chest, trying to reach around him, but Dean caught your wrist with his free hand and turned you before you realized what he was doing.
Your back hit the wall beside the kitchen doorway.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop you.
Just enough for the air to change.
Dean was suddenly right there, one hand around your wrist, the other still holding your phone out of reach. His body wasn’t pressed against yours, not fully, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that your breath caught before you could hide it.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then back up.
The fight in you stumbled.
Dean saw that too.
Of course he did.
“Still want it back?” he asked, voice quieter now.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then tell me you’re not going to text him.”
You glared at him, but it didn’t work the way it should have. Not with him this close. Not with his thumb resting against the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.
“I hate you,” you said.
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
His mouth tipped near your ear, and your entire body went still.
“I know you’re mad,” he murmured. “I know you’re embarrassed because you were about to answer a guy who gave you nothing and still knew you might come running.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I know you’re looking for something stupid enough to make you forget him for five minutes.”
Your breath hitched.
Dean paused.
For one second, he didn’t move. He waited, like he was giving you room to shove him away, to make this nothing.
You didn’t.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear when he spoke again.
“I could help with that.”
The words slipped down your spine.
You turned your head just enough to look at him.
Dean’s face was close. Too close. His gaze was darker now, the teasing still there but buried under something hotter, something less polished.
“That’s your offer?” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
“It’s a better one than his.”
You should have laughed. You should have shoved him back and taken your phone and gone to Hannah, because Hannah was safe and smart and probably sitting on the couch with pretzels, waiting for you to make the right choice.
But Dean’s hand was still on your wrist.
Dean’s body was still crowding yours.
And for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the text.
Dean leaned in, his mouth almost touching your cheek.
“He doesn’t deserve an answer,” he said. “He definitely doesn’t deserve you standing here looking like this because of him.”
“Like what?”
Dean’s jaw flexed.
“Like you forgot what it feels like to be wanted properly.”
Your pulse jumped hard beneath his fingers.
His grip tightened for half a second, not enough to hurt. Just enough to tell you he felt it.
Then he said, right against your ear, “I could fuck you better than he ever did.”
Heat went through you so fast your knees nearly betrayed you.
Dean felt that too.
The bastard smiled.
You shoved at his chest, but it was weak, and you both knew it.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?” His mouth hovered close to your skin. “Because it’s rude, or because you’re thinking about it now?”
You closed your eyes.
That was a mistake.
With your eyes closed, he was everywhere. His voice. His hand. His cologne. The wall at your back. The low noise of the party barely a room away.
“Dean,” you breathed.
Dean’s hand loosened around your wrist, giving you room he clearly didn’t want to give.
“Say no,” he said, voice low against your ear, “and I’ll hand you the phone back and pretend I didn’t notice how badly you wanted me to be right.”
Your breath caught.
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
You didn’t say no.
Instead, you looked at the phone still in his other hand.
Then back at him.
“Don’t give it back yet.”
Dean’s expression shifted.
Slowly.
Like you’d just handed him something better than the phone.
“No?”
“No.”
His smile spread, but there was nothing playful about the way he looked at you now.
“Good choice.”
You grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him down.
Dean kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission to ruin the night properly.
His mouth was hot, confident, too good for someone already so full of himself. The second you kissed him back, he made a low sound against you and stepped in closer, pinning you more firmly between him and the wall. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, fingers flexing there like he was trying to decide how much of you he was allowed to touch.
You decided for him.
You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and dragged him closer.
Dean groaned softly, the sound disappearing into your mouth. His phone hand dropped to his side, still holding yours, while the other curved around your hip. He kissed like he wanted you focused. Like he wanted every thought in your head narrowed down to him, his mouth, his body, the hard line of him pressing closer every time you made the mistake of breathing like you wanted more.
He broke away only when someone laughed too loudly near the hallway.
His forehead hovered near yours.
Both of you were breathing too hard.
Dean glanced toward the living room, then back at you, eyes dark and amused and completely wrecked around the edges.
“Hannah’s going to kill me,” he said.
“Probably.”
“Garrett might help.”
“Definitely.”
Dean looked down at your mouth again. “Worth it.”
You should not have liked that as much as you did.
He kissed you once more, slower this time, like he was proving he could. Like the first one had been to take the thought of your ex out of your head, and this one was to put himself there instead.
When he pulled back, your phone was still locked in his hand.
You reached for it, more out of habit than actual want.
Dean lifted it away, his mouth curving.
“Not yet.”
Your brows rose. “Seriously?”
“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“I doubt that.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower for half a second before dragging back up. “Maybe not for the phone.”
Your stomach flipped.
A laugh sounded from the living room, too close this time. Dean glanced toward it, jaw tightening, like he had just remembered the entire party was still happening around you. Hannah was somewhere on the couch. Garrett was probably watching the hall like he had a sixth sense for Dean making bad decisions.
Dean looked back at you.
“Upstairs,” he said quietly.
Your pulse jumped.
“Dean—”
“Yeah, I know.” His thumb brushed over the side of your hand. “Bad idea.”
You stared at him.
He leaned in, mouth close to your ear again.
“But you’re not thinking about him anymore, are you?”
No.
God, no.
You weren’t thinking about the text. You weren’t thinking about the drink. You weren’t thinking about anything except the heat of his body and the way his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop it.
Dean’s eyes darkened like he’d caught that too.
He took your hand.
This time, you let him.
The two of you slipped out of the kitchen when no one was looking, his fingers tight around yours, your phone hidden in his other hand. He didn’t rush until you reached the stairs, and then he glanced back once, grinning like trouble, before pulling you up after him.
Halfway up, your phone buzzed again.
Dean didn’t look.
This time, neither did you.
The bedroom door clicked shut with a quiet, secretive finality, sealing out the muffled bass and chatter of the party downstairs. The sudden silence of the room felt heavy, charged with the kind of tension that had been building between you and Dean all night.
Without breaking eye contact, Dean reached over to the dresser and slid your phone far across the polished wood, placing it well out of reach. A smug, amused smile played on his lips. "Let it ring," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "I think you've had enough distractions for one evening."
He didn't rush. Instead, he stepped back just an inch, his gaze traveling over you with a slow, confident appreciation. He looked at you like he already knew how this was going to end, and the worst part was, you weren’t sure he was wrong. The air between you practically hummed.
The stripping was a messy, hurried blur of mutual desperation. You reached for his shirt at the same time he found the hem of your dress, both of you tugging and fumbling with fabric in a way that felt reckless and right. He pulled the dress over your head, tossing it aside, and as he looked down, his eyes widened slightly.
“Nothing under this?” Dean’s smile went slow, his gaze lingering on your bare skin. “And you were really going to waste tonight answering him?”
You backed toward the bed, and Dean followed.
He slid his hand down, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before slipping between them, and the first touch made your breath catch.
“All that arguing downstairs,” he murmured, “and you were already this wet?”
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, slow makeout. It was a conversation of tongues and breath, a mutual exploration where he savored every gasp and shiver you gave him. He broke the kiss to trail a path of soft, biting nips along your jawline, lingering at the curve of your neck.
He moved lower, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed his way down to your chest. He focused on your nipples, swirling his tongue around them and teasing them with light tugs of his teeth. He watched your face, leaning back occasionally to see the way your eyes fluttered and your breath hitched, clearly enjoying the way you reacted to him.
Then, he shifted downward. He parted your legs and leaned in, his tongue finding your clit with a controlled, teasing precision. He didn't rush. He took his time, flicking and swirling, making you arch your back and grip the sheets. He used his fingers to open you up, sliding one deep inside while his tongue continued to work on your center, creating a friction that had you whimpering. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with a smug whisper. "Forget everything else. Just focus on this."
He went back to it with more intensity, sucking your clit into his mouth and using a rhythmic, wet pressure that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Every time you tried to pull him closer, he slowed down, teasing you, making you beg for the release before he finally let you peak, your body shaking under his touch.
As the haze began to clear, you reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him up. You didn't want to just receive. You wanted him. You guided his hard cock against your wet opening, and with a brief, shared look of intense desire, he sank into you in one smooth, deep motion. There was nothing between you, just skin on skin, the raw heat of him filling you completely.
Dean stayed on top, his movements steady and focused. He was cocky, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your expression shifted with every thrust. He wasn't trying to overpower you. He was attuned to you, adjusting his pace to keep you right on the edge.
“You’re not thinking about him now,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Look at me.”
You wanted him to stop looking so pleased with himself. So you pushed at his chest, caught him off guard, and rolled them until he was beneath you. Dean blinked up at you, breathless for half a second. Then his grin spread.
“Okay,” he said, voice rougher now. “Didn’t know we were doing that.”
You shifted, sliding down onto him and taking full control. You began to ride him, your hips rolling in a slow, sensual grind that forced a sharp hiss of breath from his lungs. You watched the cocky mask slip from his face, replaced by raw, unfiltered need as you set the pace.
“That’s it,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips to help drive you down onto him. “Keep doing that.”
The friction built rapidly, the feeling of him deep inside you driving you both toward the peak. You increased the speed, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps, while Dean watched you with an expression of pure, focused heat. As you reached your climax, your internal muscles clenched tightly around him, triggering his own release. Dean let out a low growl, his body stiffening as he came deep inside you, the heat of it flooding your center.
As you both collapsed against each other, panting and spent, the phone on the dresser buzzed again. The vibration rattled against the wood, a persistent reminder of the world outside.
Dean noticed it. He glanced toward the phone, then looked back up at you. You didn't even turn your head. You didn't even blink. You just stayed draped over him, completely immersed in the afterglow.
Dean’s mouth curved against your skin, slow and unbearably pleased. He didn’t mention the phone. He didn’t need to. The message could sit there unanswered all night for all you cared, buzzing itself stupid on the dresser while Dean’s hand traced idle circles along your back like he knew exactly what he’d done.
A/N: surprise, I write for characters other than Logan lol.
summary: in which you and Dean broke up months ago because you overcommitted and put your relationship on the back burner. you're left to deal with the fall out, alone. angst.
disclaimer: I don't own off campus or any of the characters, all credits to the author/show writers.
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No New Notifications.
You sat in your car, one hand to your forehead as your other held your phone, the empty screen practically mocking you as the minutes ticked by.
Once upon a time you would’ve had a barrage of messages and updates waiting for you when you got off work. They’d include jokes and little daily anecdotes as well as little reminders to take care of yourself. Now there was nothing.
You could feel your breath hitching in your throat, a new round of tears threatening to boil over as you tried to steady yourself.
11:21 pm
The clock now read, you’d been sitting in your car for over 45 minutes.
It felt like your world was ending, absolutely nothing was going right for you lately.
Your department was struggling to make up a budget deficit, so you were at risk of losing some of your funding. You had only wanted to pick up some extra shifts at the café, but one of the new girls unexpectedly quit so you were working what felt like twice as much as before. You had a textbooks and assignments and a paper waiting for you when you got home. You had student org events to coordinate and a charity gala to help plan for your department’s annual fundraiser. Everywhere you turned, it was someone or something else requiring your attention and taking another piece of you and your time.
Not to mention your mom had called and left a voicemail asking when you were going to come home and visit but you couldn’t stomach the idea of looking her in the eyes and telling her everything you were dealing with and that you did not actually have it all under control like you always led people to believe. You were exhausted and overworked. Every single burden was chipping away at your resolve until tonight when a silly social media post made your heart drop right out of your chest.
Even now, swiping your phone lock screen away and hovering over the Fifth Line page, you could feel the bile rising in your throat and a shaky panic washing over your nerves.
The Briar U Hawks hockey team had won their game, which meant that a rager was being thrown across campus at the hockey house. Jules, never to miss any opportunity for drama or intrigue, faithfully recounted every bit of the night and documented it through photographic evidence that damned your feelings to hell.
The post had been at the very top of your feed when you opened the app, you scrolled through the carousel almost unwittingly. You knew you should stop looking at the page, you knew that it was really none of your business anymore. But you couldn’t help it, your heart was still in tatters and you were unable to put those pieces back together by yourself, not just yet. So, against your better judgment you checked the page. And tonight had been proof of why curiosity killed the cat.
It was a candid of Tucker and Logan, laughing and smacking each other in the chest. Unassuming to someone just scrolling through, but your eyes immediately flickered to the scene happening behind the two boys. In the background there was the outline of a tall, broad blonde pressing the willowy silhouette of a woman into a wall.
Dean. Your Dean.
Except he wasn’t yours, not anymore. Not since you two broke up months ago.
You had unconsciously been drifting away from him, something that haunted you even now. You had been tired and exhausted back then, pushing yourself too hard and it had taken a toll on your relationship. You had been ignoring messages, canceling dates and pushing Dean out to make room for everything else going on in your life. He could never reach you and every time he had tried to turn up and check on you, you turned him away. It all came to a head during a party you had been practically dragged to by your friends.
———
You had walked in and immediately noticed your boyfriend standing at the kitchen bar, watching as some girl was pouring alcohol into Tucker’s mouth while her friends cheered them on. One of the girls put her hand on Dean’s bicep, trying to get his attention. You stood there and stared, something akin to jealousy and annoyance flooding your features. As if feeling your presence in the doorway, Dean looked up and made eye contact right away.
Your feet felt like concrete bricks holding you in place as he made his way over, your friends having walked away momentarily to give the two of you some much-needed space. The tension was palpable between you two, like there was so much unsaid just waiting to spill over.
“I didn’t think you weren’t coming,” Dean said coolly.
“Why, didn’t want me to see your entourage of puck bunnies?” You scoffed, eyebrows shooting up to your hairline.
“More like I wasn’t even sure I still had a girlfriend, considering my messages have gone unanswered,” Dean was staring at you with an unnamed intensity burning in his eyes.
“You’re sure acting like you don’t have a girlfriend right now, wouldn’t you say?” You were getting progressively heated.
Dean rubbed his hand over his face, you noticed the shadows lingering under his eyes.
“Fucking hell, Y/N. I don’t want any of those girls, I want you. But you’re too busy to notice that,” Dean countered, his tone almost bitter.
“I can’t just stop what I’m doing, Dean! I have commitments and people relying on me."
“Last time I checked I was one of those commitments, Y/N.” Dean finished.
Silence stretched between the two of you, the meaning of his words hanging over you as your eyes began to fill with frustrated tears. He was right, you had been putting your relationship on the back burner. But that didn’t stop the hurt from flaring up inside you.
“And again, nothing. Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be,” Dean sounded deflated.
“You—you don’t mean that,” your voice quivered, the reality of what was happening sinking in.
“Call me when you figure it out, Y/N. For now I think it’s best we walk away,” Dean couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, his gaze downward.
You could feel the anxiety crawling up, your lip trembling and vision blurring as tears gathered at your lash line.
You couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer. You spun around on your heel, and ran out of that kitchen and into the night air, your friends chasing after you as you passed by.
Dean could only stare sullenly at your retreating figure, a mix of regret and deep anguish filling him at once.
———
As you finally made your way out of your car and up the stairs of your building, the sound of light music playing could be heard in your apartment’s hallway. It would’ve brought a smile to your face any other time. But the sadness was beginning to morph into exhaustion, your emotions having wreaked their havoc on your body.
All you wanted was your bed, but you had a seemingly never-ending list of things to do before you could even consider sleep. You fumbled around as you slid your key into the lock, turning the knob and preparing yourself to face your roommate’s inquiry.
“Hey, you’re back! I made—oh whoa, you’ve been crying. Y/N what happened?” Your roommate, Layla, turned down the music before walking closer and gingerly resting her hand on your shoulder.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” you weren’t sure if you were convincing her or yourself.
“It’s not nothing if you’re crying, you hardly ever cry,” she looked like she didn’t believe you.
Well, at least not in front of other people, you thought.
