[pucksandpower]

for keeps

Dean Di Laurentis x Kennedy!Reader

Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything

Warnings: 18+ themes, baby trapping, dubious consent

Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.

For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.

But that was before you.

Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.

You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.

“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.

Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”

“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”

“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”

You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”

“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”

You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.

“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”

Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”

“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.

“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”

“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.

But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.

Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.

“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”

You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”

“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”

***

An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.

“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”

“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”

“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”

“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.

“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”

You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”

“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”

“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”

You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.

“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”

“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.

Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.

“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”

“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”

“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”

You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”

“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”

He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers

tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.

“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”

“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”

He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.

Stanford.

Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.

Stanford. Palo Alto. California.

He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.

“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.

You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”

“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”

“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”

“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”

“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”

You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.

“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.

***

It is 3 AM.

The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.

Dean is wide awake.

He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.

Three thousand miles.

The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.

He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.

When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.

He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.

How does this work? How do they survive this?

Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.

What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.

He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.

He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.

And now, he has to let you go.

He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.

Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end. 

***

It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.

Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.

Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.

His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.

The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.

“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”

Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.

“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”

Dean freezes.

He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.

He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.

But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.

Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.

If you love something, set it free.

He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.

“You look like you’re planning a murder.”

Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.

Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”

“I’ve spoken.”

“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”

Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”

“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”

“Shut up, Logan.”

“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”

“So you’re just giving up?”

“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”

“But?”

“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”

Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”

“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.

“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”

“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”

“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”

Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.

He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.

He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.

Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.

But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.

***

“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.

You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.

“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”

Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.

“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”

“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”

“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.

“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”

You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.

“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.

The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.

“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”

You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”

“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”

“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”

“I have money.”

“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”

“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”

The room goes dead silent.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.

Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”

You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.

He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”

You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”

Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”

Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.

He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.

He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.

When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.

It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.

Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.

He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.

He stares down at the little pink pills.

The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.

He literally microwaves her birth control pills.

Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.

He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.

But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.

If you got pregnant.

The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.

If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.

He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.

He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.

And, most importantly, you would be his.

Forever.

Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …

His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.

He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.

He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.

“Dean?”

Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”

Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.

“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”

“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”

The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.

Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.

The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.

He slowly opens the compact again.

He stares at the foil backing.

He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.

***

The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.

It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.

What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?

The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.

And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.

He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.

Four weeks in, you miss your period.

Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.

“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”

Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.

But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.

Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.

It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.

“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”

Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”

“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”

Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.

Then comes the fatigue.

You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.

“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your

stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.

“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”

Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.

It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.

But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.

The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.

You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”

You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.

And then, you sprint for the bathroom.

Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.

“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”

“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”

“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.

“Dean, what’s today’s date?”

“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.

You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.

“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”

Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”

“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”

“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”

“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”

“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”

“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.

“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.

The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.

When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.

Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.

You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.

“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”

You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.

He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.

Five minutes pass.

The bathroom is dead silent.

“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Silence.

And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.

You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.

Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.

Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.

All three. Positive.

Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.

You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.

But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.

You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”

“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”

“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”

“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”

“But Stanford-”

“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.

“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”

Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.

“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”

You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.

Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.

You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.

“No,” you whisper.

Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.

“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.

“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”

Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”

“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”

“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”

“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.

“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”

He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.

But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.

He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.

Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.

And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.

***

The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.

You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.

“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”

“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”

A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”

“Barely,” Logan mutters.

“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”

“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.

“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”

“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.

“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.

“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”

“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”

“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.

Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.

“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.

Then, absolute chaos erupts.

“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”

Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”

“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.

Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”

“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.

“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”

The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.

“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”

Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”

“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”

“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”

The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.

You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.

“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.

***

Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.

“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.

In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.

“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”

“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”

“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”

“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.

The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.

Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.

“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”

You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.

You gasp.

It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.

It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”

“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”

“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”

You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”

“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”

He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.

“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”

He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.

You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.

“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”

“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”

“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”

Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.

He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.

You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.

“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”

***

The true test comes three days later.

Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.

You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.

“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.

“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”

“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”

Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”

Dean flinches.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.

“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”

You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.

“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

Because I did, he adds silently in his head.

“But the timing-”

“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”

He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.

An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.

Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.

“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”

You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.

Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.

“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”

Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”

“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.

Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.

You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.

Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”

Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”

You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”

“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”

“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”

“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”

She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.

“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”

You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.

“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”

“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”

“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”

You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.

He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.

He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.

You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.

You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.

***

September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.

It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.

The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.

But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.

But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.

You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.

At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.

You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.

So, you find a new project.

“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.

You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.

“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”

“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.

“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”

“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.

His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”

“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”

Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.

He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.

“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”

“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.

“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”

“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.

He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.

But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.

Dean has a break at 1:00.

You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.

***

The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.

Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.

“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”

“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”

Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.

Dean’s head snaps up.

You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.

The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.

The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.

“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”

“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”

Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.

“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.

He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”

The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.

“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.

“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”

“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”

You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.

Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.

Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.

They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.

And Dean? Dean thrives on it.

He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.

It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.

You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.

“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.

Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.

“Professor,” Dean greets easily.

“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.

Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.

“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Richards says, extending a hand. “Robert Richards.”

You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.

“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.

He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.

“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.

You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.

“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”

Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”

You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”

Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.

A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.

Dean stands up.

He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.

Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.

“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.

“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”

Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.

“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.

Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.

“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”

The courtyard seems to go completely silent.

Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.

“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”

Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.

As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.

“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”

Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.

“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”

You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.

“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”

“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”

“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.

He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.

He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.

But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.

He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.

The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.

But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.

He needs the lock.

He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.

Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.

He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.

Tomorrow.

He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.

Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.

***

December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.

The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.

You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.

At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.

But you are here for Dean.

Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.

He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.

But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.

You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.

“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.

You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.

But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.

Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.

Your parents.

You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.

You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.

They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.

Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.

She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.

Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.

George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.

Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.

Your parents begin to walk toward you.

They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.

“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”

“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”

The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”

“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”

“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”

“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”

“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”

The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.

“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”

“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”

The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.

You gasp, turning your head.

Dean is standing right behind you.

The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.

He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.

“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.

Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”

Dean lunges forward.

It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.

“Dean, no!”

You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”

Dean freezes.

The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.

He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.

He chooses a different weapon.

“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”

George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.

Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.

“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.

“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”

Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”

Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.

The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.

“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.

“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”

You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.

“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”

“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”

Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.

“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”

George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.

“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”

Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.

“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”

George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.

George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.

The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.

He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.

“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”

“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”

“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”

Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”

“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.

As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.

And Dean?

Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.

They accused you of trapping him.

Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.

You will never leave him. Not ever.

And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.

***

“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”

Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.

You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.

It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.

You have been in labor for nineteen hours.

“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”

“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”

“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”

Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.

As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.

It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’

“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”

You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.

“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.

“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”

“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.

But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.

Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.

Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.

But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.

“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”

The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”

“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”

You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.

“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”

“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.

“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.

You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.

And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.

It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.

“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”

You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.

Dean is frozen.

He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.

His son.

The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.

The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.

“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”

Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.

“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”

“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.

And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.

“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.

Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.

As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.

For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.

But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.

It is done.

The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.

You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.

An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.

“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”

“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”

“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.

***

Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.

You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.

But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.

Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.

He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.

You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.

“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.

Noah Di Laurentis.

Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.

“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.

“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Dean says immediately.

He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.

Dean’s breath hitches.

He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.

You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.

You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”

Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.

The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.

It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.

But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.

He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.

You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.

You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.

“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.

Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.

“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”

“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”

“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”

Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.

“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”

You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.

“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.

When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

***

The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.

It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.

“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.

“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.

“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”

“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.

“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.

“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”

You spin around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.

Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.

He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.

“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”

“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”

Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”

“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”

You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”

“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”

***

The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.

The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.

“Excuse me, Y/N?”

You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”

“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”

Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”

“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”

You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.

You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”

Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”

“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”

“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”

“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”

“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”

You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.

“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”

***

The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.

The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.

You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

You hear the booming voice before you see him.

Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.

“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”

“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”

“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”

“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”

“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”

“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”

“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”

As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.

It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.

And they are absolutely staring at you.

Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.

“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”

You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.

One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.

Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.

He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.

He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.

Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.

“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.

Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”

Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.

“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”

“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”

Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”

“I do,” Dean smirks.

“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”

“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.

He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.

“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”

Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”

He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.

“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”

“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”

“It is now,” he declares.

He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.

But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.

You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.

“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”

Dean’s breath catches.

His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.

He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.

And you never knew.

You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.

Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.

Does he feel guilty?

He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.

No.

He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.

He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.

“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”

You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”

Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.

“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”

Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”

“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”

“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”

“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.

“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.

He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.

Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.

He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.

He trapped you.

And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.

It was the best damn thing he ever did.

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

Warnings: 18+ content

The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[seventiesaces]

I looookve your Logan fics, but Garrett has my heart. Could you write something like Garrett and the reader having a casual relationship, because he don't do girlfriends and she don't do boyfriends. But he gets jealous of her because he's starting to fall in love, and acts like a boyfriend at various times!

Loved writing this! Thank you for your request!

Ahead: Mentions of smut, Garrett Graham x Reader, jealous Garrett

Relationships were nothing but unnecessary drama. That was something both you and Garrett Graham agreed upon when you met.

You met at a party. Garrett was peeved because his recent hook up, Kendall, had used an array of expletives after he turned down being her boyfriend. You were have a similar night. After hooking up with a baseball player named Cole Miller for a few weeks, he wanted to make things "real".

You firmly rejected this idea, even asking him, "Aren't baseball player suppose to me sluts? How did I get the one monogamous one?" Which he did not like at all.

You're a big fan of easy. Casual sex leaves you with enough time to spend on your real commitments. You're the president of your sorority, a full time student and you volunteer at a local animal shelter. Overall, a pretty good amount of you time is spent not on boys, and you prefer it that way.

Meeting Garrett Graham was like all the stars were aligning. You were like two non-monogamous puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. It was fantastic.

Garrett Graham was a beast in bed. He had a reputation for his skills, but actually experiencing it was a whole other thing. He was strong, throwing you around like a ragdoll in the sheet in a way that made your breath catch and adrenaline pumping. He was the perfect way to blow off steam after a hard day.

As time went on, you got to know each other a bit better. The more you knew about each other, the better the sex was. It wasn't about becoming closer for sappy reasons, at least that's what you told yourself.