You stayed silent, it was easier that way if you just didn’t explain that you were still missing your ex months later. Your glossy eyes were fixated on the floor, unable to meet your Layla’s expectant gaze. She wasn’t going to drop this.
You sighed, pulling your phone out of your pocket and opening your social media. You pulled up the photo on the Fifth Line page that had set off the cascade of emotional turmoil and distress, almost reluctantly flipping the screen so Layla could see.
“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” sympathy coated every word. For some reason, it felt like a twist of the knife.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you murmured, your throat was turning scratchy from all the crying.
“It’s not fine, I’d be upset too if I saw a very public picture of my ex with a girl wrapped around him.”
You shrugged silently, as if resigned to feel this way.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Layla said softly.
“I don’t get to miss him, he has someone else now. Clearly, he doesn’t miss me,” you practically spat, the last part burning like acid as it rolled off your tongue.
“I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself. I know you blame yourself for what happened, but Beau said Dean was a mess without you, you know,”
“I know what Beau said, but this says otherwise,” you held up your phone in the air.
“Layla, I appreciate you and Beau being there for me. But I’m not what he wants anymore, I need to just get over it and move on,”
“But—”
“There’s no buts. I messed up, he ended it, he doesn’t want me. He moved on. It’s time I do the same. Besides, I have so many things to worry about, I don't have time to be sad right now. I can't change what happened and I can't just make it okay again so now I just want to drop it please," you practically begged at the end.
You could feel the tears as they started to track down your face, your emotions betraying you as it felt like the world was closing in on you.
“Y/N wait,” Layla called after you, but you had already turned away.
You didn’t want to continue the conversation, rushing into your room and letting the door slam as you threw yourself into your bed. You didn’t even wait to make sure your roommate’s music turned back on before breaking down for the second time that night. Your chest was heaving as you uncontrollably sobbed, your eyes aching and throat raw.
He moved on.
You’d have to accept that.
It was a cycle you kept repeating, telling yourself to move on and trying to distract yourself with everything else in your life. You kept praying it would stick, however it never helped nor did it ever stop the hurt that seemed to follow you everywhere. You still loved him, but you'd lost him.
𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓈 : not many warnings but mostly, cheating ? ( not really but maybe ) , slight manipulation, and slight 18+mdni
The second Dean walked into Melone’s with Garrett, Logan, and Tucker after the game, he saw you.
You were weaving through the packed restaurant with a tray balanced on one hand, laughing at something Hannah said before disappearing behind the kitchen doors.
“There she is,” Garrett muttered, catching the way Dean had frozen.
Dean didn’t answer.
He hadn’t seen you in almost two weeks.
Not since you’d looked him dead in the eye after catching him wrapped around another girl at a party.
Technically…
You weren’t together.
The breakup had happened months before. Somewhere between late-night hookups and pretending nothing had changed, the two of you had fallen into an unspoken arrangement.
No labels.
No questions.
Just each other.
Until he’d crossed a line neither of you had ever actually discussed.
Seeing another girl hadn’t broken any official rule.
But the look on your face had made him realize it didn’t matter.
“You gonna stare all night?” Logan teased.
Dean ignored him.
He pulled out his phone.
Dean: Photo booth. Five minutes.
No response.
He smirked.
Dean: Don’t make me come drag you over here.
Still nothing.
Then-
You: One minute.
Dean leaned back inside the tiny photo booth, knees bouncing impatiently.
The curtain slid open.
“There,” you said flatly. “I’m here.”
His heart did something weird.
You looked tired.
Pretty.
Annoyed.
Mostly annoyed.
“I missed you.”
You snorted.
“That’s original.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve never been serious a day in your life.”
“Ouch.”
You folded your arms.
“What do you want?”
Dean looked you over, unable to help himself.
God, he’d missed you.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been working.”
“You’ve also ignored every text.”
“I’ve read every text.”
“So answer one.”
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“You really hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
You paused.
“I just don’t trust you.”
That hit harder than he expected.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck.
“You know that girl didn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
He blinked.
“You… know?”
“You sleeping with someone else wasn’t the problem.”
You met his eyes.
“You made me feel replaceable.”
The confidence slipped from his face.
“I never—”
“You did.”
Silence.
“You always said we were different.”
“We are.”
“But the second another blonde smiled at you, that didn’t seem to matter.”
Dean took a slow breath.
“I was an idiot.”
“You were Dean.”
“Same thing.”
Against your better judgment, you laughed.
“There she is,” he murmured. “I’ve missed that.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“The charm.”
“It usually works.”
“It doesn’t today.”
Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“So what do I have to do?”
“Nothing.”
“No, seriously.”
“I’m serious too.”
“You don’t just stop wanting me.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“Listen to yourself.”
“I know you.”
“You knew me.”
His stomach twisted.
For the first time, he didn’t have a clever comeback.
Didn’t have a joke.
Didn’t have a line.
He stood, closing the tiny distance between you.
“Dean.”
He slipped one hand carefully around your waist.
You didn’t pull away.
Not immediately.
His voice dropped.
“You know no one else feels like you. No one else tastes like you. C’mon… let me have that pretty pussy again. I’ve been thinking about it since the second period.”
You looked away.
He brushed his lips lightly against the side of your neck, more instinct than strategy.
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
Your hand found the back of his neck automatically, fingers tangling in his hair.
His heart kicked.
Then you sighed.
“I have a shift.”
Your hand slipped away.
“So do yourself a favor.”
He frowned.
“Figure out whether you’re chasing me because you hate losing…”
You stepped backward through the curtain.
“…or because you actually miss me.”
The curtain fell shut.
Dean stood there alone.
Outside, he could hear the restaurant buzzing, his teammates laughing somewhere across the room.
None of it registered.
He replayed the way your fingers had curled into his hair.
The way you’d almost melted into him.
The way you’d still walked away.
Normally, he’d shrug it off.
Find another distraction.
Another girl.
Another party.
But the thought made his stomach turn.
He didn’t want another girl.
He wanted you.
He wanted your sarcastic comments when he left his clothes all over your apartment.
He wanted your laugh from the passenger seat after midnight drives.
He wanted your texts after games.
He wanted you stealing his hoodies and pretending they weren’t his.
He wanted all of it.
And that realization scared him more than any game he’d ever played.
Dean Di Laurentis had spent years convincing himself relationships weren’t worth the trouble.
Now, watching you disappear back onto the restaurant floor…
He realized he’d fallen for his ex.
Hard.
And for the first time in his life, he had no idea how to win someone back.
𝒜𝓊𝓇𝓉𝒽ℴ𝓇𝓈 𝓃ℴ𝓉ℯ: finally I had finished part twoooo , I was having a slight writers block 😅💘
⌗ synopsis — At Briar University, she is the campus diva and the keeper of secret alibis for her friend Allie and the untamable Dean Di Laurentis—the guy she secretly loves.
⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed.
⌗ pt. ii | pt. iii | pt. iv | pt. final ⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST
The silence at Briar University was always an illusion. If you paid close enough attention, behind the constant hum of the campus, you could hear the crunch of ice under blades, the dull thud of a hockey puck hitting the boards, and the booming laughter echoing from the off-campus house. To most people, that house was the epicenter of the wildest, most uncontrolled parties of the semester. To me, it was simply my living room.
—If you don’t drink this right now, I swear I’ll tell Coach Jensen you’ve been skating on a swollen ankle all week,—I threatened, crossing my arms as I leaned against the kitchen counter.
Garrett Graham let out a dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the living room sofa. He had an ice pack pressed to his left shoulder, his brow furrowed from the pain of their last practice.
—You’re a dictator,—he muttered, though he still reached out to take the glass filled with the protein-and-painkiller smoothie I had made for him. —A beautiful dictator, but ruthless.—
—I’m the only reason you still have a functioning shoulder, Graham,—I reminded him, walking over to sit on the arm of the couch. —So less complaining and more drinking. Tucker, did you finish reading the case for criminal law?—
From the far end of the room, John Tucker looked up from his notes, sporting noticeable dark circles under his eyes. He stared at me as if I were a ghost from the past, but forced one of his slow, Southern smiles.
—If by ‘finish’ you mean the letters have started dancing across the page and I’m seeing double, then yeah, I finished,—he sighed, slamming the heavy textbook shut. —I need coffee. Or a miracle. Or for Logan to stop making noise with that damn console.—
—Hey!—John Logan’s voice protested from the floor, where he sat cross-legged with his eyes glued to the TV screen, his fingers moving at an inhuman speed over the PlayStation controller. —I’m one game away from breaking the league record in FIFA. Don’t ruin my focus. Besides, she makes better coffee than you, Tuck. Give her a break.—
I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth that only they knew how to give me. For the past couple of years, I had become a permanent fixture in their lives. I wasn’t just some girl hanging out at the house; I was their confidante, their anchor, the one who patched up their scrapes after a violent game, the one who helped Logan memorize tactical plays on makeshift whiteboards, and the one who spent countless late nights brewing strong coffee in this very kitchen so Tucker wouldn't fail his exams.
There was a mutual devotion between us. They were loud, protective, competitive giants on the ice, but the moment they walked through that door and I was sitting in the living room, they let their guard down completely. We were a chosen family.
The front door flew open, shattering the afternoon quiet. Allie Hayes walked in carrying a couple of bags from the campus café, closely followed by Hannah Wells. The atmosphere instantly shifted to something much livelier.
—We brought donuts!—Hannah announced enthusiastically, dropping her backpack on the floor and walking straight over to Garrett to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. —Though I think Logan will eat them all if nobody stops him.—
—That is slander!—Logan yelled without tearing his eyes away from the screen.
Allie walked into the kitchen, flashing me a knowing smile as she passed. —Do you have a second?—she mouthed silently, casting a quick glance toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
I nodded slightly as I got up from the sofa. Garrett grabbed my wrist before I could walk away, looking at me with those serious eyes that seemed to see right through anyone.
—Everything good?—he asked in a low voice, setting down the now-empty glass.
—Yeah, perfect. Just going to help Allie unpack some things in the kitchen,—I lied effortlessly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before he let go.
Garrett had an incredible protective instinct when it came to me. Sometimes I felt like he suspected something was off in my head, but he was too respectful to push if I wasn't ready to talk. And the truth was, I wasn't. I couldn't be.
Once in the kitchen, Allie had already shut the door leading to the back hallway, ensuring our privacy. She leaned against the counter, letting out a long sigh that fluttered her bangs.
—I need you to cover for me later today,—she blurted out, dropping her voice to a bare whisper. —Hannah thinks we’re staying at the library late to review our final literature essay, but... Dean wants me to go to his room after karaoke at Malone’s.—
My heart skipped an imperceptible beat in my chest—a sharp little pang I was getting used to, but that didn't make it hurt any less. I forced my best smile, putting on that confident diva façade I always used as a shield.
—Again, Allie?—I teased in a light tone, crossing my arms. —You’re going to end up owing me a whole month of free dinners at the dining hall. What am I supposed to tell Hannah if she asks why your car is still parked on campus?—
—Tell her I left you the keys because you had to pick up something heavy,—Allie begged, clasping her hands together in a plea. —You’re the only person I trust with this. If the guys find out about me and Dean... God, Garrett would kill Dean, or Dean would kill Garrett, or the whole house would explode. You know how territorial they are about the team.—
—I know,—I replied softly. —Don't worry. I've got you covered. No one will find out anything from me.—
—You’re the best friend in the world,—Allie said, giving me a quick, heartfelt hug.
As I wrapped my arms around her, my eyes inevitably drifted to the kitchen window facing the backyard. I didn't hate Allie. I didn't feel envious of her, nor resentful. Allie was wonderful, funny, and one of my best friends at Briar. But the bitter taste that settled in my throat every time I had to weave a lie so she could run into Dean Di Laurentis’s arms was a silent torture.
Because nobody knew that long before Allie and Dean started their complicated game of hide-and-seek, my eyes were already drifting toward the blonde, arrogant hockey player.
Flashback: Three Months Ago
The early morning air in the off-campus house was freezing. It was four o’clock on a winter Tuesday morning, and I couldn't sleep due to midterm anxiety. I had come down to the dark kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt of Tucker’s and a pair of shorts, looking for a glass of warm milk.
I didn't turn on the lights so I wouldn't wake anyone. I sat on the counter, my feet dangling, watching the reflection of the moon on the hardwood floor. Suddenly, the back door of the kitchen opened with a soft click.
I tensed instantly, ready to grab the heavy ceramic mug as a weapon, but the silhouette that walked in was unmistakable. The messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders, and that posture dripping with an almost offensive confidence. Dean.
He stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing my presence in the dim light. His blue eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, a slow, smirk spread across his face.
—Well... what is a goddess like you doing awake at this hour in my kitchen?—Dean whispered, taking a step forward. His voice had that raspy, sleepy edge mixed with an innate sensuality that sent a shiver down my spine.
—I could ask you the same thing, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice steady and locking into my diva attitude, refusing to show how much his proximity was wrecking my heart rate. —Did you just get back from breaking some heart over at the girls' dorms?—
Dean let out a low chuckle, stopping right in front of me. He was so close I could smell his cologne—a mix of mint, leather, and that clean, distinct scent that was entirely his. He leaned against the counter, inches from my legs, trapping me between his arms without actually touching me.
—Actually, no,—he admitted, looking straight into my eyes. There was a strange intensity in his gaze that night, something that went beyond the superficial flirting he usually flashed at everyone. —I was studying the plays for the next game. My head won't turn off. What about you? Studying too?—
—Trying to,—I whispered. The space between us seemed to have vanished into thin air. My eyes flicked down to his lips for a split second, and I swore he noticed the movement because his smirk softened, turning a little deeper.
—You know... you spend a lot of time taking care of the other guys,—Dean murmured, reaching out a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. His fingers grazed the skin of my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. —Garrett, Logan, Tuck... Sometimes I wonder when it’s going to be my turn to have you look after me.—
The air grew thick. The sexual tension in that dark kitchen was so real you could practically cut it with a knife. I was on the verge of losing control, a second away from leaning forward to find out what Dean Di Laurentis’s promises tasted like. But before either of us could make a move, the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs snapped us out of it.
Dean stepped back with feline agility, winking at me before grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
—See you at breakfast, gorgeous,—he murmured, disappearing down the back hallway before Logan even reached the stairs.
That night, lying in my bed, I realized two things: that Dean Di Laurentis was the most dangerous man on campus for my sanity, and that I was already hopelessly lost for him.
End of Flashback
—Earth to the campus diva?—Allie’s voice snapped me back to reality, waving a hand in front of my face. —You froze up staring out the window. Are you sure you’re okay with this? If it’s too much trouble, I can figure out something else to tell Hannah...—
—Oh, please!—I exclaimed, shaking my head and recovering my usual mask with a dramatic wave of my hand. —Since when has saving your skin ever been a problem for me? Besides, Hannah is easy to convince if I tell her you were super stressed out. You just focus on your... ‘study session’ with Dean.—
Allie smiled, relieved, and opened the kitchen door to head back into the living room with the others. I stood alone for a second, taking a deep breath. Right at that moment, I heard Dean’s laughter from upstairs. He was coming down the steps.
I walked out of the kitchen just in time to see him enter the living room. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, his hair perfectly pushed back, and that smug look that drove every girl at Briar crazy. His eyes scanned the room; they passed Logan, Tucker, and grazed Allie in a way that was almost imperceptible to the rest, but they stopped for a full second on me. A spark of recognition flashed in his gaze—the shadow of that secret we shared in the dark hours of the night before everything got complicated.
—Hey, Di Laurentis!—Logan shouted, finally setting down his controller. —Are you going to Malone’s tonight or are you staying behind to admire your own reflection in the bathroom mirror again?—
—Logan, please. My reflection deserves at least two hours of daily admiration,—Dean fired back arrogantly, earning a collective groan from the group. —But yeah, I’m going to Malone’s. I need to watch you try to flirt with Grace and fail miserably for the twentieth time this week.—
—Tonight is the night!—Logan defended himself, pointing a finger at him. —In fact, I already have a mastermind plan for tonight.—
I turned my head toward Logan, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
—What kind of mastermind plan, John?—I asked, using his first name to warn him that I didn't like his tone.
Logan smirked in that way that signaled imminent danger.
—You’ll see, gorgeous. You’ll see. Just make sure to bring your best attitude tonight.—
I looked at Garrett, searching for backup, but he just shrugged with an amused smile.
—Don't look at me. When Logan gets an idea in his head, it’s better to just let him crash and burn on his own,—Garrett said, getting off the couch and stretching his arms. —Anyway, I’m gonna go shower. If we’re going to Malone’s, I suggest we move fast before the line wraps around the block.—
The group began to scatter around the house to get ready. Allie and Hannah went upstairs to change, Tucker went to put his books away, and Dean lingered by the kitchen island for a moment, checking his phone.
I stood right in the middle of the living room, feeling the weight of the night that lay ahead. Malone’s was going to be packed. The music would be loud. The drinks would be flowing. And I would have to spend the whole night watching Dean from across the room, knowing that when the bar closed and the lights went down, my phone would vibrate with a text from Allie, asking me to lie for them just one more time.
What I didn't know at that moment, as I caught Dean’s eye from across the room, was that Logan’s —mastermind plan—was about to completely change the rules of the game tonight, throwing me right into the center of a stage where I would no longer be able to hide behind my lies.
The green neon sign of Malone’s blinked rhythmically against the dark night sky, reflecting in the puddles on the main avenue's sidewalk. Inside, the atmosphere was a perfectly choreographed chaos—a dense mass of college hormones, alcohol, and music turned up to a volume that vibrated right in your chest. The smell of spilled beer, old wood, and expensive perfume mingled in the air. It was a classic Briar karaoke night, which meant the bar was packed to the brim and the campus hierarchy was clearly on display.
We had our usual table: the large, worn leather booth near the pool tables. The hockey guys claimed it every weekend as if it were their private property, and no one in their right mind dared to dispute the space with the star team. Hannah and Garrett were submerged in their own bubble in a corner of the couch; he was whispering something in her ear with his typical Southern drawl, and she was laughing, hiding her face in his neck. Allie, on the other hand, was playing with the straw of her drink, but her eyes discreetly drifted toward the bar every time the crowd parted.
I was sitting right in the middle, flanked by Tucker and Logan. I was wearing a black spaghetti-strap top with a subtle but killer neckline, tight pants, and knee-high boots. My short hair fell with a rebellious, chic vibe that framed my features perfectly. Holding a glass of vodka cranberry in my hand, I crossed my legs with a sophisticated slowness. I enjoyed the attention; I knew several eyes in the bar were locked on our table—and specifically on me—but my internal radar was locked onto a single target.
Dean Di Laurentis was sitting directly opposite me. He had taken off his leather jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. He hadn't said a single word since we sat down, but he didn't need to. His intense, lazy blue eyes scanned my look from head to toe with a slowness that bordered on insolence. When his gaze met mine again, he flashed that crooked smirk—the one that screamed he knew exactly the effect he had on women. I felt the familiar electric jolt shoot down my spine, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze in a silent, diva-like challenge. Two can play this game, Di Laurentis.
—It’s a done deal.—Logan’s voice shattered the staring contest instantly. He slid back into the booth with a smug grin that set off all my alarms, dropping down beside me with an unbearable air of triumph.
I turned to him slowly, narrowing my eyes and resting my chin on my hand.
—What exactly did you do, Logan?—I asked in a dangerously soft tone. —And it better not involve my car, my credit card, or my mental health.—
—I put you on the karaoke list. You’re singing tonight, babe,—he dropped casually, taking a long sip of his drink as if he were the king of the world.
I froze. A lock of hair fell perfectly over my face as I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and pure indignation.
—You did what, John Logan?—I repeated, reaching out to give his forearm a sharp slap.
—Ow! Hey, relax,—he protested, rubbing the spot but keeping his teasing grin. —You need to express your feelings, seriously. You’ve seemed tense lately, like you’ve got a secret or some knot locked up inside that you won't let out. Look at me and Grace. Sometimes you just have to dive in, be honest, put your heart on the line, and let things flow...—
The name Grace floated above the table like a helium balloon about to burst. My self-defense instinct reacted before my brain could even process it. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to be exposed under Malone’s spotlights when my head was an absolute mess because of the guy sitting across from me—the very same guy who was now sleeping with one of my best friends.
—Just like you did with Grace? Because I recall that ending in a monumental disaster of biblical proportions, with you crying on my kitchen floor,—I fired back, quick, cold, and sharp as a razor blade.
Tucker let out a muffled —uhhh—from his corner, his eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand, while Hannah let out a nervous chuckle. The noise at the table seemed to grind to a complete halt. Logan visibly tensed, the smile vanishing from his face as a flash of guilt and pain crossed his eyes.
The comment was a low blow. A direct hit to his pride and his healing process. I knew it the second the words left my mouth, and remorse instantly punched me in the stomach.
—I’m sorry...—I apologized immediately, dropping the entire diva façade for a second. I placed my hand on his arm, softening my voice. —That wasn't right, Logan. Seriously, I was being an idiot, I’m sorry. It’s just... I don't want to sing tonight. I’m not in the mood to have the whole bar staring at me.—
—Hey, look at me,—Garrett intervened. The team captain leaned across the table toward me, resting his heavy arms on the worn wood and capturing my full attention with that trademark confidence of his that worked like an anchor in any storm. —You’re my favorite, and you know it.—
I caught a quick glimpse of Dean out of the corner of my eye. He had leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold with his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes hadn't drifted from me a single millimeter; he was analyzing the tension between Logan and me with a steadiness that burned my skin.
—Whatever is going on in your head right now... with Dean, with your exams, with whatever... set it aside for three minutes,—Garrett continued, his voice low, firm, and grounding. —You’re incredible, babe. Get up there and remind all these idiots why you’re the queen of Briar. Go crush it. Next round is on me.—
Tucker nodded enthusiastically, taking a swig of his beer.
—He’s right. Go show 'em how it's done,—Tuck added with his eternal optimism.
Allie looked at me from the other side, offering a bright, encouraging smile. It hurt. It hurt because she genuinely cared about me, and she didn't have the slightest clue that the real reason my heart was hammering wasn't stage fright, but the secret that involved her and the guy sitting next to her.
The bar's emcee took the microphone on the small stage at the back, shattering my thoughts with the echo of the feedback.
—Alright, Briar! Next up on the list... we have our house diva! A huge round of applause for her!—
I stood up in one swift movement, exhaling all the breath I’d been holding. I adjusted the straps of my black top with a slow, deliberate gesture, straightening my spine. Shyness and doubt evaporated in a blink, replaced by that armor of confidence and sensuality that I wore like a pro. I walked toward the stage as the murmurs from the tables began to quiet down to make way for me. The hockey team started cheering loudly; Logan whistled sharply through his fingers, proving the low blow was already forgiven, and Garrett banged his fists on the table.
As I climbed the three wooden steps, the main spotlight hit me full in the face, warming my skin. I grabbed the mic with one hand, adjusted the stand, and looked out at the crowd. Half of Briar was watching me. Guys from rival fraternities lowered their pool cues to look toward the stage; a group of sophomores at the bar elbowed each other, pointing in my direction. I was the center of attention, and I loved it.
When the sophisticated, heavy-bass pop chords of Sabrina Carpenter's —sugar talking—started thumping through the speakers, a slow, feline smile spread across my lips. The rhythm of the song was perfect: danceable, flirtatious, a little shameless. Just like me.
I looked for one specific gaze.
Dean.
He had stood up from the table. He was no longer sitting. Now he was leaning against the wooden bar counter a few yards from the stage, swirling a glass of whiskey between his long fingers. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were completely locked on me, gleaming under the blue and green flashes of the neon lights.
I started to sing, and my voice flowed clean, with a velvety, suggestive tone that caused the general hum of the bar to drop into a near-complete hush.
—Put your loving where your mouth is../ Your sugar talking isn't working tonight, oh
I sang the first lines staring straight at the hockey table, but the moment I hit the word loving, my eyes snapped directly to Dean. I saw him tense imperceptibly against the bar. I walked from one end of the small stage to the other, swaying my hips with a slowness that knew exactly what kind of reaction it provoked. My high boots resonated against the wood.
Reaching the chorus, I stepped close to the edge of the stage, holding the microphone with both hands, leaning forward slightly. The black top exposed the line of my collarbones under the red glow of the spotlight.
—Yeah, your paragraphs mean shit to me... / Get your sorry ass to mine...—My voice sounded playful, teasing, yet laced with an underlying emotion that very few in that room understood.
I turned my face toward a group of football players in the front row and flashed them a stunning smile, winking. Two of them gasped and straightened up in their seats, completely hypnotized by the performance. But I wasn't looking at them. I turned my gaze back to the bar.
Dean had set his whiskey glass down on the counter. Both of his hands were now gripping the edge of the wood, leaning forward. The playful, arrogant smirk he always wore had completely vanished; his jaw was tightly clenched and his blue eyes were dark, fixed on my lips with an intensity so physical I could practically feel it brushing against me. I watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard. He was jealous. Not in a logical way, because he wasn't mine, but with that primal, territorial instinct that hockey guys just couldn't hide. It pissed him off that the whole bar was desiring me in that exact moment, and it drove him crazy knowing I was doing it on purpose just to provoke him.
I spun around on stage, turning my back to him for a second to move with the beat, letting my silhouette cut through the light before whipping back around for the final line of the song, pointing my index finger directly at him as I sang in a suggestive whisper:
—... You tell me that you want me (want me)…./ But, baby, if you need me
I held eye contact until the last note of the bass faded into the air. For a second, the bar remained in absolute silence, trapped in the electric atmosphere I had just created.
And then, Malone’s erupted.
The cheers were deafening. The football players in the front row applauded wildly, several guys shouted my name, and my hockey boys threw a monumental fit, slamming their beer mugs against the wood. I walked down the stage steps with my heart hammering a thousand miles an hour in my chest, feeling pure adrenaline rushing through my veins like liquid fire. The diva mask was intact, shiny, and triumphant.
I made my way back to the bar area, dodging a couple of compliments from strangers, and stopped in front of Garrett and Logan, who already had their glasses raised to greet me.
—Told you so. A total rock star,—Garrett boasted, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders with genuine pride, giving me an affectionate squeeze.
—You were incredible, seriously. I take back what I said about you being ruthless... well, no, you’re still ruthless, but you sing like an angel,—Logan admitted, clinking his glass against mine with a wide, sincere smile.
—Thanks, boys. Just doing my part to elevate the standards around here,—I replied, slipping back into my sophisticated, flirtatious tone, taking a long sip of my vodka to cool my throat.
I smiled, feeling—for a brief, glorious second—like I was on top of the world, completely unburdened. I turned slightly, searching for Dean.
He was walking purposefully in my direction. He had left the bar behind and was cutting through the crowd of students with long, firm strides. His gaze was intense, direct, without a trace of his usual laziness. He had that same fierce determination he used on the ice when he had the puck and his eyes on the goal. The space between us shrank with every second; the tension was so thick, so charged with sexual static, that I swore Logan and Garrett would notice the shift in the air. He was going to say something to me. I was certain he was going to call me out on the song, the dancing, the looks I gave the other guys...
Bzzz.
The phone vibrated violently in the back pocket of my pants, cutting the music in my head.
I broke eye contact with Dean just as he was barely three steps away from me. With my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, I pulled out the phone and unlocked the screen. Allie Hayes’s name illuminated the glass.
Allie: Cover for me with Hannah, please. I'm leaving with Dean. See you at the photo booth in 10. Don't forget about the car thing if she asks.
The high of the music, the applause of the crowd, Garrett’s pride, and the fire of the adrenaline plummeted in a freefall, crashing face-first into Malone's concrete floor.
I lifted my eyes from the phone slowly. Dean had stopped dead in his tracks two steps away from me. He had glanced over my shoulder toward the bar's side exit, where Allie had just quietly slipped out toward the back parking lot. He looked back into my eyes. It was a quick look, barely two seconds, but it was agonizing—it was loaded with silent frustration, a flicker of an apology, and a shared secret that made my stomach turn.
Without saying a single word, Dean spun on his heel with that feline agility of his and walked toward the back hallway that connected to the emergency exit, vanishing from everyone's sight in a heartbeat.
I squeezed the phone against the palm of my hand until my knuckles turned completely white, swallowing hard to try and dissolve the bitter, dry knot tightening in my throat. The flirtatious stage diva had to evaporate in a second, forcing me to lock the pieces of the unbreakable perfect, loyal friend mask back into place.
—Everything good?—Logan asked, furrowing his brow and tilting his head as he noticed the drastic, sudden change in my face.
—Yeah...—I forced my best smile—the one I’d been practicing for three months—slipping my phone into my pocket with a quick motion. —Everything's perfect. Just Allie, she left her room keys in my bag and asked me to bring them to her because she’s feeling a little tired and heading back early. I'm gonna hit the restroom and find her, guys. Be right back.—
I turned around before Garrett could ask one of his analytical questions, walking toward the dark hallway at the back. I knew exactly what was coming next. I knew that out there, in the dim light of the photo booth or the back seat of a car, I would have to smile, act normal, listen to Allie’s sighs, and be the perfect shield for the secret that, piece by piece, was breaking my heart in absolute silence.
I slipped my phone into my back pocket, my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour. The music at Malone’s was still thumping in my ears, but now it sounded muffled, distant, as if I were underwater. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, forcing my facial muscles to maintain that sophisticated, carefree smile everyone expected from me.
—Seriously, babe, that song was out of this world,—Logan insisted, giving Garrett an open elbow nudge. —Did you see the look on those football idiots' faces? They were practically drooling.—
—Anyone with eyes would be drooling, Logan. Don't be basic,—Garrett replied with a half-smirk, though his light eyes settled on me with that analytical steadiness that always put me on guard. —But your expression shifted real fast. Are you sure Allie just wanted her keys? You went pale.—
—It’s just the adrenaline crash, Gray,—I lied with a naturalness that was starting to scare me, giving his chin a playful tap. —Being up on stage takes a lot of diva energy, you know? I need to touch up my lipstick and get some air. Don't move, I’ll be back in five.—
I turned around, ready to head down the hallway leading to the restrooms and the back exit, where the bar’s old vintage photo booth was located. But I hadn't even taken three steps before a figure stepped right into my path.
It was Cami, one of the girls from the campus events committee, notorious for having the fastest and most dangerous tongue in all of Briar. She held a red solo cup in her hand, sporting a malicious grin and wide eyes that gleamed with the spark of someone who had just struck absolute gold.
—Well, well... the star of the night,—Cami said, blocking my way with a fake familiarity. —You sing incredible, seriously. But I think the real show wasn’t on the stage.—
I tensed, but kept my chin high, crossing my arms with a bored expression.
—Oh, really? I didn’t know Malone’s had a double feature tonight. What are you talking about, Cami?—
Cami leaned in closer, dropping her voice so the booming music wouldn't drown her out, but with the clear intention of watching my reaction.
—I’m talking about your friend, Allie Hayes. And Dean Di Laurentis. I just saw them walk into the back hallway together. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think they went into the men’s room to compare literature notes. Dean looked around twice before slipping into the photo booth with her.—
My stomach wrenched with a violence that nearly stole my breath, but my face didn’t give in. Not a single millimeter. I let out a clean, loud, perfectly practiced laugh, earning a bewildered look from her.