You started coming to his games. Not because you were being supportive, but because he was so high on the win he was likely need you to take it out on. He would show up to sorority events, buying raffle tickets and whatever else you were selling, giving you that dashing smile and a wink as he did so. Obviously, he wasn't doing it for you. He was donating to a good cause, that's all.

There were no labels. Not even when both of you stopped seeing other people subconsciously. Not even when he would sneak into your sorority house to spend the night. Not even when you wore his jersey to a game. Not even when you spent entire parties in his lap, playing with his hair and him playing with your fingers. You were not dating, and that should be obvious to anyone with common sense.

It was until you were setting up your most recent philanthropist event with your Vice-President.

She casually asked you, "Isn't your 6 month anniversary coming up soon? What are you guys doing?"

You were in the middle of hanging the balloon arch and didn't fully register her question, humming a quick. "With who?"

She scoffed, looking at you like had sprouted a second head. "With Garrett?"

You froze, the arch slipping out of your hands. It had not only been 6 months, but even one of your close friend thought you were dating. This wasn't supposed to be happening. You weren't supposed to be so attached to one guy that you have an unofficial anniversary.

That night you came to a conclusion that made you stomach flip. You convinced yourself the queasy feeling you had was due to some bad sushi from earlier. You had to convince the rest of the student body you were not dating Garrett Graham.

The next day was a major philanthropist event for your sorority. You were raising money for a local organization that supports at-risk youth, and you needed it to be a success.

There was live music, lots of socializing and few spiked drinks floating around as donation fluttered in.

As usual, Garrett and the other hockey boys showed up fashionably late. They likely had practice before this, you thought, as Garrett's curls were damp from a recent shower. He looked good with his hair not perfect and a fitted tee shirt defining his chest.

"You're drooling." Your Vice-President whispered, a smirk on her face.

You scoffed, turning away quickly and focusing on the refreshments in front of you. Some guy from the football team approached you, a big dumb grin on his face like he knew he was hot shit. It made you eye twitch.

"Ladies," He nodded at the two of you. "Looking good, as usual."

Your Vice-President gave him a thin lipped smile and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You caught Garrett's eye over the meathead's shoulder. He was watching you, his own lips pursed in a way that worried you. Was that jealousy?

You forced back you disgust, plastering a smile on your face would put a beauty queen to shame and held out a cup of punch. "Thanks, Jeff."

He looked surprise at your reaction, eyes widening as he took the cup. "It's Jake."

"Uh huh." You lightly acknowledged, glancing at Garrett again. His fists were clenched around the neck of his beer bottle so hard you feared it would shatter.

Jeff left, accepting your pitiful excuse for conversation. You weren't done though. Everyone had to know you were still out there, as free as ever to flirt and fuck whoever you wanted. Despite this mission, none of the guys appealed to you. They were good looking, sure. But everytime your eyes scanned the room for you next victim, they landed on Garrett.

Even though you couldn't find someone to peak your interest, you seemed to have caught the eye of someone else. A tall guy approached you, his floppy dark hair and eyes were at least appealing. You spoke to him for a while, letting him eye you up like you were a slab of meat being served to him. Did you used to like this? Being eyed this way? Maybe you did, but right now your brain was screaming at you to find an excuse to slip away covertly.

A crash came from somewhere in the room make some people gasp. Although you didn't know where it came from, and didn't care about it in general, you used as a get out quick scheme, "Excuse me." You said, smiling gently. You walk away like a lady, wiping your sweaty palm on your pink dress as your expression shifted to one of annoyance.

You escaped into the back of the kitchen by the pantry, taking the moment to breath. You hated this. Why did you hate this?

Footsteps approached, slapping on the hard tile of the room and echoing off the walls. You prayed it wasn't whatever his name is, following you into the pantry like you were implying wanting a quickie.

You let out a sigh of relief as Garrett came into view, his hands in his pockets. You couldn't help yourself. You threw your arms around his neck, holding him tightly.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you." You promised, letting the scent of his woodsy body wash float around you.

Garrett's big hand held you, but he was tense. "You sure? You seemed determined to talk to every guy here but me."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was angry, but was great at masking it. "Are you jealous?" You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

He took in a deep breath, pacing in a little circle in deep thought. "I didn't like seeing you with other guys."

You bit your lip, the statement making you buzz with an odd happiness. "Why? We're casual-"

"I know," Garrett interrupting, putting a hand out to stop you. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, "I'm not sure I want that anymore."

You cocked your head, "You're a boyfriend-girlfriend guy now?"

Garrett shook his head. "No."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Then why-"

"Only for you," He was developing a habit of interrupting you. "I only want to a boyfriend for you."

You felt like someone knocked the wind out of you. As you stared at the brunette before you, something clicked. You didn't want to talk to those guys because you wanted to talk to Garrett. You didn't find any of them attractive because you only found Garrett attractive. Just like when you met, all the puzzle pieces were fitting together perfectly.

"Oh honey," You breathed, stepping forward to hold his hand. He took in a deep breath, anticipating your rejection. "I only want you be your girlfriend too."

Garrett's cold exterior cracked, a grin appearing as his hand grabbed your waist, picking you up with ease. You always loved when he picked you up like a ragdoll, but now it was for that sappy romance stuff. He kissed you, a soft sweet kiss that made your brain feel all floaty. Maybe you could like all this sappy romance stuff.

[athousandblunts]

underwater (part iii) | john logan

john logan x f! reader | part i, part ii

premise: the boys confront logan for how he treated you, and he deals with the aftermath. in a heart-to-heart with garrett, he realizes his true feelings for you. category: enemies (exes) to lovers, heavy angst word count: around 3.3k content/trigger warnings: everyone says "fuck" wayyy too much (sorry), a lot of yelling. lmk if there are any other warnings that i missed. context/author notes: can you tell the writer's block was hitting me when i was writing this part? lol i was struggling. not my best writing, so please bear with me. thank you guys again for the engagement, i appreciate all of you!! as always, feedback is much appreciated. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, please lmk!! i might have either mispelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. not proofread as of 06/27/26.

A few days ago, when Beau giddily informed the whole house of his new groupmate, Garrett immediately noticed how Logan’s entire body stilled, shoulders rigid and eyes glued on the marble etched in the kitchen counter. Logan even paid no attention to Dean, who joked that Beau “got her number” before the blond did. So, while the rest of the boys drifted towards the living room to play video games, Garrett remained in the kitchen, standing next to sink, carefully scanning Logan’s face for any changes in his expression.

He planned on telling Logan about the group project, but he wanted to do it privately. Garrett knew that his reaction would be anything but rational.

“Beau already said it, but I want you to hear it again,” Garrett started, walking towards his best friend with arms firmly crossed on his chest. “We were all randomly assigned into groups. I didn’t even know that she was in the same class as us.”

The fact that he even had to clarify that had set off a few alarm bells in Garrett’s hand. When the hockey captain first met you, he expected you to be some sort of…monster. He remembers like it was yesterday the time that Logan drunkenly broke down into tears in the backyard after a party sometime during sophomore year. Everyone else was inside, either trying to fall asleep or hooking up with some random girl in the bathroom. It was just him and Logan.

Nobody dared to ever ask Logan about what happened between the two of you. He placed a very firm boundary to his friends, making it explicitly clear that he would rather skate for twenty-four hours straight than talk about you.

But Logan tore that boundary to shreds that night.

“I was gonna propose, G,” He whispered into his bottle, bloodshot eyes shooting daggers into the grass. “At our high school graduation. Like in Boy Meets World, you remember that? When Topanga proposes?”

Garrett awkwardly let out a chuckle to release some tension, still staring at Logan with unease. They both sat on the lawn chairs, elbows resting on their knees. “Yeah, I do. My mom and I loved watching that show. I seriously thought I’d graduate with a fiancée by my side. Cory and Topanga really set the bar.”

Logan stayed eerily quiet after his response, and Garrett wished he didn’t say anything at all. His regret increased when he heard short, frantic gasp followed by a guttural sob.

“Fuck, that was supposed to be us,” His voice broke as he sobbed, head falling to his knees while his entire body shook. “Cory and Topanga. John and Y/N. But she ruined me. Y/N fucking ruined me.”

Obviously, the image of you that Garrett drew in his head that night was…less than favorable.

But when you confronted him for his crass behavior in the first study session, he realized that he was basing his opinion of you off of very limited information. He knew that you broke Logan’s heart, but Logan never elaborated on what had happened between the two of you. At the same time, Garrett has always been quite patient, understanding that it might take Logan some while to open up about you.

Out of loyalty to Logan, Garrett did not try to become close with you, like Beau did. He interacted with you from a distance.

But he didn’t have to be a fucking prick.

And he knew that he pushed his limits when he suddenly asked you why you were back here. The pain in your eyes stuck with Garrett the entire study session. It was similar to the pain he identified in Logan’s face that night in sophomore year.

Thus, as Garrett leaned against the counter, a small part of him feared Logan’s response.

“She’s never coming here,” Logan finally spoke, spit falling out of his mouth from overenunciating the words, leaving an acidic taste in his throat. “She’s never, ever coming to this house. I don’t give a fuck if you have no place to study. Find one. Study in the goddamn alleyway behind Malone’s, for all I care. I never want to see her in this house.”

Garrett almost flinched at Logan’s harsh words, knuckles gripping the counter. Even though he knew that the malice in Logan’s tone was entirely directed towards you, Garrett’s chest tightened at the anger plastered across his best friend’s face.

Initially, the hockey captain didn’t want to believe anything coming out of your mouth. Logan’s voice would echo powerfully throughout Garrett’s head, repeatedly telling him that “she’s a liar.” But he witnessed the way your body shrunk into itself as you practically surrendered under his gaze.

“You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can even hate me.”

The absolute last thing Garrett wanted was to make anyone feel bad to the point that they have to shrink in front of him. He already knew damn well what that felt like.

But Garrett knew that this moment was not the time to voice his concerns. He had stick behind the man on his right.

“She won’t. I’ll make sure of it,” Garrett affirmed, resolute in his tone. The sound effects of the video game that the boys were playing filled the silence that came afterwards.

Logan only nodded as a response, walking away as his body still remained uncanilly stiff.

Now, on a late Sunday night, Logan comes back to the house, completely exhausted after having to go back to the car shop to replace the brake pads on a family friend’s car. When he walks through the door, the last thing he’s expecting is to see is you, the woman who he spent six months crying over, sitting on his fucking couch. Like it was normal.