—Seriously, Cami? Is that the best you’ve got today?—I asked, looking at her with a mock pity that I had mastered to perfection. —Dean is doing her a favor by passing along the contact info for a tutor for next week’s exam. Allie was incredibly stressed out, and he offered because, even if he plays the bad boy, he’s a softie. They went in there to talk without the noise from the football troglodytes blowing their eardrums out.—
Cami narrowed her eyes, not entirely convinced.
—In the photo booth? That’s a pretty cramped space to talk about tutoring.—
—It’s the only spot with a curtain that blocks out the neon lights, sweetheart. Basic marketing: if you want focus, you look for privacy.—I took a step forward, subtly invading her personal space with that intimidating diva stare that could break anyone. —So I suggest you stop inventing fanfictions in your head before Garrett overhears you and decides you’re no longer welcome at the off-campus house parties. It would be such a shame for you to miss the one next Saturday, don't you think?—
The color drained a bit from Cami’s cheeks. She knew perfectly well the power the hockey team—and I, by extension—wielded over Briar’s social scene. She swallowed hard and forced a smile.
—I was just saying... it looked weird. But if you say so...—
—I do say so,—I declared with a radiant, fake smile. —Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.—
I brushed past her, subtly bumping my shoulder against hers. The moment my back was turned, the smile vanished from my face. Real panic settled into my chest. If Cami had seen them, anyone could have. I had to get them out of there before someone else investigated, or before Garrett decided to go find Dean to order another round.
I walked briskly down the dark hallway. The noise of the bar began to fade, replaced by the hum of the pipes and the smell of damp air. Turning the corner that led to the emergency exit, I saw it: the old wooden structure of the photo booth, its lights flickering, and the heavy red velvet curtain completely drawn shut. From inside, nothing could be heard over the bar's music, but the tension in the air was practically solid.
I stepped up and, without hesitation, ripped the curtain open.
—Time’s up, guys. We have a problem,—I snapped in a firm voice, crossing my arms.
The space inside was tiny. Allie was sitting on Dean’s lap, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly unraveled. Dean’s hands were locked around her waist, but at the sound of my voice, his head snapped up. His blue eyes were blazing, unfocused from the adrenaline of the moment, but the instant they locked onto me, a mix of surprise and that annoying frustration rushed back onto his face.
—What’s wrong?—Allie asked, jumping down with a face full of panic, frantically adjusting her sweater. —Is Hannah coming? Garrett?—
—Worse,—I replied, staring straight at Dean for a split second before turning back to her. —Cami saw you two walk in. I tried to stall her with the tutor excuse and threatened to blackball her from the parties, but she’s starving for gossip. If you guys don’t leave separately this damn second, the whole bar is going to find out.—
Allie gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth, turning pale.
—Oh my God... no, no, no. If Garrett finds out...—She looked at Dean in desperation.
Dean stood up from the small bench inside the booth, filling the cramped space with his height. He adjusted his white t-shirt with an infuriating calmness, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed that he wasn't nearly as relaxed as he wanted to appear.
—Relax, Hayes. It’s fine,—Dean said, his voice carrying that raspy edge that completely wrecked my insides. —Go out through the back emergency door and head toward the parking lot. I’ll walk out through the main hallway in a minute, like I’m going to find Logan. No one’s going to suspect anything if they don’t see us together.—
Allie nodded frantically, looking at me with a devotion that made me feel like the worst person on earth.
—You’re my savior, seriously. I owe you my life. I’ll see you at the house,—she whispered, giving my arm a quick squeeze before pushing the metal bar of the emergency exit and disappearing into the cold Massachusetts night.
The door shut with a dull thud, leaving me completely alone with Dean in the narrow hallway.
The silence that settled between us was dense, heavy, loaded with everything we hadn't said to each other since that night in the kitchen three months ago. Dean took a step forward, stepping out of the photo booth. He stopped mere inches away from me, forcing me to tilt my head up just to hold his gaze. I could smell him—the whiskey, the mint, and that physical warmth that threw my nerves into overdrive.
—So... saving our skin again,—Dean murmured, dropping his voice to that dangerous whisper that sent shivers down my spine. There was a strange intensity in his eyes, a spark of reproach. —You sing beautiful, by the way. Though I could’ve sworn that look at the end wasn’t meant for the idiots on the football team.—
I shoved my hands into my pockets so he wouldn't notice my fingers trembling. I locked into my untouchable diva posture, even though I was breaking into a million pieces on the inside.
—Just doing my job, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice cool and flirtatious. —I protect my friends. And about the song... don't flatter yourself. I sing for anyone who cares to listen.—
Dean let out a low chuckle, a short sound that vibrated right in my chest. He took half a step closer, effectively trapping me between his body and the wooden wall of the photo booth without actually touching me, recreating the kitchen scene almost perfectly.
—You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous, babe,—he whispered, tilting his head slightly toward mine. His eyes dropped to my lips for a second that felt eternal. —You were teasing me up there. You know it, and I know it. Why play games like that if you’re just going to run and hide behind the guys afterward?—
My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it. The proximity, the scent, the frustration of spending months as a spectator to his story with Allie... everything pooled in my throat. I was a millimeter away from losing it, away from grabbing his shirt and screaming that I hated him for being so indifferent and so damn necessary all at once.
But the rules of the game were the rules of the game. And I was a diva, not a homewrecker.
—I play because I can, Dean,—I answered, locking my eyes with his with all the strength I could muster. —But you already have a game in progress. And I suggest you play it well, because next time, I might not be around to clean up your mess.—
I ducked right under his arm before he could react, letting the scent of my perfume wash over him one last time. I walked with a firm, steady stride back toward the glowing neon lights of the bar, feeling his blue eyes piercing my back like two daggers of ice.
I quickened my pace down the hallway, forcing my Vans to hit the floor with the firm, determined rhythm of a girl who has everything completely under control. But the second I crossed the threshold of the side door and the freezing Massachusetts night air hit me full in the face, the diva armor crumbled entirely.
I leaned against the brick wall of Malone’s back alley, away from the lights, away from the eyes, and finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding for three whole months. My hands shook uncontrollably inside my pockets. The echo of the bar’s applause was still buzzing in my ears, but now it felt like a cruel mockery. What was the point of having an entire bar looking at me, desiring me, if the only pair of eyes I actually wanted didn't belong to me?
I stared into the darkness of the parking lot. In the distance, the silhouette of Dean’s car flipped on its headlights, cutting through the shadows for a split second before slowly rolling toward the back exit. I knew exactly who was sitting in the passenger seat. I knew Allie was fixing her hair, smiling in relief because, once again, her best friend had saved the day.
And there, in the solitude of the alley, I realized I was utterly exhausted. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of waging an invisible war inside my own head—a battle that had been lost since the very first day.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that whatever they had was just a temporary arrangement, a college distraction, deep down I knew better. I knew how to read the looks. I knew how to spot the tension. That friends-with-benefits relationship between Dean and Allie had real foundations; it was strong, heavy, and grew a little more every single time they locked themselves in a room. It wasn’t a stupid game. It was happening for real.
I closed my eyes, feeling the night chill seep into my bones, but the ache in my chest was so much worse. Allie was my friend. One of the few people at Briar who had offered me genuine loyalty, who looked at me with pure affection and trusted me with her most precious secret. I couldn't do that to her. I wasn't that kind of girl. I couldn't allow myself to cross the line and covet the guy she was sleeping with—the guy who made her smile in that very specific way. Friendship had sacred rules, and I wasn't going to be the villain in my best friend’s story.
But the bitterest truth—the one that burned in my throat and made it hard to swallow—was something else. It was the silent humiliation of waiting. Waiting in the shadows of the kitchen at four in the morning, waiting for a sidelong glance in a bar booth, waiting for some miracle where Dean Di Laurentis would open his eyes and choose me.
How stupid. What a pathetic, goddamn fantasy.
Dean wasn't going to choose me. He had his life, his game, and he had Allie. At the end of the day, when the neon lights faded and the music stopped, nobody cared about what happened behind my untouchable diva façade. My practiced smiles, my flawless lies, my sleepless nights taking care of everyone... all of it was just the stage setting for someone else's romance. On the grand chessboard of Briar University, my feelings didn't matter. They were just the price I had to pay to keep a lie afloat—the very lie that was breaking my heart in absolute silence.
The crunch of slow footsteps on the alley gravel shattered the silence of my dark corner. The sound forced my spine to snap straight instantly, swallowing the knot in my throat and blinking rapidly to erase any trace of vulnerability. The diva mask locked back onto my face out of pure survival instinct, ready to repel whoever had dared to follow me.
—Are you okay? Do you want to leave?—The voice coming from behind me was soft, low, but carried a slightly raspy, drawn-out tone, with a cadence that didn't belong to the North, but rather to a much warmer, more sophisticated coast.
I turned around slowly, resting my hip against the brick wall. The dim light from Malone’s green neon sign silhouetted him, and the air escaped my lungs—but this time, for a completely different reason.
It wasn't one of the hockey guys. It wasn't anyone from Briar.
Physically, he looked like he had stepped right out of a high-society catalog but had decided to rebel against it. He was tall, with a lean yet wiry build, wearing a light linen button-down shirt left slightly open at the collar, which contrasted ridiculously with the Massachusetts cold. His hair was light brown, almost dark blonde, faded very low on the sides but with enough texture on top for a few stray locks to fall over his forehead with an aristocratic carelessness. He possessed sharp features, a highly defined jawline, and clear, pale blue eyes that often conveyed a dangerous, almost erratic intensity. Yet, at this exact moment, as he looked at me, the internal storm he always seemed to carry had completely dissipated. His gaze was clean, strangely protective.
An involuntary smile—the first real smile of my entire night—curved my lips as I remembered how I had met him. It happened a few months ago, during those vacation weeks when I needed to escape from everything and ended up in a small coastal paradise—a place of endless beaches, wooden piers, and golden sunsets where nobody knew my name. He didn't belong there either; he was just passing through, dealing with his own family demons, and our worlds—both so broken and so perfectly camouflaged under designer clothes—collided one afternoon by the sea.
—What are you doing here?—I whispered, letting my shoulders drop, allowing myself to let my guard down just a single inch. —Don't tell me you drove for hours just for Briar karaoke night.—
He took a step forward, closing the distance between us. There was something about the way he moved, a latent tension in his shoulders that screamed he could lose control at any moment, but when he stopped right in front of me, his gestures became incredibly tender, almost delicate, as if he were afraid of breaking me.
He reached out a hand and, with a gentleness no one at this university would believe a guy of his stature capable of, used the back of his fingers to trace the outline of my cheek, brushing my short hair away from my face. His skin was warm, a direct reminder of the summer I missed so terribly.
—I heard you singing from the entrance,—he murmured, staring intently into my eyes, reading the exhaustion and the pain I was trying to hide from the rest of the world. —You were incredible, babe. An absolute queen. But your eyes aren't saying the same thing as your voice. Let’s get out of here. You don’t have to keep taking care of people who don’t know how to take care of you.—
The weight of his words hit me right in the center of my chest. He didn't know anything about Allie’s mess, or Dean, or the Briar alibis, but he knew me. He knew the girl behind the persona. And for the first time all night, I felt like someone was looking into my dark corner, not to ask me for a lie, but to offer me a way out.
Coach Jensen's daughter as assistant coach x Dean. She is older than Brenna but not much
I decided to split this one in parts because it was getting too long
Summary: Coach Jensen’s daughter interns at Briar as the Hawks’s assistant coach.
Warnings: protective!Dean, secret relationship,
—
You were not older than three when you started following your father to the arena. You would sit in the stand and watch him as a dream bloomed in your little child’s head.
‘’I want to be like Daddy.’’
Your father had laughed fondly, but didn’t take your dream seriously. Kids have thousands of dreams. One day they want to be a doctor or even a princess, and the next an astronaut.
But as you got older, you didn’t change your mind. You wanted to be a hockey coach.
Many had laughed and put sticks in your path, telling you it’s not a job for women. Some even suggested you become a sports journalist instead.
Unfortunately, they weren’t speaking to the right person. You had been raised by Clay Jensen. You didn’t let men step on you or take no for an answer. You were strongheaded, stubborn and unyielding in a way that both impressed and terrified people.
So you kept going.
You spent your teenage years studying systems instead of celebrity gossip magazines, scribbling line combinations and defensive formations in the margins of your school notebooks. While other girls hung posters of boy bands on their walls, yours were covered with NHL team charts and whiteboards full of plays your father helped you analyze — and a picture of Sidney Crosby…because he was a great player (or, that’s what you told your dad).
At fourteen, you started helping at kids’ hockey practices. At sixteen, you were already arguing strategy with coaches twice your age. Some hated it. Others were startled when the girl in pink lipgloss pointed out flaws they hadn’t even noticed themselves.
Your father never went easy on you either. On weekends, he made you break down a game tape until you could see the game unfold before it even happened. He taught you hockey wasn’t just talent. It was anticipation. Discipline. Psychology. Reading people before they even realized what they were about to do.
During your senior year of college, your father offered you an internship at Briar to be the Hawks’ assistant coach, and people immediately started talking. Some accused Coach Jensen of handing his daughter a job she hadn’t earned, while others were far crueler, insisting a woman had no business coaching hockey in the first place. Some players and fans mocked the decision, alumni trashed your name online, and rival teams joked that the Hawks were turning into a circus act.
Tonight was your first away game with the Hawks and you were nervous. You were playing against Harvard, one of Briar’s biggest rivals. There was years of rivalry between the two teams, but some of Harvard’s players had been very loud about their miscontentement of your assistant coach position. One of them had trashed your name on social media and accused you of sleeping with the players. Another even sent you a message on Instagram asking you to blow him if his team wins. Disgusting.
Having enough of reading nasty shit, you turned off your phone and leaned back into your seat. You couldn’t let any of this distract you from the game.
‘’I’m not going to let any asshole from Harvard talk down about you,’’ Garrett promised, sitting across the aisle on the bus. ‘’You’re part of the team.’’
‘’Thanks, G,’’ you returned, giving him a small smile.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
At the hotel, you all went to your assigned rooms. Unfortunately, you were sharing with your father…
‘’Was this necessary, Dad?’’ you sighed, unzipping your bag and pulling out your clothes for the game. They’ll need to be ironed and placed on a hanger. ‘’Why can’t I share a room with one of the girls from the support bus? I’m not twelve anymore.’’
The man in question was already in his Coach Jensen state, barely glanced up from the sheets of paper he was going through. ‘’These girls don’t have a game to coach tomorrow. I need you well rested and alert.’’
‘’Sharing a room with them won’t mean I’m gonna stay up all night. Hannah and Grace are very calm. You know Hannah Wells, right? She tutored Garrett at the start of the semester. She's usually asleep before ten.’’
That was only half true. Hannah was studious, polite, and about as trouble-free as a person could be, but her bedtime definitely wasn’t 10pm — at least not on weekends. Still, if there was one girl who could get on your father’s good side, it was her.
‘’She’s a player’s girlfriend.’’
You frowned. ‘’And?’’
‘’And I don't want you hanging around my players.’’
‘’Dad, Hannah is my friend—’’
‘’She’s dating Graham,’’ he cut in firmly.
Reducing Hannah to being a player’s girlfriend was unfair. She’s been an amazing friend to you since you arrived at Briar. She shut the nasty rumors some players were saying about you — with the help of Garrett —, showed you around campus and even invited you to Malone’s to hang out with her friends. Briar wouldn’t be the same without her. You would never have met Grace or Allie, or tasted Malone’s mac&cheese.
Before you could defend Hannah, your father sighed, putting down his papers on the desk. ‘’You may think I'm being hard on you, but I need you to hear me out. Right now, those players see you as a coach. An authority figure. The moment one of them starts looking at you as anything else, everything you’ve worked for and tried to prove will fall. You will lose any credibility you’ve earned. By being seen with Hannah, who is dating my captain, you’re walking on a tightrope.’’