And as the heat agonizingly crawls to his chest, slithering all the way up to his neck, he fails to keep his composure in front of everybody. His pathetic attempt at maintaining this façade completely slips.

Garrett’s unusually scathing yell snaps him out of his outburst.

“What the fuck, Logan?” Garrett demands, eyes narrowed at him in exasperation. “What is wrong with you? We were just working on our project, for fuck’s sake.”

At that same moment, Logan’s brain finally registers the stunned looks he’s receiving from his friends. Everyone, except for Garrett, has taken a step back from Logan, staring at the man with such intensity, you’d think he had grown another head on his shoulders.

They’re looking at him as if he’s a wild animal. As if he’s deranged.

He might as well be.

And it’s now that he also realizes that you’re no longer sitting on the couch. You’re not in the living room. You’re not even in the damn house. But Logan’s eyes are unwavering as he ogles at the worn cushion that you were sitting on just a minute ago. But even when his closest friends are clearly disturbed by his cruel words, he bites back at Garrett.

“What’s wrong with me?” Logan scoffs in disbelief, unforgiving eyes shifting to Garrett, his hand immediately pointing towards him. “I fucking told you that I never want to see her in this house. Or did you forget that?”

“Whoa, Logan—” Tucker starts, but it’s pointless. Logan doesn’t stop. It would be naive to even consider that he would stop.

“You guys seriously couldn’t study anywhere else? I don’t care that this was the ‘best option.’ Don’t hit me with that bullshit,” He snarls, genuinely looking at his best friend in betrayal, as if the act of bringing you into their house was a heinous crime.

Everyone’s eyes drift towards Garrett, anxiously awaiting his response. Even though Garrett is prone to losing his temper, he’s so appalled by the unabashed cruelty laced in Logan’s words, that he stays silent, choosing to process his words instead of speaking immediately.

“Wow,” Garrett mutters, mirthlessly laughing as he looks down to the wooden floors. “Jesus, you’re fucking delusional.”

No one could ever anticipate Logan’s next reaction.

“The fuck did you just say to me?”

And he charges towards Garrett, chest heaving violently and hands curling into fists. Dean and Tucker immediately launch forward to hold him back, gripping onto his shaking body and yelling at him to just “calm down,” even when he’s taunting Garrett to “say it again, I fucking dare you.”

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Beau exclaims, head swiveling as he looks between Logan and Garrett. “What’s your problem? Do you know her or something?”

Dean and Tucker continue to hold Logan back, even when his breaths have slowed down just a tad bit.

Logan peers down at his trembling hands, his vision getting hazier by the second. He looks up expectantly to Garrett, who only raises his hands in defeat.

“You’re the one that knows her, Logan,” He sighs, body falling back onto the couch. “Not my story to tell.”

While everyone is staring at him, Logan squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that he stayed at the shop for longer. And that he had never met you.

“Y/N is…She’s my ex-girlfriend from high school,” He quietly admits, and instead of feeling like a colossal weight has been lifted off his chest, his body only feels heavier. “My ex-girlfriend who fucking destroyed me. Who should be halfway across the country and suddenly she’s back here—”

“Wait, what? She’s that ex?” Dean interrupts, abruptly letting go of Logan’s bicep. “You’re fucking with us, right? It’s six weeks into the semester, and you haven’t said shit about any of this.”

Logan feels his pulse pounding in his ears, like an alarm incessantly blaring at him.

“Garrett only knows because I stupidly told him her name when I was drunk off my ass one time. It’s nobody’s business.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Beau scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “We all went together to that diving meet because she impressed us. And now we’re working on a group project with her—a project that determines forty percent of our grade. You don’t have to tell us what happened, but you could’ve given us a warning, don’t you think?”

Before Logan can snap back at him, Dean’s rambunctious, obnoxious laugh reverberates through the living room. The sound infuriates Logan.

“Oh my God, I knew something was off with you,” Dean blurts out, still laughing at Logan incredulously. “You’ve been a moody piece of shit for weeks. You always looked at us like we were crazy whenever we brought Y/N up. Were you ever gonna tell us?”

Logan clenches his jaw so tightly that his teeth begin to ache, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Just burn me at the stake, will you?

“Dean, let it go.”

“Dude, I asked her out, for fuck’s sake. I would’ve stayed away from her if you told me about it,” Dean continues to push, green eyes practically piercing Logan’s soul. “You kept on looking at me with this look of disgust. She’s your high school ex and you’re still mad at her? She seems like a perfectly fine person—”

And, to everyone’s surprise, John Logan, a role model who usually exemplifies control and calmness to his teammates, pounces towards Dean and fists at his shirt.

“Fuck you, Dean! You don’t know her!” Logan yells ferociously in his face, and for the second time tonight, his enraged body needs to be held back by two of his friends again.

“Jesus, Logan, just back off!” Garrett jumps from his spot on the couch, pushing him away from Dean, practically hurdling him towards the wall. “I’m gonna say this for the last fucking time. We were just here working on the project. Beau can attest to that, Tucker can attest to that. You’re being ridiculous.”

At last, Logan shakes his head at his friends, clenched hand pulling back strands of his hair. He then pushes past his friends and heads up the stairs without uttering another word, shutting his door before he could make out whatever Dean shouted at him from downstairs.

His mind begins to race as he paces around his room, trying his best to calm himself down. He harshly blinks back his tears, desperately trying to pull himself away from a neurotic spiral.

Logan knows he’s being irrational, and he’s trying so damn hard not to hate you. But whenever someone utters your name, his body immediately transports him back to that dreadful night. It’s instinctual, practically a reflex.

He still feels the bitter twinge in his throat after engaging in that brutal screaming match with you. He still feels the throbbing inside his chest when you walked away from him. And he still feels the weight of the velvet box sinking into his pocket, wanting to reach for it like a phantom limb.

His brain tries to escape you, but his body keeps all of the memories.

Logan’s limbs crumple onto his mattress. He sobs into his hands until he can no longer breathe.

He plays horribly in the game against Suffolk.

He misses all of the passes, scores zero goals, and stumbles on the ice. He feels like a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time. And that’s a generous description.

Garrett shouts at him several times, Tucker gives him many disappointed looks, and Coach Jensen yells at him, relegating him to the bench for the rest of the game.

The game ends in a draw, and everyone is pissed. “Fuck, it was supposed to be an easy game,” he hears Birdie mutter when the referee blows the final whistle. Dean glares at him on his way to the locker room, Tucker immediately ignores him, and Garrett just wanders off to talk to this one girl in the stands that he can’t shut up about. If Logan overhears “Hannah did this” or “Hannah did that” one more time, he’ll move out of the damn house. At this point, he doubts that his housemates would mind.

It has been more than a week since Logan’s outburst. Garrett, Dean, and Tucker barely exchange any words with him, only talking to him about potential game strategies or broken pipes around the house.

You also never come back to the house. In fact, the boys don’t even mention your name around him. They talk about you in the backyard, in someone’s room, or in a corner in the living room, all far way from him. A few days ago, he pathetically eavesdropped on Beau’s conversation with Dean.

“She only wants to meet virtually,” Beau said, casually passing the blunt to Dean. Logan stood near the entrance to the backyard, away from the two of them. “We use Zoom or FaceTime or whatever.”

“Shit, you guys don’t even meet at the library?” Dean asked, taking a hit from the blunt.

“Nah, she doesn’t want to see us in person anymore. She hasn’t even been to class for the past week. Something about a family emergency, I think.”

With each passing day, the guilt chips away pieces of his heart. After the hell you put him through, he never thought he’d feel bad for sending you out of the house.

It all comes to a head on the following weekend, when he overhears Garrett’s words to Tucker while the two sit on the kitchen counter.

“We got a 97. I never thought we’d get a score that high,” Garrett tells Tucker in amazement, even chuckling a little bit. “Y/N gave such a good explanation on anomic suicide. She really saved our asses.”

Logan walks into the kitchen immediately while Garrett’s in the middle of talking, and it’s way too late to walk away acting like he didn’t hear his words. His body freezes, and Garrett instantly narrows his eyes at his best friend.

“Don’t worry. She’s ‘never’ coming back here again. Pretty sure you banished her for life,” He rolls his eyes at Logan, walking over to the sink where he stands.

Logan’s mouth runs dry, failing to find the right words to respond with. In his two and a half years of knowing Garrett, he’s never felt intimidated by him. But now, he feels like a child underneath his gaze.

Garrett scoffs at the dazed look on Logan’s face, turning away to head to the stairs. Tucker stays silent the entire time, pretending to scroll on his phone to escape the tension.

Naturally, Garrett Graham doesn’t exit the conversation without leaving one last sucker punch.

“Oh, and by the way, she also immediately took herself off the groupchat once we turned it in,” He pointedly looks at Logan from the stairs. “I was going to text her to congratulate her on the grade, but I’d thought I’d run it by your royal highness first, of course.”

And once Garrett disappears off the stairs, Logan stands motionless for a few seconds, knuckles turning white as he grips the counter.

A minute later, Logan surprises himself when he rushes up the stairs, heading towards Garrett’s room. His door is wide open, and Logan clears his throat when he knocks on the door.

Garrett looks up at him from his desk chair, lips pulled into a thin line, and shrugs.

“What do you want?”

Logan bites his bottom lip, body slumping on the doorway. He breathes in a deep inhale.

“I just…” He trails off, and Garrett raises his eyebrows, looking at him impatiently. “Sorry. Sorry, I know I’m being ridiculous with all of this. I don’t know, I just never wanted you to take her side.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Garrett scoffs, shaking his head. “Is this fucking middle school? I’m not ‘taking sides.’ We had to work together for a group project. We were polite to each other. We never talked about anything else besides the project, even when Beau invited her to hang out with us several times.”

Logan gulps, parting his lips to reply. But Garrett beats him to it.

“When we first met up for the project, I was on the lookout for you. Making sure she didn’t say or do anything bad. And I acted like a complete asshole, asking her why she’s back here even though it was only my second time talking to her. For fuck’s sake, she told me that I could ‘hate’ her for what she did to you. She just asked that we work together professionally, and that’s what we did.”

“So, I’m not going to act like a dick to someone I have to work with, especially when I don’t know why she’s such a horrible person to begin with,” He enunciates, making sure that Logan actually hears him. “You constantly allude to Y/N ‘destroying’ but you have never told me what she did. I understand that it takes time open up about this kind of stuff, and I do want to be your own side. But it’s hard when I witness you berate her and she just takes it and rushes out the door.”

Logan visibly flinches at Garrett’s last sentence, placing his left hand on the doorway to center himself. Garrett’s words were a wake-up call.

Fuck, I really did berate her.

When Logan remains silent, Garrett turns away, thinking that their conversation has clearly ended.

“I’ve been lying to myself for two years, thinking that I was over her because I hated her,” Logan quietly confesses, voice so low that Garrett barely registers what he’s saying. “But, I never got past what she did to me.”

For the first time in twelve or so days, Garrett truly looks at him like he’s found his best friend again. The lump grows in Logan’s throat.

“I mean, if you were over someone, you’d be indifferent. You wouldn't give a shit,” Garrett says softly. “You are definitely not over her.”

Logan’s mind ruthlessly takes him back to the day he confronted you after the meet. He remembers the pure agony etched on your face when you pleaded with him to stay away from you. Hell, he still replays that moment before he goes to sleep.

“You’re right. I’m not over her.”

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[puckingcuckbunny]

ໃꪆ୧‎ ♥︎ ໃꪆ୧ 𝓒owboy 𝓦eek : 𝓢unday

꒰ঌ࿐𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰 cherry! fem! reader x john logan

꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 cherry red chevy : cowboy week

꒰ঌ࿐𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽 14,8 k

꒰ঌ࿐𝓼𝓶𝓾𝓽 ✓

layout inspired by @glossiercheek !

By the time the plane touched down in Texas, Logan had heard Cowboy Week described in enough different tones that he was beginning to suspect it was less a family tradition and more a hereditary condition.

From you, it had sounded like a warning wrapped in nostalgia, a week of dust roads, horses, too much food, old family feuds, cousins by the acre, and relatives who remembered everything you had ever done wrong on a horse before the age of twelve. 

From your mother, over the phone two days before, it had sounded like a logistical operation with no tolerance for anyone who confused arrival time with arrival-adjacent. 

From Sarah, in the group chat, it had sounded like a threat. 

From Hugh, it had sounded like an excuse to call Logan “Boston” until the word lost all meaning. 

From Nana, who had sent one voice note at seven in the morning and another at ten-thirty at night because time zones were apparently for people without romantic conviction, it had sounded like a blend of inheritance, weather, red lipstick, and mild emotional blackmail.

His last warning was from you, quietly, when you were folding a white cotton dress into your suitcase the night before you left Briar, it had sounded like something more delicate than all of that.

“You’re going to see everybody in one place,” you had said, smoothing your palm over the dress as though it had personally offended you by wrinkling, “Which is lovely. And loud. And mildly horrifying.”

Logan, sitting on the edge of your bed with one of your packing cubes in his lap because he had been appointed Assistant to the Packing Manager after incorrectly suggesting you could simply “throw things in,” had looked up at you, “I’ve met your family.”

“You’ve met my immediate family.”

“Your siblings.”

“Yes.”

“Your parents.”

“Yes.”

“Your grandparents.”

“Yes.”

“And survived.”

You had given him a look, “That was dinner.”

“Dinner was three hours.”

“Exactly. A controlled sample.”

Now, standing just outside baggage claim with Texas heat pushing through the automatic doors every time they opened, Logan was beginning to understand that you had not been exaggerating. Or, more accurately, you had been exaggerating in the wrong direction. 

Cowboy Week was not smaller than you had made it sound. It was bigger. Wider. Older. There was a whole week waiting outside the airport, and Logan could feel it before he saw it, in the way your shoulders had been drawn up since the plane began descending, in the way you kept checking your phone even though all three of your siblings had already texted that they were there, in the way your fingers brushed the strap of your tote every few seconds to make sure your passport, lip balm, and emergency perfume were exactly where you had left them.

“You good?” Logan asked, low enough that the family beside you, three suitcases deep and already losing a child in a straw hat, would not hear.

You turned to him immediately, bright by instinct, even though he could see the nerves under it, “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’ve checked that bag five times, and if you do it again, I’m going to start thinking there’s a newborn foal in there.”

“There is not a newborn foal in my tote.”

“Could be. Your family’s involved.”

“You are very funny for someone about to meet my extended family on their home turf.”

He shifted his duffel higher on his shoulder and leaned down enough to kiss the corner of your mouth. You smelled like airport air, cherry balm, and the perfume you had dabbed on in the plane bathroom before landing because you said sitting in one place for four hours made you feel stale. He had been dating you long enough not to ask what that meant; he knew the answer would involve a hand gesture, a wrinkle of your nose, and a comparison to old linen.

“You act like they’re going to eat me,” he said.

“They won’t eat you.” You paused, “They may assign you a task before you know the layout.”

“That’s fine.”

“Do not say you can ride.”

“I can ride.”

You turned your whole face toward him, “John Logan.”

“What?”

“You can sit on a horse without publicly disgracing yourself. That is not the same as saying you can ride in this family.”

He laughed, which was exactly the wrong thing to do because it made you look at him like you were deciding whether he deserved to be saved.

“Okay,” he said, “What do I say?”

“You say, ‘I know enough not to lie.’”

“That sounds like something your grandfather would say.”

“It is something my grandfather has said.”

“Good to know.”

“And if Hugh offers you anything, you decline.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“What if it’s water?”

“Especially then.”

The doors slid open again, letting in a flash of sun, heat, and the sound of someone yelling your name with the confidence of a person who had never feared public attention in his life.

“Little Sis!”

You closed your eyes, “There he is.”

Hugh was leaning against the hood of a black SUV like he had been staged there for a magazine shoot no one had requested, sunglasses on, one boot crossed over the other, eating what looked like a breakfast taco out of foil. He was in jeans and a pale shirt with the sleeves shoved to his elbows, looking exactly like the kind of man who would say he did not care about winning and then keep a record of every victory since childhood.

Jordan stood beside the open trunk of the second SUV, phone to his ear, expression flat and expensive. He was in sunglasses too, but where Hugh looked like he had chosen his for drama, Jordan looked like he had chosen his because he had been forced into daylight and found the concept inefficient. Maddie stood beside him, hair pulled back, boots already dusty, one hand resting on the handle of a suitcase while she checked something on her phone. Her engagement ring flashed when she reached absently for Jordan’s wrist, glancing at whatever he was showing her with the calm familiarity of someone who had survived enough of his family to marry into it anyway. Logan realised instantly, this was Jordan’s fiancée.

Sarah was perched on the passenger side of Hugh’s car, wearing denim shorts, boots, and a white tank under an open shirt, her hair pulled back, mouth already curving when she saw you.

“Oh, thank God,” Sarah said as you came close enough for her to grab you, “You brought the good lip gloss.”

“I missed you too,” you said, hugging her with one arm while trying to keep your tote from sliding down your shoulder.

Sarah kissed your cheek, then immediately inspected your face like you had arrived for customs but the customs officer was your younger sister, “You look tired.”

“I was on a plane.”

“You look plane-tired.”

“That’s a real category?”

“It is on you.”

“I’m going home.”

“You’re going to a ranch.”

“Same thing.”

Logan barely had time to smile before Hugh clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to test both affection and bone density, “Boston.”

“Hugh.”

“You ready?”

Logan glanced at you. You were already giving him the look that meant do not engage, “For the ranch?”

“For the week.”

“I’ve been briefed.”

Hugh grinned, “By Cherry? Terrible source. She makes it sound organised.”

“It is organised,” you said.

“It is organised the way a barn fire is organised once everyone starts yelling the same name.”

Jordan slid his phone into his pocket and stepped forward to kiss your cheek, “Flight okay?”

“Yes.” You hugged him, softer than you had hugged Hugh, “You look like you’ve already threatened a man today.”

“I asked a trainer for a timeline.”

“That is not a denial.”

He turned to Logan and offered his hand, “Good to see you.”

“You too, man.”

Jordan’s handshake was firm and he had a type of calm that did not need to prove itself by crushing fingers. Logan liked him, mostly because Jordan had never once tried to be warm when he did not feel like it. His approval, if you got it, came quiet and exact.

“You brought boots?” Jordan asked.

Logan nodded, “Yeah.”

“Good.”

“That was approval,” Sarah whispered loudly, “Write it down.”

Hugh was already reaching for your suitcase. You smacked his hand away, “I’ve got it.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve got it.”

“It weighs more than you.”

“It does not.”

“It contains what, twelve outfits for dinner?”

You lifted your chin, “Nine.”

Sarah gasped, “Amateur.”

Jordan, without looking, lifted your suitcase into the trunk with one hand and Logan’s duffel with the other, then went back to checking something on his phone. Hugh pointed at him with the remains of his taco.

“That’s why he’s eldest. Terrible personality, useful arms.”

Jordan did not look up, “You are leaning on the car while eating.”

“I’m creating morale.”

“You’re creating crumbs.”

Logan felt you laugh beside him, quick and bright, and something in him eased. You were different around them. Maybe more yourself, if that was possible. Sharper and faster. Ten years younger and somehow more grown-up at once. Your siblings seemed to pull old versions of you up through the polished surface, and you let them because you loved them enough to be irritated without having to perform kindness.

That was how Logan ended up in the back of Hugh’s SUV with you pressed against his side, Sarah twisted around in the front seat to talk to you over the console, Hugh driving with one hand low on the wheel and Jordan following behind with Maddie and half the luggage.

Texas opened out around you in long roads and hot sky. The airport fell away into highways, then smaller roads, then land that seemed to stretch farther than it had any right to. 

Logan had been to your farms before. He had been to your Boston orchards, had stood under cherry trees in summer light, had watched you move around animals with a confidence that made him feel seventeen and useless again. But this was different, this was wider, dustier. Less pretty at first glance and more powerful.

You leaned forward between the front seats, talking with Sarah about who had arrived, who had not, which aunt was already complaining about the room assignments, whether Nana had forgiven Grandad for changing the dinner seating without telling her, and if Sarah had remembered to bring the printed schedules.

“I made digital ones,” Sarah said.

You went still, “Sarah.”

“What?”

“You printed them, right?”

“People have phones.”

Hugh made a low noise from the driver’s seat.

You spoke very carefully, “Did you print the schedules?”