You swallowed his hard truth.
Jessica Campbell may have paved the way for girls like you who had a dream in a world of men, but hockey was still a very sexist world.
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Hair slicked back into a ponytail, it swayed as you jogged toward the elevator, trying to catch it before the doors closed. The team was meeting in the lobby before getting into the bus and heading out for dinner.
‘’Wait up!’’
A hand shot out between the doors, stopping them from closing long enough for you to slip inside.
‘’Thanks,’’ you said, slightly out of breath.
The doors slid shut, leaning you alone with Dean.
‘’Cutting it close, Coach.’’
You glanced at him, standing near the back wall in a pair of jeans and his team hoodie. Team merch was mandatory for outings on away games.
‘’I couldn’t find my team jacket,’’ you explained. ‘’I think I left it at home.’’
Dean's gaze drifted over your outfit, lingering on the lace of your bra that was slightly peaking from your half buttoned cardigan. It must have moved during your little jog. ‘’Should’ve shot me a text. You could have borrowed mine.’’ A smirk curved on his lips — the one that everyone folded at.
Players’ jackets had their name and number on them. Your father would have an aneurism if he saw you in the lobby wearing that. Especially Dean’s. Your old man knew about his bunny hopping reputation.
After emptying your whole bag, you settled for a blue ribbon in your hair. It was better than nothing.
The elevator dinged and the doors opened, cutting your conversation short.
Dean motioned for you to go first. ‘’After you, Coach.’’
You shot him a look over your shoulder. ‘’Such a gentleman.’’
His smirk deepened. ‘’Only when Coach Jensen around.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
The Girls
Gracie: I have a favor to ask. Do you think you can save us a spot close to the bench for the game? I don’t want to sit with the bunnies…
Hannah: The bunnies are not the issue. It’s Hollis’ girl
Gracie: She’s not Hollis’s girl. She’s obsessed with him! It’s different
Hannah: That’s a bit far fetched, Grace…
You: Hollis has a girl? Since when? 👀
Gracie: She’s not!
Hannah: Garrett said they went on a date last week
Gracie: What?! 😲
Gracie: Is he looking to end up on a true crime podcast?
Hannah: Rupi is a freshman girl who’s ‘in love’ with a hockey player. She’s not the next Jodi Arias
You: Can someone catch me up? I’m not following
Gracie: There’s this girl named Rupi and she’s obsessed with Mike Hollis. She sat next to me at the last game and she had a shirt with his name and kept asking questions about him. I love weird, but this is too weird for me to handle…
You: And Hollis went on a date with her?
Hannah: According to Garrett
You were mid typing when your phone screen changed to an incoming video call from Dean. A shirtless Dean. He was laying on his bed, his blond hair splayed on the pillow.
‘’Have you lost your fucking mind?!’’ you whispered, trying to not wake your father in the other bed.
He gave you his signature grin. ‘’Is the big bad wolf sleeping yet?’’
You glared at him. ‘’Don’t call him that.’’
Dean’s grin only widened at your glare, like a golden retriever who knew exactly how much trouble he was in but didn’t care one bit. The camera shook slightly as he adjusted it, propping his phone on the pillow beside him so you could see all of him: bare chest glistening from his shower, that infuriatingly perfect jawline, and those stupidly blue eyes full of mischief.
‘’Relax,’’ he whispered back at you, voice low and teasing like he always did when he knew your father might hear.
If he were in your shoes, he wouldn’t be relaxed. You may be an adult, but mingling with the players outside the ice was strictly forbidden. It was work etiquette. If your father caught you talking to Dean, it would be over for your internship.
‘’What do you want?’’
You tried to not look too happy to see him, but in reality all you wanted to do was run down the hallway to his room and kiss him.
Dean lifted one arm above his head in a lazy stretch, the kind that showed off biceps and shoulders like they were part of an ad campaign for hockey muscle. ‘’I’m just bored. Birdy is sleeping already. And snoring. Can you hear?’’
A soft laugh left your lips. Even through the phone, you could hear the faint rumble in the background. The guy really did snore like a bull.
You carefully pushed the blankets off your legs and sat up, glancing toward the other bed. Your father hadn't moved an inch.
Good.
Cradling your phone against your chest, you slipped out of bed and padded quietly across the hotel room. The carpet muffled your footsteps as you made your way to the bathroom. You eased the door shut behind you and clicked on the vanity light, bathing the small space in a warm yellow glow.
‘’You coming over tomorrow? The game is early so we won’t be home late.’’ His voice softened slightly, like the question mattered more than he wanted to admit.
‘’We’ll see how many goals you score,’’ you replied, sitting on the edge of the tub.
Dean's eyebrows shot up. ‘’I need to score goals to get you now?’’
You hummed. ‘’My time has a price, Playboy.’’
He let out a dramatic sigh and dropped his head back against the pillow. ‘’Two goals.’’
‘’Three.’’
His eyes narrowed. ‘’Three? You drive a hard bargain.’’
‘’Sounds like a skill issue.’’
Dean barked out a laugh. ‘’Fine.’’
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
With your head held high, you walked down the tunnel beside your father and toward the bench as the boys spilled onto the ice for warmups. The arena buzzed with the energy of students and fans filling the stands and the sharp sound of skates cutting across fresh ice.
You could feel pairs of eyes watching — judging —, but you kept your expression calm and composed. You belonged here just as much as anyone else behind that bench.
‘’Show them whose blood runs in your veins,’’ your father had said before the game.
You set your clipboard down beside the stack of water bottles, your gaze automatically sweeping across the ice. The boys were already in motion, circling through their warmup drills with the familiar mix of focus and show off that came with being college athletes.
‘’Tucker’s late,’’ you noted.
Your father glanced toward the tunnel, seeing the latter. ‘’By thirty seconds.’’
‘’Still late.’’
A corner of his mouth twitched.
‘’Sorry, Coach. Someone took the laces off my skates…’’ the curly haired left wing explained before getting on the ice.
Across the ice, the opposing team skated out to a chorus of cheers from their home crowd. The energy in the building immediately shifted. Harvard wasn’t the Hawks’ biggest rival, but their goalie was skilled. You’ve seen him in action on videos and it was pretty impressive. Their center, however, had an Achilles heel: he got frustrated easily.
Most players were good at hiding it. He wasn’t. The moment a game stopped going his way, his discipline slipped. He chased hits he didn’t need to make, took unnecessary risks with the puck, and started jawing at opponents instead of focusing on the play. It wasn’t enough to get him thrown out of games, but it was enough to throw him off.
And tonight, you intended to exploit it.
You flipped through the notes on your clipboard one last time as the siren went off and the boys gathered behind the bench. Coach had already explained their game plan in the locker room, but you wanted to add one thing.
‘’Keep pressure on twenty-one all night,’’ you said.
Several players glanced your way.
‘’Finish your checks. Nothing dirty. Nothing stupid. Just make him work for every inch of ice.’’
what happens when it turns out the man of your dreams is secretly only with you to make his ex-fling jealous?
Warnings: angst with a capital A! ambiguous ending, some swearing. wc: 1.6k. unedited
If someone had told you six months ago that you’d currently be dating the Dean Di Laurentis, star of the Briar University hockey team and well-known playboy, you would’ve probably laughed to the point of tears.
Oh, how things can change so drastically.
You’d met at a frat party, bumping into each other on accident. The alcohol held loosely in his grip sloshed out of the Solo cup upon impact, sending lukewarm beer down the front of your top.
“Oh, fuck! I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Dean seemed apologetic, but the way his eyes subconsciously trailed down your now soaked top (and the black bra clearly visible) were anything but sorry.
You were starstruck as you let out a meek “It’s fine!”, scrambling to find napkins to wipe yourself down and appear decent again.
“Hey, wait, I think I have an extra top upstairs. You can change into that if you’d like.”
“Do I want to make a guess as to why you have women’s clothing in your room upstairs?”
His sly smirk in response was all the answer you needed.
“Nope, never mind. I’m just going to head home and take a shower or something. It was nice to meet you.” You whipped around, intent on making a beeline for the front door.
A strong, large hand wrapped around your wrist before you could go far. “Hold on!” You turned around slowly, skepticism clear on your face. “It’s actually just one of my sister’s shirts- she left it here the last time she came to visit. Would you please come change so I can get to know you better?”
You paused, thinking over both options. If he was just looking for a quickie, he found the wrong girl. On the other hand, you were covered in sticky beer and every crevice of your body smelled like it.
The gross feeling of the beer stuck to your skin won out. “Fine, I’ll change. But no funny business. I mean it.”
Dean grinned like he had you right where he wanted you. In a sense, he truly did. “Of course, sweetheart. Lead the way.”
The two of you ended up talking until the early hours of the morning, ceasing conversation only when everyone else had gone home and the other guys were passed out in various spots around the house. True to his words, Dean never made any sexual advances toward you, remaining respectful and listening intently to what you were talking about.
Late night talking turned to coffee dates, which turned into lunch dates, ultimately ending in multiple dinner dates before you finally decided to call yourselves a couple.
Dean, surprisingly, was everything you wished for in a boyfriend. He was chivalrous, kind, and put you first before everything and everyone else. You’d agreed to just keep the relationship light and fun, leaving the serious parts for a later time if you got there.
The pair of you were rapidly approaching the month mark of being together, and everything thus far had been amazing.
“Why hello there, gorgeous.” A pair of arms wrapped around you from behind on the quad, pulling you backward into them and placing kisses down your neck. “Funny seeing you here.”
“Dean, stop.” You giggled, squirming in his hold from the ticklish sensation. “You knew I’d be here! It was your idea to meet for lunch.”
“And what a fantastic idea it was.” He grabbed your hand, leading you over to a picnic table nearby, sliding food across the table before sitting beside you on the bench and throwing an arm around your shoulders.
As the two of you ate and chatted, you scanned the courtyard, people watching. There were a group of freshmen discussing their days, another couple making out on the opposite end of the quad, and at another table you could see Hannah and Allie, talking in hushed whispers.
You locked eyes with Hannah, grinning and sending her a wave. She sent a small wave in greeting back, Allie turning to see who she was looking at. You waved at her as well, expecting the same in return. Instead, you got a scathing glare and a small frown in response before she whipped her head back around.
Huh, that was weird. Allie and Hannah were besties, but you also occasionally hung around them. You’d always had good times together, which made Allie’s sudden change in personality even more confusing.
“Well, that’s odd.” You told Dean.
“Yeah, sure.” He responded, but his voice sounded distracted. Upon looking at him, you noticed he wasn’t staring at you- he was looking intently at Allie
“Everything okay?”
“What?” It was as if your question snapped him out of a daze. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Just had my head in the clouds, I guess. Want some more fruit?”
“Sure,” you responded, growing more suspicious at his suddenly flippant attitude.
As the two of you finished lunch, you couldn’t help the sudden lump in your throat. Something odd had happened, and you were determined to find out one way or another. Even if that meant doing some deeper digging.
The night of Logan’s fundraiser rolled around quickly, a rare night off for you while Hannah and Allie took the shift at Malone’s. You were still there, just in front of the bar rather than behind it.
You’d seen Dean once or twice while you hung out with Dexter, but only fleeting moments, never once being able to sit and talk to each other.
“You and Dean seem pretty cozy.” Dexter teased, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own.
“Yeah, I guess you could say so.” You couldn’t seem to wipe the giant, lovesick grin from your face.
“You know, I was wondering how long this act between the two of you was going to last.” Birdie chimed in from his spot at a nearby table.
“What do you mean?” you asked, smile slipping slightly from your face.
“I just mean you’re a great friend, is all. Dean and Allie had a good fling going before she broke it off. He was really heartbroken for a while.”
Dexter came to your defense quickly, questioning, “And what does that have to do with Y/N?”
“Oh, c’mon, guys, you can cut the act when it’s just us. The whole hockey team knows.”
“Knows what?”
“They know about your little arrangement so he can get Allie back. It’s all ‘Allie this, Allie that’ when it comes to him in the locker room. It’s totally working, too; she hasn’t been able to stop watching the two of you like a hawk for the last month. They’ll be back with each other by the end of the weekend, I guarantee it. You’ll be off the hook soon.”
At the dumbstruck looks on your and Dexter’s faces, Birdie froze.
“…oh shit, you weren’t in on it?”
You turned, seeing nothing but red as you searched the crowd for the one person who’d know could tell you where Dean was.
“Beau,” you shouted, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. “Where’s Dean?”
“Oh, um,” he stuttered, clearly surprised by your sudden fury. “I’m not sure. Last I saw him, he was on stage announcing the raffle winners.”
He took in your expression, asking hesitantly, “Did…did something happen?”
“How long have you known?”
He winced. “Since the beginning.”
You released his jacket as if he’d burned you, whipping back around and searching for Dean, eyes wild.
“Wait, Y/N, I’m sorry! We can still talk about this!” His words were useless to you, only adding to the fire burning deep in your stomach.
You’d caught him saying something about the photo booth, heading in that direction to see. As you approached, you noticed Dean’s familiar sneakers under the curtain.
Along with another pair of shoes facing him.
You tugged the curtain open, freezing as your worst fear came to life right before your very eyes. Dean and Allie were making out right there in the booth, closer than you ever thought possible.
They broke away at the sudden interruption, Dean’s eyes widening as he noticed the reason for the distraction.
“Oh, shit, Y/N, wait!”
Not a chance in hell you were going to wait for him. You took off toward the front door, pushing your way out with force as tears streamed freely down your face in heavy sobs.
“Baby, please! Wait!”
“What the fuck do you want, Dean?” You screamed, shaking off his hand on your shoulder as you gasped for breath.
“I am so, so sorry. You weren’t meant to see that in any way.”
“Oh, so if I hadn’t seen it then that would’ve been fine? Give me a break.”
He winced at your sharp tone. “No, absolutely not. I know I’m an asshole, okay? I just didn’t know what I wanted. What Allie and I had was great, but I really care about you and would never want to hurt you like I just did.”
“Yeah, caring about me, my ass. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. I wish I had never, ever gone out with you in the first place.” You seethed.
“Look, why don’t we go inside and talk about this?” He noticed the gathering crowd around you, some whipping their phones out to record the spectacle. “Come on, honey.”
“I hope you figure out what you want, Dean.” You shook his hand off your arm, beginning to walk away. “It just won’t be with me.”
As Dean watched you walk away, silent sobs making your shoulders shake, he couldn’t help the way his heart shattered. He really had grown to feel for you over your time spent together, feeling more guilt with every meeting at the idea of breaking your own heart the way he just did. All this time, he had convinced himself that Allie was the woman he wanted.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
a/n: guys this broke my hearttttt :( been debating whether to just leave this as an angst- lmk if anyone would like a part two.
Based heavily on Stephan Kalyan talking about getting into the head space of playing a playboy was hard because he’s been in a relationship for most of his adult life
dean di laurentis x reader
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
The smell of stale beer, expensive cologne, and hockey gear was practically a permanent fixture at the Briar hockey house.
Hannah Wells sat on the edge of the plush leather sofa, clutching a red solo cup and trying to process the absolute whirlwind that was her life.
She was a junior, the exact same age and grade as the guys in this house, but up until a few weeks ago, she had existed in an entirely different universe. Her world was sheet music, quiet library corners, and trying to survive her classes. Their world was stadium lights, roaring crowds, and campus worship.
But now, thanks to a very specific, mutually beneficial arrangement, she was officially in a fake relationship with Garrett Graham. The captain of the hockey team.
As Garrett threw an arm over the back of the couch, laughing at something Logan said, Hannah looked around the room. Because she hadn't grown up in their loop or run in their circles for the last three years, she was just starting to get to know this tight-knit group of elite athletes. She was learning that campus rumors rarely matched reality.