Sarah slowly turned around in her seat, “I am sensing,” she said, “that the answer you want is yes.”

“Sarah.”

“They can be printed at the house!”

“The printer at the house jams if you look at it with expectations.”

“I made them very pretty.”

“Pretty does not help Nana when Aunt Camille asks what time breakfast is and Nana says to check the schedule and the schedule is trapped in your Canva account.”

Sarah looked offended, “It is not trapped. It is designed.”

Logan coughed to hide a laugh.

You turned on him immediately, “Do not encourage her.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You laughed internally.”

“I thought it very quietly.”

Hugh flicked his gaze to the rear-view mirror, “Don’t worry. By Wednesday, you’ll be doing that out loud.”

“Wednesday?” Logan asked.

Sarah smiled, “Optimistic.”

The road stretched ahead.

For a while, the conversation moved around Logan rather than at him, and he was grateful for it, because it gave him time to understand that your family did not simply exist in Texas.  He had known your family was spread out, obviously. He had known there were farms and orchards and vineyards and horse operations in a way that sounded fake if he ever tried to explain it to anyone at Briar. But hearing Sarah and Hugh talk about it in the car made it feel less like wealth and more like weather. Everywhere and inescapable.

“Mama’s side is arriving tonight?” you asked.

“California got in this morning,” Sarah said, “Napa lot and the Central Valley lot, because they are apparently different.”

“They are different emotionally.”

“They are both fruit people.”

Hugh scoffed, “Do not let Aunt Camille hear you call wine grapes fruit people.”

“They are fruit.”

“They are personality disorders with vines.”

You turned to Logan, “Mama’s side is mostly fruit, wine, and presentation.”

“That is reductive,” Hugh said.

“It is accurate.”

Sarah began counting on her fingers, “California does grapes, stone fruit, almonds, a little citrus depending on which cousin is lying. New York does apples, pears, cider, and that very expensive jam Nana pretends not to like while eating directly from the jar. Georgia does peaches and pecans. Florida does citrus and winter strawberries. Oregon does berries and hazelnuts. Washington does apples and cherries, and North Carolina does flowers and vegetables for the event side.”

Logan stared at her, “That’s one side?”

“That’s Mama’s side,” you said.

Hugh lifted a finger, “And the events. Don’t forget events.”

“That’s Hugh’s career choice and emotional support category,” Sarah said.

“It is called curation.”

“It is called telling people where to put chairs while wearing linen.”

“And somehow,” Hugh said, “everyone wants me near the chairs.”

“You are always near them,” you said, “but rarely lift them.”

He placed a hand over his chest, “Words wound.”

“And your dad’s side?” Logan asked, because at that point he needed the map before the week swallowed him whole.

You settled back against him, your shoulder brushing his chest, “Daddy’s side is what happened when Nana’s family and Grandad’s family married.”

Hugh nodded, “Romantic, if you ignore the amount of property law involved.”

“Grandad’s side had Texas first,” you said, “Horses, cattle, land, the main ranch- this is where Jordan works since he’s a bloodstock agent. Then Kentucky for thoroughbreds and sales. Oklahoma for quarter horses and reining stock. Montana and Wyoming for cattle and ranch horses. Colorado for hay and alfalfa. New Mexico for rescue and rehabilitation because Nana said the desert needed somewhere kinder.”

“She did say that,” Sarah said, “Then bought half a county.”

“And Nana’s people brought in Massachusetts, obviously. The Boston orchards. Cherries, apples, old family grudges, very good pie. Virginia for boarding barns and hunter-jumper people, because Nana had a foxhunting aunt with terrifying posture. Pennsylvania for dairy and feed contracts, though nobody likes to talk about the Pennsylvania cousins because they’re always right about weather.”

Logan blinked. “How many states is that?”

“Daddy’s side? Combined? Nine,” you said, “Ten if you count the one Maryland cousin who owns three goats and behaves like that’s agriculture.”

“It is agriculture,” Sarah said.

“It is a hobby with fencing.”

Hugh glanced back, “And all of them send people to Cowboy Week.”

Logan looked out the window at the land unfolding around you. “All of them?”

“No,” you said.

“At least not all at once,” Sarah added, “If all branches arrived, the FAA would open an investigation.”

“Cowboy Week is the closest we get,” Hugh said, “The main people come. The loud people come. The useful people come. The people with grievances come. The people who think they are useful but are actually just loud also come.”

Sarah looked at him, “You could have said your own name.”

“I was creating suspense.”

You leaned your head briefly against Logan’s shoulder, “Basically, it started as Grandad’s side checking horses and stock and repairing what weather broke. Then Nana married him, and suddenly half of New England had opinions about Texas. Then Mama married Daddy, and fruit people got involved. Now it’s horses, agriculture, wine, family, charity, events, competitions, old grudges, new babies, and Hugh almost dying on the mechanical bull every year.”

“I do not almost die.”

“You dismounted by flying through the air last year,” Sarah said.

“That bull has a bias.”

“That bull is machinery.”

“Exactly.”

Logan listened, and the size of it settled slowly in his chest. The way your family had thrown roots across the country and still insisted on dragging itself back to one place once a year, like geography was something to be argued with but not obeyed.

No wonder you looked nervous.

The farm appeared piece by piece. 

First, fencing. Miles of it, or what felt like miles, running along the road in clean, weathered lines. Then a wide gate set back from the road, dark metal and pale stone, with the family name worked into the arch above it in a style that made Logan sit up a little straighter without meaning to. Beyond it, a long drive stretched toward low buildings and pastures, the late afternoon sun turning the dust behind the car gold.

There were horses visible in the distance. Dozens.

Some grazing with lazy flicks of their tails. Some lifting their heads as the vehicles turned in. Farther back, Logan could make out barns, paddocks, a riding arena, another house, trucks, trailers, a cluster of people near what looked like an outdoor kitchen, and beyond all of it, more land.

So much land. You went quiet beside him and Logan felt your fingers tighten around his.

He looked down. You were watching the farm through the windshield, eyes hidden by sunglasses, mouth soft.

“This is it?” he asked, and you nodded, “This is Cowboy Week?”

You smiled without looking away, “This is where Cowboy Week happens.”

That, Logan realised quickly, was not the same thing.

By the time the ranch came into view properly, Logan had stopped pretending he was not staring. It was not one house, instead there was a property that kept revealing itself the longer he looked- a main farmhouse set back behind old trees, a second house beyond it, guest cottages and converted barns scattered across the property, arenas already marked out with temporary rails, trucks moving between outbuildings, people carrying crates, saddles, coolers, coils of hose, folded tables. 

There were banners going up along one fence line, not tacky ones, but dark green and cream with elegant lettering and the old family crest he had seen stamped on the corner of the stationery your grandmother still used. 

A ranch dog trotted across the drive with the confidence of someone who owned three-quarters of the land and tolerated human tenancy. Near one of the arenas, two teenagers were arguing over a stack of poles.  Behind them, someone was pressure-washing a stock tank. Farther out, horse trailers stood in a neat line, and beyond them, under a temporary awning, a group of older men in cowboy-hats were pointing at something with the grave intensity of surgeons.

You leaned forward between the seats, your face lighting despite yourself, “Oh, they moved the west arena.”

Sarah nodded, “For polo practice. Texas branch complained about sun angle.”

Hugh scoffed, “Texas branch complains when the sun rises in Texas.”

“Are they wrong?”

“Yes.”

“You complained for twenty minutes about the coffee at the airport.”

“That was different. That coffee had no honour.”

Logan looked at you, “This is quieter than usual?”

You smiled without looking at him, “A little.”

Hugh barked a laugh, “Last year there was a hay bale fire by now.”

“It was contained,” Sarah said.

“It was Wednesday.”

“Containment is not time-sensitive.”

The main house had a wide porch shaded by deep eaves, with rocking chairs, potted plants, and enough people on it to make the word casual feel legally inaccurate. 

Your mother stood near the steps in a white shirt, jeans, and boots, one hand resting on her hip while she spoke to a man carrying two boxes of glass jars. Your father was beside her, hat tipped back, talking to Grandad as if they had not both positioned themselves with a clear view of the driveway. Nana sat in a chair with a glass of iced tea, wearing sunglasses, red lipstick, and the expression of a woman who had never once been early in her life because the world was simply late to her.

You made a tiny sound beside him, “They’re pretending they weren’t waiting.”

“They’re bad at it,” Logan said.

“They are usually better.”

“That’s because Nana told them to come out,” Sarah said, already opening her door before the car had fully settled, “She said if she had to wait for you guys, she wanted scenery.”

Hugh parked and killed the engine, “Welcome to Cowboy Week, Boston.”

Logan stepped out into heat, dust, and the immediate sensation that he had entered a family story already in progress. Before he could reach for his duffel, the front door flew open and a tiny child in pink boots came hurtling down the porch steps with all the reckless determination of someone who had never once considered gravity a serious threat.

“Logie!”

Logan froze.

You turned to him, delighted, “Oh no.”

The toddler crossed the gravel at a speed that made at least three adults shout different warnings. She ignored all of them. Logan had just enough time to open his arms slightly before she slammed into his legs with a joyful little grunt.

“Logie!”

He looked down at her.

Then at you.

Then back at her.

“Hey, bug,” he said, careful and impossibly gentle. Your heart did something humiliating in your chest. The toddler, whose actual name was Caroline but who had insisted on being called Cricket since sometime around Christmas, wrapped both arms around Logan’s shin like she planned to physically prevent him from ever leaving again.

“You came,” she said, looking up at him with open accusation, like she had doubted his commitment.

“I did.”

“You bring me hockey?”

He blinked, “Hockey?”

“She means the puck,” you said, biting your lip.

Logan’s face changed, “Oh. Yeah, I did.”

Cricket gasped like he had just confirmed the existence of magic, “You did?”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

She nodded very seriously, “At Nana’s party. You said next time.”

“I remember.”

Hugh, stepping out of the SUV behind them, lowered his sunglasses, “Right. He’s famous with the under-fives now. That’s worrying.”

Sarah appeared beside you, “Cricket has taste.”

“She’s three,” Hugh said.

“Advanced taste.”

Logan crouched, pulling the puck from the outer pocket of his duffel. He had brought it because Cricket had spent twenty minutes at Nana’s birthday in Boston trying to steal one from his bag, and you had teased him for being soft when he packed it that morning. Now he handed it to her, and she held it with both hands like treasure.