Take Garrett, for instance—arrogant on the surface, but surprisingly sweet and protective when they were alone. Logan was a chaotic charmer, and Tucker was the quiet, southern gentleman who actually knew how to cook.
And then… there was Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean was currently leaned against the kitchen island, a smirk playing on his lips as he talked to a group of girls. He was devastatingly handsome, draped in designer clothes that cost more than Hannah’s tuition, and possessed a natural, effortless flirtatiousness that practically radiated off him.
Every time he winked, chuckled, or leaned in to whisper something, the girls around him practically melted into puddles.
Classic playboy, Hannah thought, making a mental note to keep her guard up around him. For the past three years, she had heard the hushed whispers in the lecture halls about the wealthy, gorgeous Di Laurentis. He just had "heartbreaker" written all over his face.
"Hey, Earth to Wellsy," Garrett murmured, nudging her knee with his. "What's going on in that head of yours? You look like you're analyzing a crime scene."
"Just observing," Hannah said, tilting her head toward the kitchen and taking a sip of her drink. "Does Dean ever stop? I feel like I'm watching a national geographic documentary on mating rituals. How do you guys live with a guy who constantly has a rotating door of girls?"
Garrett blinked, looked over at Dean, and then burst into a loud, booming laugh that caught Logan’s attention from across the coffee table.
"What's so funny, G?" Logan asked, wandering over with a bowl of pretzels.
"Hannah thinks Dean is trying to pull," Garrett chuckled, shaking his head. "She thinks he's a playboy."
Logan let out a dramatic gasp, dropping a pretzel back into the bowl and clutching his chest. "Oh, precious Hannah. No. I mean, I get why you'd think that. The hair, the clothes, the fact that he looks like he escaped a high-fashion magazine. But Dean? A playboy? Absolutely not. He’s been thoroughly, completely off the market since he was sixteen years old."
Hannah’s jaw dropped slightly. She looked back at Dean, then at Logan, then at Garrett. "Wait. Are you guys messing with me? Serious? But look at him! He's literally leaning his entire body weight against that girl's shoulder right now."
"That's just his default setting," Tucker chimed in, walking past the couch and grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge. "He's naturally flirty. It's an illness, really. The boy talks to a wall and the wall thinks it has a chance. But he is fiercely, terrifyingly loyal. He only has eyes for one person."
"If he's taken, why does everyone on campus think he's single?" Hannah asked, genuinely baffled. "I’ve heard girls in my music theory class talk about trying to get his attention at parties."
"Because he doesn't broadcast his personal life to the Briar puck bunnies," Garrett explained, his tone softening a bit. "And because she doesn't go here. They've been long-distance since freshman year. It’s hard, but they make it work. Speak of the devil..."
Right on cue, the heavy front door of the hockey house swung open. The noisy chatter of the party, the bass booming from the speakers, and the general chaos of the room seemed to fade into the background as a girl walked in, shaking out her hair from the crisp Massachusetts air.
You walked into the Briar house, immediately feeling the warmth of the indoor heating hit your face. You loved your school, but coming to the hockey house always felt like a different kind of sanctuary. You didn’t even make it three steps past the threshold before a blur intercepted you.
Dean’s face lit up in a way that completely transformed his usual smirk into a bright, genuine, breathtaking smile. He caught you by the waist, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around as if you hadn't just seen each other a few days prior.
"Look who finally graced us with her presence," Dean murmured into your hair, before setting you down and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss.
He didn't care about the crowded room, the girls he had just been talking to, or the guys shouting jeers from the couch. In that second, the entire room ceased to exist for him. "I missed you."
"Dean, I saw you on Tuesday," you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck and adjusting to the sudden warmth of the house.
"Tuesday was a lifetime ago," he replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling with affection. He kept an arm firmly hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he turned back to the room, entirely unwilling to let go of you.
Hannah watched the entire interaction, completely stunned. For three years, she had held a completely false perception of this guy.
The girl—you—didn't look like the typical girls who frequented these parties. You looked incredibly sharp, wearing a sleek jacket, your posture perfect, and carrying an aura of quiet confidence that instantly commanded respect without you even trying.
"Hannah, meet the real boss of this house," Garrett introduced as Dean led you over to the living room setup. "Dean’s high school sweetheart."
"Hi, Hannah! It is so nice to finally meet you," you smiled warmly, offering a hand. "Garrett has told us a little bit about you. Don't believe anything he or Logan tells you, by the way. Most of it is exaggerated hockey locker room nonsense."
"Hey! I am a teller of truths and a romantic at heart," Logan protested, throwing a pretzel at Dean, who caught it effortlessly with his free hand.
"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, still trying to reconcile the image of Dean the Campus Flirt with Dean the Devoted Boyfriend. "So, you're a junior too? But you don't go to Briar?"
"No, she's the resident genius," Dean bragged proudly, kissing the side of your head. He squeezed your waist, a look of pure adoration on his face that Hannah had never seen on him before. "She goes to Harvard. Just a quick drive down the road, which means I get to kidnap her every weekend."
"More like I come over here to escape the library and make sure you're eating something other than protein powder and frozen pizza," you countered, teasingly tapping his nose. "Harvard's midterm week is brutal. I needed a break before my brain entirely melted."
As the night went on and the party wound down, the crowd thinned out until it was just the inner circle hanging out. The music was turned down to a low hum, and the atmosphere became quiet and comfortable. Hannah found herself sitting at the kitchen island, pouring a glass of water, trying to process everything she was learning about this group.
You walked over to grab a soda from the fridge, stretching your arms slightly.
"So," Hannah started, a small, intrigued smile on her face. "Harvard? That's seriously impressive. No wonder Dean looks like he won the lottery every time he looks at you."
"Thanks," you smiled, leaning against the counter next to her. "It’s a lot of work, but I love it. Plus, being so close to Briar is a lifesaver. I don't think Dean would survive a true long-distance relationship. For all his tough hockey exterior, he's incredibly clingy."
"I have to admit," Hannah said honestly, lowering her voice a bit so the guys wouldn't hear from the living room. "I’m the same age as you guys, but I've always been so completely out of the hockey loop. I just assumed... well, everyone on campus talks about Dean like he's this legendary playboy. I totally pegged him for a heartbreaker when I walked in tonight."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, looking over at the living room. Dean was currently engaged in a heated debate with Logan and Garrett about a specific NHL playoff game, gesturing wildly. But the beautiful thing about Dean was that even in the middle of a sentence, his eyes instantly flicked to the kitchen the moment he heard your laugh. He gave you a quick, reassuring wink across the room, ensuring you were okay, before turning back to the boys.
"Oh, I know the rumors," you told Hannah, your voice softening with genuine warmth and zero trace of jealousy. "Dean is a natural flirt. It's just his factory setting. He flirts with the cashier at the grocery store, he flirts with the GPS, he probably flirts with his professors without realizing it. It’s just his personality—he loves attention, he loves people, and he loves making people smile. But when it comes to his heart? He's a one-woman man. He's been my best friend and my biggest protector since we were juniors in high school. I've never had to doubt him for a single second, no matter what campus gossip says."
Hannah looked from you to Dean, seeing the absolute, unwavering adoration in his eyes. For all his flashy clothes, smooth talking, and confidence, Dean Di Laurentis was completely anchored by you.
"That's really amazing," Hannah said, feeling a pang of genuine happiness for you—and maybe a little bit of envy. Here she was, entangled in a complicated, stressful fake-dating scheme with Garrett to get another guy's attention, while Dean and you had something so profoundly real and steady right in the middle of the campus chaos. It made her realize how much she had misjudged the people in this house.
Just then, Dean broke away from the guys, practically jogging over to the kitchen as if he couldn't stand being away from you for more than twenty minutes. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at Hannah with a playful grin.
"What are we gossiping about? Is it me? Tell me it's me. I love being the center of attention," Dean pleaded, his tone light and teasing.
"We were just talking about how lucky I am to have an amazing boyfriend like you," you lied smoothly, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw line.
Dean’s smirk instantly softened into something incredibly tender, his eyes darkening with affection as he looked down at you. "Damn right you are. I'm the lucky one. Now come back to the couch, Y/N. Logan is losing the hockey argument and I need my brilliant girlfriend there to witness my absolute intellectual victory."
As Dean led you away, his hand securely locked in yours, Hannah couldn't help but smile into her glass of water. Briar University was full of surprises, and as she navigated her own strange journey with Garrett, she was glad to know that true loyalty existed exactly where she least expected to find it.
The living room had transformed from a chaotic frat party into a quiet, post-game wind-down. The air was still thick with the scent of cheap beer and expensive cologne, but the heavy bass had been replaced by the low hum of the television playing NHL highlights in the background.
You let Dean pull you back toward the oversized sectional, sinking into the cushions right beside him. The second you were seated, Dean shifted, throwing his long legs over the coffee table and pulling you flush against his side. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt. It was an automatic reflex for him; whenever you were in the same room, he needed to be touching you.
"Alright, Harvard," Logan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Settle a debate. Garrett claims that the Bruins’ power play strategy last night was flawless. I say it was entirely predictable and they got lucky. What’s the verdict?"
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against Dean’s chest. "Are you asking me because you genuinely want my sports analysis, Logan, or because you know Dean will agree with whatever I say?"
"A little bit of both," Logan admitted with a grin.
"Don't bring her into your losing arguments, Huntzberger," Garrett chimed in from the other end of the couch, nudging Hannah’s foot with his own. Hannah was watching the exchange with rapt attention, her eyes darting between you and Dean. She still looked entirely fascinated by the dynamic—clearly still trying to reconcile the campus myth of Dean Di Laurentis with the fiercely devoted boy sitting in front of her.
"For the record," you said, tilting your head up to look at Garrett, "the Bruins were predictable. They relied too heavily on the drop pass at the blue line. If the defense had been faster on the backcheck, they would’ve been picked apart."
Dean let out a loud, triumphant bark of laughter, his chest vibrating against your back. "Ha! What did I tell you? Genius. Absolutely brilliant. That’s my girl." He leaned down, planting a fierce, proud kiss on your cheek, making you laugh and try to push him away.
"You're only cheering because she agreed with you," Garrett grumbled, though there was a smirk playing on his lips.
"I cheer because she's always right," Dean corrected smoothly, his voice dropping into that naturally confident, slightly arrogant tone he always used. But as he looked down at you, the arrogance completely melted away, replaced by a quiet warmth. "You want a drink? Water? A soda? I can get you whatever you want."
"I'm good, Dean. Just trying to relax," you murmured, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purred at the contact, leaning into your touch and closing his eyes for a brief second.
Hannah watched this interaction, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned over to Garrett, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "He’s like a totally different person around her."
Garrett looked over at Dean and you, his expression softening with a rare look of genuine respect. "Yeah, well. she’s his anchor. Dean’s got a lot of energy, a lot of flash. He likes the finer things in life, and he likes being noticed. But with her? He doesn't have to put on a show. She knows exactly who he is, and he'd burn the world down before he ever did anything to jeopardize what they have."
Hannah nodded slowly, absorbing the information. It was an eye-opening realization. Coming into this house, she had assumed the hockey team was a monolith of arrogant, untouchable playboys. But looking at Garrett—who was currently being surprisingly attentive to her—and looking at Dean, who was practically worshiping the ground you walked on, she realized how wrong she had been.
"Hey," Hannah called out across the space, wanting to pull you back into the conversation. "How do you handle the drive back and forth? Harvard to Briar isn't terrible, but with a Harvard workload, it's got to be exhausting."
You shifted slightly, resting your chin on Dean's shoulder. "Honestly, the drive is my decompression time. But usually, Dean's the one making the trip. He’ll drive down to Cambridge just to take me out to dinner for an hour before driving all the way back for morning practice."
"Wait, seriously?" Hannah asked, her eyebrows shooting up. She looked at Dean. "You drive two hours total just for a one-hour dinner?"
"I'd drive ten hours just to see her for five minutes, Wellsy," Dean said, his tone incredibly casual, as if he were stating a basic fact of the universe rather than an act of grand romance.
He winked at Hannah. "Plus, the restaurants near Harvard are way better than the greasy spoons around here. I get to dress up, show off my gorgeous girlfriend, and eat good food. It’s a win-win."
"He's omitting the part where he once showed up at my dorm at 2:00 AM during finals week just because I sounded stressed on the phone," you added, giving Dean a pointed look. "He brought three bags of takeout and a giant teddy bear that took up half my room."
"It was a tactical strike against your anxiety," Dean defended himself, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "And it worked. You aced that exam."
"Because I was terrified you'd show up with a marching band next time," you teased, turning around in his lap to face him fully.
Dean’s hands instantly found your waist, holding you steady. The playful banter of the room seemed to fade into the background as he looked at you, his eyes incredibly dark and focused. "I would have," he whispered, entirely serious. "If it meant making you smile."
You felt a familiar warmth bloom in your chest, reaching up to cup his jaw. For all the years you had been together, the intensity of Dean's devotion never failed to take your breath away. He was a flirt, a tease, and a total show-off to the rest of the world, but his heart belonged exclusively to you.
Across the room, Hannah watched the two of you, a profound sense of clarity washing over her. As she navigated her own chaotic, fake-dating journey with Garrett, seeing you and Dean gave her a glimpse of what real, unshakeable loyalty actually looked like.
And for the first time since she had walked into the Briar hockey house, she realized that beneath all the rumors and the campus hype, these boys were capable of loving fiercely.
The party had entirely cleared out by the time the clock bled past two in the morning. Logan and Tucker had disappeared upstairs to their respective rooms, and Garrett had walked Hannah out to her car, leaving the downstairs of the hockey house steeped in a rare, heavy quiet.
The low hum of the television screen cast flickering shadows across the living room, but the real heat was concentrated on the oversized sectional.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind Garrett, Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The playful, casual banter he’d been maintaining for the group completely vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus that was entirely centered on you.
"Finally," he growled low in his throat, his hands sliding up from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his lap so you were straddling him.
You let out a soft gasp at the sudden movement, your hands automatically flying to his broad shoulders for balance. "Dean, the guys are still—"
"The guys are asleep, and Garrett's outside," Dean interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, thick and raspy. His eyes raked over your face, heavy-lidded and burning with a hunger he’d been suppressing all night. "Do you have any idea what it was like sitting next to you for three hours, watching you laugh, hearing you talk to Hannah, and not being able to do this?"
Before you could answer, his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head up and brought his mouth down on yours.
The kiss wasn't the sweet, reassuring pecks he’d given you in front of the team.
This was demanding, possessive, and thick with the pent-up frustration of a week spent apart. His tongue parted your lips effortlessly, deepening the kiss until your breath hitched in your chest. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound completely undoing him. Dean let out a low groan, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you so tightly against him that you could feel the hard, rigid line of his desire pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his lips down your jawline, his breathing ragged against your skin. His mouth found the sensitive spot right beneath your ear, biting down gently enough to make you shiver, then soothing it with the hot stroke of his tongue.
"Dean," you breathed, your fingers clutching the fabric of his Briar hockey jersey, tugging at it desperately. "We need to go upstairs."
"Not yet," he muttered against your throat, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm, calloused palms making direct contact with your bare skin. You arched into his touch, your heart hammering against your ribs. He traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing the lower edge of your ribs, sending jolts of electricity straight down your spine. "I’ve been thinking about this all day in practice. Every single drill, all I could think about was getting you back to this house."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, intense, and completely consumed by you. There was no trace of the arrogant, smirking campus flirt that Briar University thought they knew.
This was the raw, unyielding version of Dean Di Laurentis that belonged entirely to you.
"You drive me completely crazy, Y/N," he whispered, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your hip, though his voice was entirely tight with restraint. "Every guy at Harvard looking at you, and all I can do is sit over here and wait for the weekend."
"You know I don't care about any of them," you whispered back, leaning down to press your lips to the center of his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "I only want you."
A dark, possessive smirk finally cut through his expression, his chest swelling with pride. "Good. Because I'm not sharing."
In one swift, athletic movement, Dean slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off his lap as he stood up from the couch. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway toward his bedroom, his grip unbreakable and his intentions completely clear.
Dean didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he nudged his bedroom door open with his shoulder, shutting it behind you with a firm, decisive click of his heel. The room was bathed in the cool, silver glow of the moonlight cutting through his window, casting long shadows across the organized chaos of his space.
He didn't make it two steps toward the bed before he pinned you against the heavy wood of the door, the impact solid but careful. Your back flushed against the surface, and you let out a breathless laugh that was instantly cut short when Dean crowded his entire body weight against yours.
His hands slid down from your thighs, his palms flattening against the wood on either side of your head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against your breasts, the scent of him—expensive cedar wood, mint, and pure heat—completely enveloping you.
"Dean," you gasped, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jersey again.
"I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Seriously," he murmured, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours with agonizing slowness, teasing the seam of your mouth until you parted your lips for him. When you did, he didn't hold back. The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly consuming, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. Thank God his hands migrated down to your waist, gripping you tightly enough to bruise, holding you up against the door.
You reached down, your fingers finding the hem of his heavy hockey jersey, and tugged it upward. "Take it off," you demanded against his lips.
Dean broke the kiss with a low growl, stripping the jersey over his head in one fluid, impatient motion and tossing it blindly into the darkness of the room. The sight of his bare chest—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the hard, defined muscle of his abs, and the faint scars from years on the ice—made your throat go completely dry. He was beautiful, and he was entirely yours.
Before you could fully appreciate the view, Dean's hands were back on you, working at the buttons of your shirt with a frantic energy that was entirely uncharacteristic of his usual smooth, calculated demeanor. When the fabric parted, his breath hitched. He mapping out every inch of your exposed skin with his hands, his thumbs dragging over the lace of your bra, making your hips unconsciously arch upward into his.
"You are so beautiful," he rasped, his eyes burning as he looked down at you in the moonlight. "It kills me. Every single day I'm stuck at Briar, it kills me."
He bent his head, his mouth dropping down to track a path of burning kisses from your jawline, down the column of your throat, to the sensitive valley between your collarbones. You threw your head back against the door, a loud, uninhibited moan escaping your lips as his teeth gently grazed the soft skin of your shoulder.
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your fingers burying themselves into his thick, soft hair, pulling him closer. Your thighs clamped tightly around his hips again, begging for a friction that was driving you both to the edge.
He let out a ragged breath, his hands sliding down to cup the undersides of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly once more. He carried you the short distance to his bed, tumbling both of you down onto the mattress. The cool sheets offered a brief shock of relief against your overheated skin, but it was immediately incinerated when Dean crawled over you, pinning your wrists gently beside your head.
He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling, his gaze so fiercely loyal and completely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
"You're mine," he whispered, a stark, undeniable promise as his hips settled heavily into the cradle of yours. "Tell me you're mine, Y/N."
"Always," you breathed, pulling your hands free to wrap them tightly around his neck, pulling him down to finish what he started. "Only yours, Dean."
The mattress dipped under his weight as Dean shifted, freeing one of his hands from your wrist to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a bead of sweat from your temple. His touch was suddenly a striking contrast—gentle, almost reverent, even while the rest of his body burned against yours with an undeniable, heavy urgency.
"Always," he repeated against your lips, the word sounding like a vow. "Good."
He didn't give you another second to breathe. His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, demanding and deep. The heat between you was absolute, a fuse completely lit after days of forced distance. You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible, feeling the rigid tension in his thighs and the muscle of his back flexing beneath your fingertips. Your hands mapped the familiar expanse of his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he rocked his hips forward, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.
Every point of contact was electric. Dean’s hands migrated down to your hips, his fingers digging in to guide your movements, establishing a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm that had your head spinning. You arched into him, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips that went straight to his head.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right where your neck met your shoulder, sending a violent wave of shivers straight down your spine.
"Y/N... God, you're perfect," he muttered, his voice entirely wrecked. The suave, unflappable Dean Di Laurentis was completely gone, reduced to a man entirely unraveled by the girl in his arms. He lifted himself up slightly on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours in the dim moonlight. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—fierce, unyielding, and completely consumed by you.
The friction was building, a tight, coil of heat pulling tighter and tighter in the center of your chest. You gripped his arms, your eyes closing as the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly, his voice a raspy plea.
You opened your eyes, meeting his dark, focused gaze just as he drove into you again, harder, matching his pace to the frantic beating of your heart. Seeing the absolute adoration and raw desire written all over his face pushed you entirely over the edge. A loud, breathless cry escaped you as the tension shattered, a violent rush of pleasure rippling through your entire body.
Hearing your release was the final thread for Dean. His grip on your hips tightened, his jaw clenching as he let out a low, rough shout, burying his face in your hair as his own climax hit him, hard and heavy. He held you tightly, pressing his weight into you as the aftershocks ran their course, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs like a trapped bird.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized breathing of the two of you.
Slowly, carefully, Dean rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were tucked securely against his chest. He pulled the thick comforter up over your bare shoulders, shielding you both from the cool draft of the room. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.
He kissed the crown of your head, his breathing finally beginning to slow down.
"I'm never letting you go back to Cambridge," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and exhaustion, but entirely serious.
You let out a weak, content laugh, resting your hand over his. "You have to. I have an exam on Monday."
"I'll buy the university," he mumbled, a classic, ridiculous Di Laurentis statement that made your heart swell. He squeezed your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. "Whatever it takes to keep you right here."
You smiled into the dark, closing your eyes as the warmth of his body completely enveloped you. Outside his door, Briar University could think whatever they wanted about the flashy, flirty hockey player. But in the quiet of his room, you knew the absolute truth—Dean Di Laurentis was yours, entirely and completely, and he wasn't going anywhere.
Summary: Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister
The bass from the off-campus house party thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. You stood in the crowded kitchen, nursing a lukewarm beer and trying not to look as out of place as you felt. Visiting your brother for the weekend had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Tucker had dragged you to this hockey house party and immediately disappeared with his girlfriend.
“Stay where I can see you,” he’d warned before vanishing. Classic big-brother nonsense.
You were twenty-one, a senior at a different school two hours away, and perfectly capable of handling yourself. Still, the Briar University hockey crowd was… a lot. Loud, cocky, and ridiculously attractive. Especially the guy currently leaning against the counter across from you, watching you with lazy, amused interest.
Dean Di Laurentis.
You’d seen his face on Tucker’s Instagram enough times to recognize him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair that looked like it had been styled by someone’s fingers, and a smirk that should probably be illegal in several states. He was exactly the type of guy your brother had spent years warning you about.
And he was staring.
You looked away first, pretending to be fascinated by the fridge magnets. A moment later, a warm, deep voice cut through the noise right beside you.
“You’re Tucker’s little sister.”
You turned. Dean was even taller up close, and the way his green eyes dragged slowly down your body before returning to your face made heat bloom low in your stomach.
“Little is relative,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I’m twenty-one. And you’re Dean Di Laurentis. The one who apparently never met a puck bunny he didn’t like.”
His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Tucker talks about me. Interesting.”
“He talks about how you’re a walking STD commercial.”
Dean laughed, low and genuine. The sound did unfair things to your pulse. “Harsh. Accurate, maybe, but harsh.” He tilted his head. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Trouble?”
You told him your name. He repeated it like he was tasting it, and you hated how much you liked the way it sounded in his mouth.
For the next hour, he didn’t leave your side. He was charming without trying too hard—funny, quick-witted, and surprisingly attentive. He kept your cup full, deflected drunk teammates who tried to hit on you, and somehow made you feel like the only person in the room.
When someone bumped into you hard enough that beer sloshed over your hand, Dean’s palm settled at the small of your back to steady you. The touch burned through your thin top.
“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Just crowded.”
His thumb brushed once, almost absently, against your spine before he pulled away. But the ghost of the touch lingered.
Tucker appeared sometime after midnight, looking flushed and happy. His eyes narrowed the second he saw you standing close to Dean.
“Di Laurentis,” he said flatly. “Why are you breathing on my sister?”
Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Just keeping her company, man. She’s cool.”
“She’s off-limits,” Tucker said, pointing a finger. “Don’t even think about it.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m right here.”
Tucker ignored you, glaring at his teammate. “I mean it, Dean. Not her.”
Dean’s jaw flexed, but he gave a lazy nod. “Message received, Tucker.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur of music and stolen glances. Every time you looked up, Dean was watching you. And every time your brother turned his back, Dean found an excuse to touch you, brushing your arm, leaning in to speak against your ear and his lips grazing the shell so lightly it could have been accidental.
It wasn’t.
By the time Tucker walked you back to his apartment, your skin was buzzing and your thoughts were dangerous.
The next morning, you woke up on Tucker’s couch to the smell of coffee and the sound of male voices arguing in the kitchen.
“…she’s my sister, dude.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Dean’s voice, calm and amused. “We talked. She’s funny. Sue me.”
“You looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive.”
A pause. Then Dean, quieter: “She’s beautiful. Hard not to look.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stayed very still on the couch, pretending to still be asleep.
Tucker groaned. “She’s not one of your hookups. She’s family. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Slowly.”
“I hear you,” Dean said. There was something heavier in his tone now. “Loud and clear.”
You heard the front door open and close. A few minutes later, Tucker stuck his head into the living room.
“You awake?”
“Barely,” you lied, sitting up and stretching.
He studied you. “Dean’s an idiot. Don’t let him flirt with you. He doesn’t do serious.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Inside, something twisted.
That afternoon, you went to the hockey arena to watch practice. Tucker had given you a guest pass, mostly so he could keep an eye on you. You sat in the stands, chin in your hand, watching the players fly across the ice.
Dean was impossible to miss. Fast, aggressive, graceful. Every time he slammed someone into the boards, your breath caught. When practice ended, most of the team headed for the locker room, but Dean skated over to the boards near where you sat, helmet off, hair damp with sweat.
He looked up at you and grinned. “Enjoying the view?”
“It’s alright,” you called down, trying to sound unaffected.
He laughed. “Liar. You were staring.”
“So were you last night.”
His expression shifted, something hotter and more intense. “Yeah. I was.”
Tucker shouted something from the tunnel. Dean’s jaw tightened.
“Meet me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “There’s a bar off campus. The Dime. Ten o’clock. Tell Tucker you’re meeting an old friend from high school or something.”
Your pulse spiked. “You’re really trying to get me to lie to my brother?”
“I’m trying to spend time with you without him threatening to castrate me every five seconds.” His green eyes locked on yours. “Say yes.”
You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His smile was slow and victorious. “Good girl.”
You told Tucker you were grabbing coffee with a girl you’d met at last night’s party. He bought it, mostly because he was exhausted from practice.
The Dime was dim, warm, and surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. Dean was already there, tucked into a back booth wearing a black Henley that clung to his shoulders and chest. He stood when you approached, eyes dragging over your jeans and soft sweater like he wanted to peel them off.
“You came,” he said, voice rough.
“I did.”
He bought you a drink. Then another. Conversation flowed easy, about your classes, his hockey season and the ridiculous rules Tucker lived by. Hours disappeared. At some point his knee pressed against yours under the table and stayed there.
When the bar started closing, he walked you outside. The night air was cold, but Dean radiated heat.
“I should get back,” you said, even as you turned toward him.
“Yeah.” He stepped closer. “You should.”
Neither of you moved.
His hand came up, cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You didn’t tell him to stop.
Dean kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. You tasted beer and mint and pure want. When his tongue stroked yours, you moaned softly into his mouth and felt him shudder.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You kissed him harder.
He pressed you back against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, one thick thigh sliding between yours. The friction made you gasp. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he wanted to leave a mark.
“Dean…” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “Not here. Not like this. Come back to my place.”
You knew what he was asking. You knew what it meant.
You said yes anyway.
His off-campus house was dark and quiet when you slipped inside. His roommates were all out. The second the door closed, Dean had you against it, kissing you like he’d die if he stopped.
Clothes came off in a trail down the hallway, your sweater, his Henley, your jeans and his sweats. By the time you reached his bedroom you were both in underwear. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, laying you on his bed.
Dean took his time.
He kissed down your body, slow and deliberate. Mouth on your collarbone, your breasts—tongue circling your nipples until you arched and whimpered. Lower, across your stomach, until he settled between your thighs.
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
You did. The sight of his golden head between your legs, green eyes dark with lust, nearly undid you.
He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, then focused on your clit with devastating precision. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right. You came hard, gripping his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
He didn’t stop until you were trembling.
Then he crawled up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was heavy and hot against your thigh.
“You sure?” he rasped.
“Yes. Please.”
He rolled on a condom with shaking hands. When he pushed inside you, slow and deep, the stretch was perfect. Both of you groaned. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he whispered.
Then he started moving.
It wasn’t gentle. It was years of tension and one weekend of forbidden want unleashed. Dean fucked you like he needed it, deep and steady strokes that hit every perfect spot. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.
He whispered filthy praise against your ear. So tight. So wet for me. Good girl, taking my cock so well. Every word pushed you higher.
You came again, clenching around him. He followed right after, groaning your name like it hurt.
Afterward, he pulled you against his chest, stroking your hair. For a long time, neither of you spoke.
“I’m not supposed to want this,” he said finally, voice quiet in the dark. “Tucker’s my brother on the team. My friend.”
You traced a pattern on his abs. “I know.”
“But I do want it.” He tilted your chin up. “I want you. Not just tonight.”
Your heart squeezed. “This is complicated, Dean.”
“I know.” He kissed you softly. “But I’m not ready to let you go.”
The weekend blurred into stolen moments.
You snuck out again the next night. Dean took you to his bed and worshipped you for hours—on your back, on your knees, riding him slow while he watched you with reverent eyes. He was insatiable and generous, making you come until you were hoarse.
On Sunday morning, before you had to drive back to your own campus, he kissed you against his car in the driveway, slow and deep and aching.
“I’ll text you,” he promised. “We’ll figure this out.”
Tucker came outside just as you pulled away. He waved, oblivious.
You waved back, lips still tingling, heart in your throat.
The secret lasted six weeks.
Texting turned into late-night calls. Dean drove to your campus twice, fucking you in your tiny dorm bed while your roommate was away. You drove to Briar once, letting him bend you over his desk in his room while music played loud enough to cover your moans.
Every time was better than the last. Every time you fell a little harder.
Until the night it all shattered.
Tucker showed up at Dean’s unannounced. Walked in on the two of you in the kitchen. Dean’s hands under your shirt, your back against the counter, kissing like the world was ending.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker said, voice low and furious.
Dean stepped in front of you protectively. “Tuck—”
“No.” Your brother’s eyes were blazing. “I told you she was off-limits. I trusted you.”
You stepped around Dean. “This isn’t just him. I wanted this too. I still want this.”
Tucker looked at you like you’d betrayed him. “He doesn’t do relationships. He’s going to break your heart and I’m going to have to watch.”
Dean’s voice was steady. “I’m in love with her.”
The words landed like a bomb.
You turned to stare at him. He was looking at you, not Tucker. Green eyes serious, jaw set.
“I’m in love with her,” he repeated, softer. “Have been since the night at the party when you told me not to look at her. I tried not to. I couldn’t.”
Tucker ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
You reached for Dean’s hand. He laced your fingers together immediately.
Your brother watched the gesture. Something in his expression shifted, anger giving way to reluctant acceptance.
“You hurt her,” he said to Dean, voice rough, “and I don’t care how good you are on the ice. I will end you.”