“My hockey,” she announced.

“Your hockey,” Logan agreed.

Cricket looked down at it, then up at him again, “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Hockey.”

Logan glanced at the gravel, then at the entire porch of watching relatives, then at you, who was now making absolutely no effort to hide your smile.

“She wants a demonstration,” you said.

“With what, my hands?”

Cricket immediately held out a tiny stick. It was not a hockey stick. It appeared to be half of a toy broom, painted pink, with a ribbon tied around it.

Logan stared at it. You covered your mouth. Cricket waved it impatiently, “Use this.”

“Of course,” Logan said solemnly, taking the toy broom handle from her, “Professional equipment.”

“Like your ice stick.”

“My ice stick. Exactly.”

He set the puck on a patch of smoother dirt near the drive, crouching lower so Cricket could see. The pink broom handle was absurd in his hands, too small and too light, but he treated it with such complete seriousness that the porch began to quiet with interest. He tapped the puck once, twice, then slid it gently toward Cricket’s boots.

She squealed and stomped both feet.

“Again!”

“Again?” Logan asked.

“Again, Logie.”

He did it again.

This time, Cricket tried to stop it with one pink boot and missed entirely, nearly spinning herself around. Logan caught her by the back of her little shirt before she could tip over.

“Careful, bug.”

“I got it!”

“You absolutely did.”

“You lied,” Hugh muttered.

Logan looked up, “She got it.”

Cricket beamed. A woman from the porch, one of your cousins from Mama’s side, put a hand to her chest, “Oh, Logan, you didn’t have to remember that.”

He flushed a little, “It was no problem.”

Cricket pressed the puck to her chest, “Mine.”

“Yes,” her mother said, “But we are not sleeping with it.”

Cricket’s face immediately collapsed into betrayal.

Logan, apparently unwilling to survive three-year-old sadness, said, “Maybe it can sit on your dresser.”

Cricket considered this with the gravitas of a land treaty, “By my horse?”

“By your horse.”

“My horse is named Pancake.”

“Great name.”

“She bites.”

“Less great.”

You laughed, and Cricket turned to you suddenly, remembering you existed, “Auntie!”

“There I am,” you said, crouching down as she threw herself at you next.

Cricket climbed into your arms with zero concern for your travel clothes, one fist still closed around the puck. You kissed her cheek, and she immediately pressed the puck against your jaw as if blessing you with hockey.

“Cold,” you said.

“It’s hockey.”

“That’s true.”

She twisted back toward Logan, “Logie sleeps here?”

“He does,” you said.

“In your room?”

The porch went dead silent in the way only a family with terrible instincts could manage.

Logan closed his eyes briefly. You stared at Cricket. Cricket stared back, innocent and lethal.

Sarah made a sound like she was dying. Hugh whispered, “Children are truth.”

You lifted your chin, “He is staying in the blue room.”

“With you?”

“Cricket.”

“The blue bed yells.”

Logan’s eyes opened. You looked slowly toward Nana. Nana took a sip of iced tea and looked away, as though she had never discussed furniture in her life. Grandad coughed into his hand.

Your father said, “Caroline.”

Cricket leaned toward Logan and whispered loudly, “It yells.”

“Good to know,” Logan said, voice strangled.

She patted his cheek with her free hand, leaving a tiny dust print near his jaw, “Be brave.”

That ruined you. You pressed your face into Cricket’s hair and laughed so hard your sunglasses slid down your nose.

Logan stood quickly, because the look on your face was dangerous to him. That soft, unbearably fond thing in your eyes had started again, made worse by the toddler in your arms and the pink broom handle still in his hand. He handed it back to Cricket like a man returning a ceremonial sword.

She accepted it. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she reached into the front pocket of her tiny overalls and produced a sticker. It was purple and star-shaped.

“For Logie,” she said.

Logan looked at it. Then at her. Then at you.

“You have to take it,” you whispered.

He held out his hand. Cricket stuck the purple star to the back of it with solemn precision, “For coming.”

His face softened so openly you had to look down for a second.

“Thanks, bug,” he said.

She nodded, satisfied, then immediately wriggled out of your arms to go show the puck to a cousin near the porch.

Hugh watched her run off, “He has a fan club.”

Sarah nodded, “Under-fives and grandmothers. Strong demographic.”

Logan looked down at the sticker on his hand, “I don’t know what just happened.”

You slipped your fingers through his and lifted his hand to inspect the star, “You were accepted by Cricket.”

“Is that good?”

“It is catastrophic. She’s going to make you watch cartoons before breakfast.”

“She gave me a sticker.”

“You’re done for.”

“I know.”

Your mother reached you by then, and whatever you were going to say disappeared into the force of her hug. She held your face afterward, thumbs near your jaw, looking you over with affection sharpened by assessment.

“You’re thin.”

“I am not.”

“You are plane-thin.”

Sarah pointed at you triumphantly, “I said that.”

“You are both dramatic.”

Your mother kissed your forehead, then turned to Logan and hugged him too, which still surprised him even though she had been doing it since the second dinner. She smelled like citrus soap, sun-warmed cotton, and something floral that probably came from a garden she could name down to the row.

“Logan, sweetheart,” she said, pulling back, “You survived the flight.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Nana, from the porch, lifted her glass, “Still doing that.”

Logan looked up, “Ma’am?”

“The ma’am thing.” She smiled, “Lovely. Don’t let them civilise it out of you.”

Grandad stood and came down the steps to shake Logan’s hand, “Good to see you, son.”

“You too, sir.”

Your father greeted you with one arm around your shoulders, kissed the top of your head, then gave Logan a nod that felt like a handshake before the actual handshake came.

“Glad you made it.”

“Me too.”

Hugh, behind him, muttered, “He says that now.”

Your father turned his head, “Hugh.”

“What? I’m building atmosphere.”

“You’re building a reason for me to send you to the feed shed.”

Sarah made a thoughtful noise, “He’d get lost.”

“I would not.”

“You got lost in the west guest house last Christmas.”

“It has unnecessary doors.”

“It’s a house.”

The main house was not a farmhouse in the quaint sense.

It was a farmhouse in the way your family used the word farm, which Logan had learned often meant large enough to house a small government. Long and pale, with wraparound porches, green shutters, wide steps, and rooms that seemed to have been added whenever some generation had produced too many children or too many opinions. 

There were old oak trees around it, providing islands of shade. Wind chimes moved lazily near the porch. Boots lined one side of the entry in chaotic rows. Somewhere inside, a dog barked once and then apparently decided the arrival of fifteen more people was not worth getting up for.

Before rooms, before bags, before Logan could even pretend to understand where anything was, your mother led everyone toward the side porch where the week board had already been set up.

Or, more accurately, the boards. Plural.

The first was a green-framed chalkboard the size of a small door, written in Sarah’s looping handwriting and divided into days, events, duties, and names. Breakfast prep. Barn check. Water runs. East yard. Arena set-up. Kids. Kitchen. Dinner. Partner labour pool. A smaller board beside it listed competitions: barrel racing, roping, trail relay, family polo scrimmage, mechanical bull night, junior clinic, founders’ dinner, aftercare demo, and something called “state branch games,” which Logan did not like the sound of at all.

The third board was a map of the United States. That one stopped him.

It was pinned with little coloured flags. Green for Mama’s side. Burgundy for Daddy’s. Cream for merged branches. There were strings running between states like a conspiracy wall, except instead of crime it tracked horses, fruit, land, marriage, and generational stubbornness.

Logan stepped closer despite himself, “You made a war map,” he said.

Sarah appeared beside him, offended, “It is a heritage map.”

“It has strings.”

“For clarity.”

“It looks like you’re hunting your relatives.”

“Sometimes we are.”

You leaned against Logan’s side, pointing, “Green is Mama’s side. California is split because if you call Napa and Central Valley the same branch, Aunt Camille will develop a migraine for social reasons. New York is apples and cider. Georgia is peaches and pecans. Florida is citrus. Oregon is berries and hazelnuts. Washington is cherries and apples. North Carolina is flowers, vegetables, and event florals.”

Sarah pointed to the burgundy side, “Daddy’s side. Texas is main ranch. Kentucky is thoroughbreds. Oklahoma is quarter horses and reining. Montana and Wyoming are cattle and working horses. Colorado is hay and alfalfa. New Mexico is rehab and rescue. Massachusetts is Nana’s orchards. Virginia is hunter-jumper and boarding barns. Pennsylvania is feed, dairy, and weather pessimism.”

Logan stared. Hugh leaned over his shoulder, “And Maryland has the goat cousin.”

You sighed, “Maryland is not official.”

“The goat cousin is real.”

“The goat cousin is one woman with three goats and a Facebook page.”

“That is how empires begin.”

Logan looked at the map again, “How many people are here?”

Your mother, passing with a clipboard, said, “Enough.”

“That did not answer anything,” Logan said.

Your father clapped him once on the back, not hard, but enough to redirect his soul, “You’ll learn.”

Then your mother clapped her hands once, lightly but with terrifying authority.

“Right. Rooms first. Bags upstairs, quick refresh, then I need bodies in the kitchen and the east yard. Dinner at eight. If you are late, I will know and I will not be charmed by your excuse.” Hugh opened his mouth, “Especially you.”

He closed it.

You lifted your tote higher on your shoulder, “Where am I?”

“Blue room with Logan,” your mother said.

There was half a second of silence, and Logan felt every sibling, parent, grandparent, and porch-adjacent relative turn their attention toward you with varying levels of delight.

Sarah coughed into her hand. Hugh grinned, “Walls are thin.”

Your father said, “Hugh,” again, but this time with the exhausted weight of a man who had been saying it for twenty-four years.

Sarah leaned toward Logan, “He’s not wrong.”

Nana set her glass down, “Blue room’s nice. Loud bed, though.”

“Nana,” you hissed.

“What?” Nana lifted both hands, “I am discussing furniture.”

Grandad looked at Logan with sympathy that did not quite manage to hide amusement, “Old house.”

Logan, who had played in front of crowds, fought on ice, took hits that made his vision flash white, and once been chirped by Dean for forty straight minutes without breaking, felt heat climbing the back of his neck. You looked like you wanted the porch floor to open and swallow you whole, which made him want to laugh and kiss you and apologise all at once.