Dean nodded. “If I hurt her, I’ll let you.”
Tucker looked at you. You gave him a small, hopeful smile.
He sighed. “I need a fucking beer.”
Six months later, you were official.
Dean still kissed you like he was starving every single time. Tucker still grumbled about it, but he’d stopped threatening violence. The team had taken to calling you “Di Laurentis’s girl” with varying degrees of teasing and respect.
One night after a big win, Dean pulled you onto the dance floor at the victory party. Arms around your waist, forehead against yours, swaying even though the music was fast.
“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.
You smiled, heart full. “I love you too.”
He kissed you slow and deep, right there in front of everyone—including your brother.
I guess I can start from the beginning, my family the Salvatore’s and the kennedy’s have been family friends since before I was born so me and john grew up together and since our family’s were so close my grandfather and John's dad start a wildly successful business together and what came with was the glitz and glamour and our family’s were knew by everyone especially the kennedy’s everyone wanted to friends with them and the fact that my family was brought right into the spotlight too.
In school I would always overhear people talking about who my family was and who my family were friends and how each summers and breaks I went to the famous kennedy estate in cope cod and how glamorous the estate was and what’s so funny is that to me the Kennedy's summer home was just a place I’ve been going to since I was kid its where I spent the summer and breaks it always been weird hearing what same people say about me and my family. My grandfather taught us to never use our wealth as something to rub in other faces and honestly I never really cared about the money, yes I was grateful for the opportunities I’ve gotten to experience but money isn’t everything.
I guess everyone thinks I should act like a spoiled rich kid but I am the total opposite of that I am quiet girl some people call it being shy but really me just wanting to be left alone because people only want from me is to become my friend and get invited to the famous Kennedy estate *eyeroll* and to also get to john jr up close and get him to fall in love with them.
With the kennedy’s being who they are and the status that means all the girl are in love with john jr and to be honest I can’t blame them john is handsome he is tall with great hair and dark brown eyes he is I guess he really American’s prince well at least that’s what the press is calling him. John and I have known each other since we were kids.
He is six years older than me and we were close and he always included me into things he was doing. I would be lying if I denied that I thought John was good looking because he is, I mean have you seen the man?!? But at the same time he was just John Kennedy, the boy I have known since I was a kid.
My real friend the girls I knew were my real friend and not using being my friend to get to john and our family’s status, Lexi is my one true friend she was never cared about who my family was or who their friends were she just wanted to be my friend and I really loved her for that.
me and Lexi are sitting in my room and she turns to me and asks “ do you ever think that you and John will ever turn into something more?” I had thought for a second I had never thought about it too much. I responded “ honestly no I mean you have been around you have seen his past girlfriends I do not think I really am his type.” Since that night in my room when Lexi asked we never really talked about that subject again.
Even at the age of 27 years old I never thought I would be where I am right now. I stared down at the engagement ring that John just put onto my finger..
I really want to write a JFK jr fic and I have a good idea of one would anyone read? Should I preview and see what happens? I’m also thinking of using AI pictures to make the story more visual for whoever reading it .
The beer pong table became the center of our little universe as the night wore on. What had started as casual party games had evolved into something more intense, with me and Jeremiah facing off against Cam and Y/N. Since Cam didn't drink, Y/N was handling all the alcohol for their team - which meant she was getting progressively more intoxicated with each successful shot we made.
I kept telling myself I was just playing the game, just having fun like everyone else. But the truth was, I hadn't taken my eyes off Y/N for more than a few seconds all night. Something about the way she was acting - reckless, wild, so completely unlike herself - had every protective instinct I possessed on high alert.
This wasn't the Y/N I'd grown up with. The girl I knew was thoughtful, careful, someone who preferred a good book to a wild party. But tonight she was dancing with strangers, drinking everything put in front of her, and laughing with a brightness that seemed forced and desperate.
She's running from something, I realized as she lined up another shot, swaying slightly on her feet. But what?
"Conrad, your turn," Jeremiah called out, pulling me from my thoughts.
I took my shot automatically, my muscle memory handling the game while my mind stayed focused on Y/N. She was beautiful even in her intoxicated state - flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that smile that never failed to stop my heart - but there was something fragile about her tonight that made my chest ache.
That's when Belly appeared out of nowhere, her face tight with some emotion I couldn't read.
"Cam," she said abruptly, not even acknowledging the rest of us. "Can we leave? I want to go home."
The urgency in her voice caught everyone off guard. Cam immediately set down his cup, concern written across his features.
"Of course. Are you okay?"
Belly nodded quickly, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like she might break apart. "I just... I need to get out of here."
As they gathered their things and said quick goodbyes, I felt the dynamic shift around the beer pong table. Jeremiah spotted some girl across the room and excused himself with his trademark grin, leaving just me and Y/N standing in the sudden quiet.
I was about to suggest we head home too - she clearly had enough to drink, and the responsible thing would be to get her somewhere safe. But before I could speak, Nicole appeared at my elbow with that warm smile and confident energy that had initially drawn me to her.
"Hey," she said, sliding her arm around my waist in a gesture that felt more possessive than affectionate. "Want to stay the night? My parents are out of town, and I have that big house all to myself..."
The invitation hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't sure I was ready for. I glanced at Y/N, who was swaying slightly by the beer pong table, and felt that familiar tug of responsibility mixed with something deeper.
"I can't," I said finally. "My mom asked me to make sure everyone gets home safely."
It was a lie - Mom hadn't said anything of the sort - but I couldn't leave Y/N in this condition. Not when she was clearly not herself, not when every instinct I had was screaming that she needed someone to look out for her.
Nicole's face fell slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Oh. Okay, I understand."
But I could see in her eyes that she didn't really understand, and maybe that was for the best.
Y/N's POV
The beer pong game had been a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head, the alcohol making everything feel softer and less sharp around the edges. But when Belly and Cam left abruptly, and Jeremiah disappeared with some girl whose name I couldn't remember, suddenly it was just me and Conrad standing by the table.
The air between us felt charged, dangerous in a way that made my already fuzzy thoughts even hazier. He was looking at me with that expression I couldn't read - concern, maybe, or frustration, or something else entirely.
He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but before any words came out, Nicole appeared with her perfect smile and her obvious intentions.
"Want to stay the night?" she asked, her arm sliding around his waist like she had every right to be there.
The question hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd been expecting something like this all night. The alcohol in my system made everything feel more intense, more raw, and suddenly I felt like I might be sick.
This is your cue to leave, I told myself, backing away from the table. He made his choice. Let them have their night.
I stumbled slightly as I turned away, but I managed to make it back to the dance floor without completely embarrassing myself. The music was loud and overwhelming, but it was better than standing there watching Conrad decide whether or not to spend the night with another girl.
Conrad's POV - Panic
When I finished declining Nicole's invitation and turned back to where Y/N had been standing, she was gone. Completely vanished, like she'd never been there at all.
Panic hit me with surprising force. How could someone disappear in the span of two minutes? And where would she go in her current state?
"Have you seen Y/N?" I asked a couple of people near the beer pong table, but they just shrugged or shook their heads.
I checked the bar first - it seemed like the logical place for someone who'd been drinking as much as she had. But the bartender hadn't seen her. I tried upstairs next, pushing through groups of people and checking every room I could access.
Finally, I found her on the dance floor.
And I immediately wished I hadn't.
She was dancing with some guy I didn't recognize, someone older who definitely wasn't from our usual crowd. His hands were all over her - waist, hips, places that made my blood boil with protective rage. She was laughing and moving with him, but there was something desperate about it, something that didn't feel like real joy.
I watched as the guy leaned in, trying to kiss her. She ducked away at the last second, but he tried again, more persistent this time. That's when I started pushing through the crowd toward them, ready to intervene whether she wanted me to or not.
But before I could reach them, she moved closer to the guy's face and said something I couldn't hear over the music. Whatever it was made him back off immediately, his hands dropping from her body as he melted back into the crowd.
What did she say to him? I wondered, but she was already moving away, heading back toward the bar with that same determined expression she'd worn all night.
How much more does she want to drink? The question filled me with genuine concern. I'd never seen her act this recklessly, and something was clearly driving her to these extremes.
Y/N's POV
The dance floor interaction had left me feeling shakier than I wanted to admit. The guy had been too pushy, too grabby, and for a moment I'd felt truly unsafe. But I'd handled it - told him exactly what I thought of his behavior in language that would have made my mother wash my mouth out with soap - and now I just wanted another drink to wash away the unpleasant memory.
I was reaching for the vodka bottle when a familiar hand closed over mine, stopping me mid-pour.
"That's enough," Conrad's voice was firm but not unkind. "We need to leave. The moms will be worried if we're too late."
The reasonable part of my brain knew he was right. It was getting late, I'd already had too much to drink, and staying here would only lead to more poor decisions. But the alcohol-fueled, emotionally raw part of me bristled at being told what to do.
"Why should I listen to you?" I demanded, pulling my hand away from his. "Why do you care how much I drink? You should be with your girlfriend."
The last word came out bitter and spiteful, loaded with all the hurt and jealousy I'd been trying to drown in alcohol all night.
Conrad's jaw tightened. "Y/N, you're drunk. Let me take you home."
"I'm fine," I insisted, even though I had to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady. "I don't need you to take care of me. I don't need anything from you."
But Conrad had apparently reached the end of his patience. Before I could react, he was scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all.
"Put me down!" I shouted, pounding on his back with my fists. "Conrad, I swear to God, put me down right now!"
But he just grabbed my purse from the table and carried me straight toward the exit, ignoring my protests and the curious stares from other party guests.
Conrad's POV
When I finally set Y/N down by my car, she was furious. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and alcohol, her eyes bright with tears that could have been from rage or hurt or both.
"How dare you-" she started, pulling back her fist to punch me.
But the alcohol had thrown off her balance and coordination. Instead of connecting with my chest, she stumbled sideways, her momentum carrying her toward the asphalt.
I caught her before she could fall, pulling her against my chest and holding her steady while she regained her footing. For a moment, she struggled against my grip, still angry and wanting to fight. But then something seemed to leave her, and she went limp in my arms, her hands dropping to her sides in defeat.
That's when I really looked at her face. Her flushed cheeks had gone pale, and there was a green tinge around her eyes that I recognized immediately.
"Oh no," I murmured, and her eyes widened with the same realization.
She pushed away from me and stumbled toward the edge of the parking lot, making it just far enough from my car before she started throwing up. Everything she'd consumed that night - the beer, the vodka, Laurel's birthday dinner - came up in violent waves that shook her whole body.
I was beside her immediately, gathering her hair back from her face and rubbing soothing circles on her back while she retched. This was the inevitable consequence of the amount she'd been drinking, but seeing her so sick and vulnerable still broke something inside me.
When the worst of it was over, I ran to get water and towels from my car, helping her clean up and rinse the taste from her mouth. She was still drunk, still unsteady on her feet, but the anger had gone out of her completely.
"Come on," I said gently, guiding her toward the passenger seat. "Let's get you home."
She didn't protest as I helped her into the car and buckled her seatbelt, making sure she was secure before closing her door. As I walked around to the driver's side, I heard her voice - small and fragile in a way that made my chest ache.
"Connie?" she said when I slid behind the wheel. "I'm sorry for getting you dirty. I feel... I feel dirty."
Her eyes filled with tears, and whatever composure I'd been maintaining cracked completely. I reached over to cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away the moisture on her cheeks.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," I said firmly. "And you're beautiful. Don't ever think otherwise."
I pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and protective and full of all the feelings I couldn't put into words. I knew she probably wouldn't remember this in the morning - Y/N never remembered details when she drank this much, always complained that everything became a blur. But I would remember. I always remembered everything when it came to her.
Conrad's POV
Before starting the car, I grabbed my hoodie from the backseat and helped Y/N put it on. She was shivering slightly, whether from the night air or the aftermath of being sick, and the sweatshirt swallowed her small frame in a way that made her look impossibly young and vulnerable.
I love seeing her in my clothes, I realized with startling clarity. There was something possessive and protective about it that appealed to parts of me I didn't want to examine too closely.
As we drove through the quiet streets of Cousins, she hummed along to the radio with that contentment that always came over her when she was drunk. Despite everything that had happened tonight, hearing her happy humming brought a smile to my face. This was the Y/N I remembered from previous summers - silly and giggly and completely without pretense.
After a while, the humming stopped. When I glanced over, she was curled up in the passenger seat like a child, half-asleep and looking more peaceful than she had all night. The turmoil that had been written across her features at the party was gone, replaced by something soft and unguarded that made my heart clench.
When we reached our street, I sat in the driveway for a moment longer than necessary, reluctant to break the spell. These quiet moments with her felt precious, like something I should hold onto while I still could.
But eventually, reality intruded. I parked the car and texted Steven to open the front door, then carefully lifted her from the passenger seat. She was completely asleep now, her head falling against my shoulder as I carried her toward the house.
Steven met us at the door with wide, concerned eyes.
"What happened?" he whispered, taking in Y/N's condition.
"Too much to drink," I replied quietly. "She'll be okay, but she needs to sleep it off."
"Her mom's going to kill her if she goes home like this," Steven observed.
"That's why she's staying here tonight," I said, already heading for the stairs.
Conrad's POV
I carried her up to my room and laid her gently on my bed, trying not to wake her as I pulled my hands away. But the movement disturbed her anyway, and her hair fell across her face in a way that seemed to bother her even in sleep.
Carefully, I brushed the strands away from her eyes, tucking them behind her ear with the kind of gentleness I usually reserved for injured animals. She stirred at my touch, her eyes fluttering open as she tried to focus on my face.
"Go back to sleep," I whispered, stepping back toward the door.
But as I reached for the light switch, her voice stopped me.
"Connie?" she said, her words slightly slurred but audible. "I don't want to be alone right now. Can you... can you keep me company?"
Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. Y/N was drunk, vulnerable, and we were already walking a dangerous line with our feelings. Staying here, being close to her in this intimate setting, would only make things more complicated.
But the look in her eyes - lost and fragile and so unlike her usual strength - made it impossible to say no.
I sat down on the edge of the bed near her head, my hands automatically moving to her hair. I'd seen her mother do this countless times over the years, knew that having her hair stroked always helped Y/N fall asleep.
She relaxed immediately under my touch, her breathing becoming deeper and more even. For a moment, I thought she'd drifted off again.
Then she spoke, and her words shattered something inside me.
"Connie," she said, her voice breaking, "do you love Nicole?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "No," I said immediately, the truth coming out before I could think about it.
"So you love Belly?" she continued, her words getting sleepier but no less devastating.
The question caught me completely off guard. I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could find the words, she continued.
"If you do, I don't want you to keep breaking her heart... and mine." Her voice was barely a whisper now, full of pain that cut right through me. "It's just too much."
And then she was asleep, leaving me sitting there with her words echoing in my head like an accusation I couldn't escape.
She thinks I love Nicole or Belly.
The realization was devastating. Without even meaning to, without even being with her, I was hurting the person I cared about most in the world.
I knew I should leave. Should go sleep on the couch and give Y/N the space she needed to recover from tonight's mistakes. But my selfish heart wanted to stay close to her for as long as possible, to hold onto these quiet moments before the real world intruded again.
Dawn was only a few hours away anyway, I reasoned. And Y/N looked so peaceful with her head resting near my lap, her breathing deep and even under my gentle touch.
I made myself more comfortable against the headboard, careful not to disturb her, and let my heavy eyelids drift closed. For the first time in weeks - maybe months - I felt truly peaceful. The constant anxiety about Mom's diagnosis, the guilt about pushing everyone away, the confusion about my feelings - all of it faded into the background when Y/N was near.
Sleep took me gradually, my hand still tangled in her hair, my heart finally quiet in a way it hadn't been all summer.