Your mother, mercifully, turned toward Mrs. Alvarez, “The blue room bags upstairs, please. Cherry, Logan, fifteen minutes. Then downstairs.”

“Fifteen?” you repeated.

“You’re young.”

“That does not answer me.”

“It was not meant to.”

Hugh slapped Logan’s shoulder again as everyone began moving, “See? Holiday.”

The blue room, when Logan finally saw it, looked nothing like he expected. It was upstairs at the back of the house, tucked beneath a sloping ceiling with exposed beams darkened by age and a window that opened over the side garden, where flower beds ran along the house in loose, bright waves. 

The walls were a soft, faded blue, the kind that had probably been repainted three times in slightly different shades because someone’s grandmother had once said it made the room feel cooler. 

There was an old brass bed with a white quilt folded back to reveal cream sheets, an antique dresser with an oval mirror, a small writing desk near the window, and a door that led into an ensuite bathroom with old tile, a claw-foot tub, a shower that looked more modern than the rest of the room, and a vanity already cleared for guests. 

Someone had put fresh flowers on the dresser in a little glass vase. Someone else had left a stack of towels tied with blue ribbon on the bench at the foot of the bed.

You stood in the doorway for a second, taking it in, “Oh.”

Logan set his duffel down near the bench, “You okay?”

“Yes,” You stepped inside, touching the back of the desk chair with your fingertips, “I forgot how pretty this room is.”

“Loud bed,” he said, because he could not help himself.

You turned and pointed at him, “Do not start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said two words.”

“Furniture commentary.”

“I will throw you out the window.”

He glanced at the open window, “That seems loud too.”

Your mouth twitched, which he counted as a win.

For all of three minutes, it was peaceful. Then someone shouted for Sarah downstairs, a door slammed somewhere along the hall, Hugh’s voice rose in argument with a cousin over who had stolen his hat, and your phone buzzed twice with messages from your mother that you read while already opening your suitcase.

“Don’t unpack yet,” you said, though every part of you looked like it physically pained you, “We’ll come back up after we help.”

“Are you telling me not to unpack?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” You took a breath, shut your suitcase with tragic discipline, and turned toward the door, “Come on. Before she sends someone.”

By the time you got downstairs, the main kitchen had become a controlled disaster.

It was a huge old farmhouse room with long counters, double ovens, a wide central work table scarred by years of knives and heat, copper pans hanging from a rack above the island, and windows thrown open to let in the heavy late-afternoon air. 

There were bowls of peaches on the counter, bundles of herbs drying on linen towels, trays of cut lemons, stacks of napkins, jars lined up for labelling, a crate of apples by the back door, and a dog sleeping directly in the worst possible place, apparently confident that the entire family would rather step over him than ask him to move.

Which, Logan noticed after two minutes, was true.

The kitchen was full of everyone.

A man in a faded cap was rinsing herbs at the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows.  A cousin’s husband was peeling peaches into a bowl while carrying on a conversation with one of your aunts about irrigation timing. Two teenage boys were being sent out with baskets and explicit instructions to pick the apples from the east trees and not get distracted by the golf cart. Sarah had been handed a stack of cream labels and a red marker and was arguing with a girl her age about whether the word heritage made jam sound expensive or haunted.  Your mother stood at the centre of it all in boots and a white shirt, directing movement like a general who happened to know exactly how much sugar went into peach cobbler.

She told an uncle to find the tractor keys because the south flower beds needed watering before evening heat cooked them. She told a teenage cousin that if he broke the irrigation timer again, he could explain himself to the dahlias. She told Mrs. Alvarez that the herb butter could wait but the biscuits could not.

Then she turned to you without missing a beat.

“Cherry, sweetheart, wash your hands. We need the cherries pitted for the hand pies, and then I need you to check the flowers by the side porch. They looked dramatic when I passed.”

“Flowers cannot be dramatic.”

“They absolutely can,” your mother said, “They get it from my side.”

Hugh walked in behind you, reached for a biscuit from a cooling rack, and was smacked on the hand by Mrs. Alvarez without her even looking, “Every year,” she said.

Hugh withdrew his hand, wounded, “It’s tradition.”

“So is consequences.”

Logan smiled before he could stop himself. That was when a woman at the far end of the table looked up from snapping beans and pointed at him with the empty end of one, “New partner?”

You glanced over, “Camille, be normal.”

Camille smiled beautifully. “I am being normal.”

“No, you’re being Mama’s-side normal.”

“Better hair, same questions.”

Your mother waved Logan toward the long work table as if his placement had been decided before he arrived, “Logan, you can start there. Maribel, Bennett, Theo, Ellis, Camille - be kind.”

Every person at the table looked up in a way that suggested kindness would be negotiated.

Logan sat because he could feel, instinctively, that refusing was not an option. The table was crowded with bowls, cutting boards, herbs, beans, peaches, paper labels, twine, and enough knives to make it clear this was not a ceremonial assignment. Maddie was there too, sleeves rolled neatly, peeling an apple in one long strip with the kind of quiet competence that made Jordan’s sharpness seem less genetic and more like something she tolerated on purpose. 

Beside her, Maribel slid a bowl toward him, “Snap the ends off,” she said, “Good ones here, ugly ones there.”

Logan looked at the two bowls, “How ugly is ugly?”

Bennett, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, did not look up from chopping herbs, “If you have to ask, ugly.”

Theo leaned toward Logan from the other side, lowering his voice with solemn urgency, “First Cowboy Week?”

“Yeah.”

“Rule one, never ask if everyone is related.”

Logan paused with a bean in his hand, “Why?”

“Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes business, sometimes it starts a fight.”

Camille nodded, “Sometimes all three.”

Ellis, who had the open, cheerful face of a man who had survived years of family holidays without retaining useful fear, pointed his knife toward the back door, “If Mama’s side offers you food, take it.”

Bennett added, “If Daddy’s side offers you a horse, ask your girlfriend.”

Maribel, not looking up, said, “If Hugh offers you anything, decline.”

Logan glanced across the kitchen at you. You were at the sink with your hands under the tap, laughing at something Sarah had said while your mother tied an apron around your waist without asking. The apron was pale blue with a little red trim at the pocket. You accepted it like a soldier accepting armour.

“I got that warning,” Logan said.

“Good.” Maddie dropped an apple peel into a bowl, “He’s not malicious. He’s just recreationally dangerous.”

Hugh, from the other side of the kitchen, called, “I can hear you.”

“Then learn,” Maddie said calmly.

Jordan, who had appeared in the doorway with his phone in one hand and a set of keys in the other, looked at Logan seated at the table and gave the smallest approving nod. It was so brief Logan wondered if he had imagined it. Sarah did not let him.

“Jordan approves of bean work.”

Jordan turned toward her, “I approve of anyone being useful.”

“You must hate mirrors.”

“Sarah.”

You laughed, and Logan looked up. You were at the counter now, pitting cherries into a wide ceramic bowl, your hands already stained faintly red at the fingertips. Your hair was still braided from the flight, but looser now, pieces slipping around your face. You were talking to your mother, listening, nodding, then turning to tell one of the teenage cousins that if he put the apple basket on the wet floor again, you were personally going to make him eat floor apple pie.

He moved the basket. Immediately.

There was something about seeing you like this that caught Logan off guard. He knew you at Briar. He knew you in his truck, on campus, at parties, at the clinic, in his bed, arguing with a coffee machine, calling your mother on speaker, stealing his sweatshirts, holding goats, kissing him against his kitchen counter like you had never once believed in restraint. He knew the version of you who wore red lipstick to the grocery store and cried over old horses on rescue pages and could turn his whole day around by texting him a photo of your shoes.

But here, in this kitchen, you were just part of the machinery. Loved, teased, trusted, ordered around, obeyed in turn. Your mother passed you a bowl without looking; you caught it. Sarah stole a cherry from your cutting board; you smacked her wrist with a towel. An aunt Logan had not met, kissed the top of your head as she passed, then handed you a stack of folded napkins like affection and labour were the same language.

It did something strange to his chest. Then someone outside shouted, “Need two strong ones by the east cooler!”

Every head at the partners table turned toward Logan and Bennett. Logan looked around, “Me?”

Theo clapped him on the shoulder, “Congratulations.”

Bennett stood, “If they like you, they give you jobs.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They give you worse jobs.”

Logan followed Bennett out into the yard, where the heat hit harder after the crowded kitchen. The east cooler turned out to be a large insulated unit near the side of a converted barn, and the job turned out to be moving crates of drinks, ice, and something labelled DO NOT TILT - SARAH WILL KILL YOU into the correct order.

One of your uncles, a tall man called Everett with a grey beard and a hat that looked older than Logan’s truck, introduced himself, asked Logan about hockey within thirty seconds, and then managed to connect NHL prospects to tractor engines without any visible strain.

“So you’re aiming pro?” Everett asked, handing Logan a crate.

“Yes, sir.”

“What position?”

“Right Wing.”

“Good legs, then.”

Logan lifted the crate onto the stack, “That’s the hope.”

Everett grunted, “Horses and hockey. Same principle.”

Logan glanced at him, “Is it?”

“Balance, timing, don’t panic when something bigger than you changes direction.”

Bennett, carrying another crate, said, “That’s the most sense you’ve made all week.”

Everett ignored him, “You work on cars too?”

“A little.”

“My niece said mechanic.”

You said mechanic.

Logan did not know why that made him smile, but it did.

“Yeah,” he said, “My dad has a shop.”

Everett nodded, filing this away as if it mattered, “Good. We’ve got an old truck making an ugly noise by the equipment shed. Not today,” he added when Bennett groaned, “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Cowboy Week,” Bennett said to Logan, “is a series of people saying not today and meaning in twenty minutes.”

By the time Logan got back to the kitchen, there was dust on his shoes, a stripe of condensation on his shirt, and a new understanding that your family did not so much ask for help as absorb nearby bodies into systems already moving.

You looked up from the flower buckets near the back door as he came in, “Where did they take you?”

“Cooler.”

“That was merciful.”

“I’ve been told there’s an ugly truck.”

“There is always an ugly truck.”

“I was told not today.”

You smiled, “That means tomorrow.”

“That’s what Bennett said.”

“Bennett has survived six Cowboy Weeks.”

“Should I be worried that everyone counts survival in numbers?”

“Yes.”

Before he could answer, your mother passed between you with a tray of lemons and kissed your cheek in motion, “Cherry, flowers.”

“I’m going.”

“And take Logan with you if he’s standing there being handsome.”

“Mama.”

“What? Handsome men can carry buckets. That is why God gave them shoulders.”

Logan coughed into his hand. You closed your eyes for one second, then picked up two buckets of cut flowers, “Do not look pleased.”

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually pleased.”

“I’m carrying buckets.”

“You love carrying buckets when my mother compliments your shoulders.”

“It was a practical observation.”

“It was propaganda.”

Outside, the side porch had been half-transformed already. Tables were set but not dressed, chairs stacked in groups, lanterns waiting along the railing. The flower beds beneath the porch were, as your mother had claimed, being dramatic. Some of the blooms were leaning under the heat, their bright heads drooping like fainting debutantes. You set one bucket down and made a noise of offence.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. She was right.”

“The flowers?”

“They’re being dramatic.”

Logan followed your gaze, “They look like flowers.”

“They look thirsty.”

“Right.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m learning.”

You pointed toward the hose coiled near the spigot, “Turn that on, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You gave him a look, “Nana has ruined you.”

“Nana likes me.”

“Nana likes trouble.”

“Then she likes us both.”

He turned the water on, and the hose gave an immediate cough before spraying sideways across his boot. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the bucket.

“Helpful,” he said.

“You look very ranch.”

“I look wet.”

You took the hose from him, adjusted the spray head with a practised twist, and started watering the flower beds with the seriousness of a surgeon. You were still in your travel clothes, apron tied over your skirt, braid slipping, cherry stains on your fingers, and Logan, carrying a bucket of cut flowers behind you while you muttered at petunias, felt an almost unbearable affection for you.

“You know,” he said, “when you said Cowboy Week, I didn’t picture this.”

You did not look up, “What did you picture?”

“Horses. Hats. Hugh being annoying.”

“All present.”

“Not you scolding flowers.”

“They know what they did.”

A shout came from the kitchen door, “Your mama wants the white pitchers, not the blue ones!”

You shouted back without turning, “Tell her the blue ones are for Wednesday!”

A beat, “She says she knows and wants the white ones now!”

You stared at the side of the house, “That is deeply inconvenient.”

Logan held out his hand, “Give me the hose.”

“You know what you’re doing?”

“I can water flowers.”

“These are not hockey players. You can’t just spray them aggressively.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

You handed him the hose with theatrical reluctance, “Low pressure. Roots, not petals. Do not drown anything.”

“Yes, boss.”

You took two steps, then came back, grabbed his shirt in your fist, and kissed him quickly. Your lips tasted faintly like cherry balm and heat, “What was that for?” he asked.

“For being useful.”

“I can be more useful.”

“Don’t flirt with me while holding a hose.”

“That feels like a missed opportunity.”

You pointed at him as you backed toward the door, “Roots.”

“Not petals.”

“Look at you, learning.”

Then you were gone again, swallowed by the kitchen, leaving Logan watering your mother’s dramatic flowers beneath a Texas porch while someone’s old dog came to stand beside him and judge his technique.

By half past five, Logan had snapped beans, carried crates, discussed hockey with two uncles and one cousin who had strong opinions about fighting majors despite having never watched a full game, watered flowers under your supervision, been sent outside to move a cooler six inches to the left because “the sun angle changed,” and received four separate pieces of advice from the partners table, only half of which made sense.

He had also watched you move through the afternoon like a bright thread being pulled through every room.

You laughed with your mother over the white pitchers. You argued with Sarah about labels. You bent down to kiss Nana’s cheek when she came in to inspect the pies and leave without contributing labour. You were sent to find tractor keys and returned with three sets, none of which were correct, but one of which apparently unlocked a cabinet nobody had opened since last summer. You helped Mrs. Alvarez carry a tray without being asked. You corrected Hugh’s attempt to call a peach cobbler a “fruit casserole.” You caught Logan’s eye from across the kitchen twice and smiled like the two of you had a secret, which you did, though at that point the secret was mostly that you desperately wanted a shower.

Finally, your mother looked around the kitchen, checked the clock, and clapped her hands once.

“Enough. Everyone who is staying in the house, go upstairs. Showers, rest, clothes for dinner. If you are not back by eight, I am beginning without you aggressively."

Hugh wiped his hands on a towel, “What does that mean?”

“It means I will be disappointed before I am angry.”

“That’s worse,” Sarah said.

“Exactly.”

You untied your apron and hung it on the back of a chair. Your hair was loose now, the braid having given up somewhere around the white pitcher debate. There was a smear of cherry juice near your wrist, a bit of flour on your hip, and Logan was not proud of the fact that watching you wash your hands at the sink made him think things that would get him killed by at least three people in the room.

You looked over your shoulder, “Coming?”

He nodded, maybe too fast. Bennett, from the partners table, did not look up from wiping down a knife, “Blue room, right?”

You stopped.

Theo sighed wistfully, “Historic furniture.”

Camille smiled into her glass of iced tea, “Excellent acoustics.”

Maddie, still calm, added, “Terrible floorboard outside the door too. Avoid the middle plank.”

You stared at all of them, “Do you people have a meeting?”

Maribel pointed at Logan, “We are trying to keep him alive.”

“By discussing floorboards?”

“Among other things.”

Sarah appeared beside you, grinning, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk loudly past your door.”

“Sarah.”

“What? For privacy.”

“That is the opposite of privacy.”

“It’s cover noise. You’re welcome.”

Logan looked at the ceiling.

You grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the stairs before anyone could say anything else.

The blue room was quieter when you returned, or maybe it only felt that way after the kitchen. The late-afternoon light had turned thick and gold, slanting through the open window and laying itself across the floorboards.  The flowers on the dresser had softened in the heat. The room smelled faintly of old wood, clean linen, and the soap someone used in the upstairs hallway. Outside, the side garden was glowing under the lowering sun, flowers revived enough by Logan’s careful watering to look smug about it.

You shut the door behind you, leaned back against it, and exhaled.

Logan stood near the foot of the bed and watched you, “You okay?”

“Yes.” You opened your eyes, “That was the quiet part of the week.”

He laughed, “That was quiet?”

“Relatively.”

“Relative to what, a riot?”

“Thursday.”

“Good to know.”

You pushed away from the door and went straight for your suitcase, the temporary restraint from earlier gone, “We need to unpack before showers.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. If we shower and come back to exploded luggage, I’ll be angry.”

“At me?”

“At the room.”

“Right.”

“And then at you if your socks touch my clothes.”

“My socks are clean.”

“They are socks.”

He held up both hands, “Okay. Type A girlfriend. What’s the play?”

“You shower first because you smell like airplane, kitchen, cooler water, and outdoor labour.”

“That’s a complex profile.”

“It is not my favourite of yours.” You unzipped his duffel with brisk competence, “If you want to shower now, I’ll take things out and put them in piles. You can put them away when you’re done.”

“So you’re dumping my shit somewhere.”

“I’m creating a temporary organisational system.”

“Sounds like dumping with a degree.”

You gave him a sweet smile, “Your pile can go on the floor.”

“Bench is fine.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He leaned down to kiss you, but you turned your face at the last second so his mouth landed on your cheek, “Shower.”

“You’re bossy in Texas.”

“I’m bossy everywhere.”

“True.”

He was still smiling when he went into the bathroom.

You had both suitcases open before the shower had fully warmed. It was not that you did not trust him. You did. Logan could do his own laundry, manage his own coursework, pack his own hockey bag, cook for himself, and remember the details of your schedule better than some men remembered their own birthdays. You loved that about him. You loved competence in the same way you loved good boots and clean counters and people who knew which flowers needed shade.

But Logan’s version of unpacking was functional, not beautiful, and you did not intend to spend a week tripping over a duffel because he had decided a chair counted as a dresser if he believed in it.

So you made piles.

Shirts on the bench. Jeans on the chair. Socks and underwear in a neat stack that you would not put away because you were his girlfriend, not a hotel maid. His toiletries beside the sink, but still in the leather bag because he could decide where they went. His laptop and notebook on the desk. The book he had brought, which you strongly suspected he would not read because Cowboy Week had never once allowed for uninterrupted leisure, went on the bedside table nearest the window.

Your things took longer because your things had subcategories; shower things, hair things, dinner things, emergency dinner things, things that could crease, things that could survive being creased, lip products, sleepwear, perfume, jewellery wrapped in a handkerchief, and the small pouch of practical farm items Sarah mocked until she needed something from it.

The shower cut off just as you were laying your white cotton nightdress across the quilt to let the fabric settle.

It was not lingerie, exactly. It was soft and thin and old-fashioned in a way you liked, white with tiny red embroidered flowers near the neckline and a little red ribbon threaded at the straps. It was the kind of thing that looked innocent until it was on your body, at which point it became something else entirely through no fault of its own.

The bathroom door opened, letting out steam.

Logan came out in a towel slung low around his hips, hair damp and darkened, skin flushed warm from the shower. You glanced up once and immediately went back to arranging your hair products because self-preservation was important.

“Your pile is on the bench,” you said.

He looked at the bench, “That’s my pile?”

“Yes.”

“It looks judged.”

“It has been.”

He crossed the room behind you, and you felt him before he touched you, heat and soap and bare skin at your back. His hands found your waist, damp fingers spreading over the fabric of your top, and before you could tell him not to, he shook his wet hair against the side of your neck like an overgrown dog.

You shrieked, but quietly, which made the sound ridiculous, “Logan!”

He laughed, catching you when you tried to twist away, “What?”

“You are wet.”

“Showered. Usually how it works.”

“You are dripping on me.”

“You smelled like airport.”

“I did not.”

“A little.”

You wriggled in his grip, laughing despite yourself when he pressed his face into your shoulder and shook his hair again, “John, I swear to God, I will scream.”

“You can’t. Walls are thin.”

“Do not use my grandmother’s furniture commentary against me.”

His hands slid to your ribs, finding the place that always made you fold if he got you there properly. You grabbed his wrist, half fighting, half trying not to laugh so loudly someone came upstairs to investigate.

“No. No tickling. Absolutely not. I have a schedule.”

“You unpacked my bag while I was naked and vulnerable.”

“You were in the shower.”

“Still vulnerable.”

“You are about to be physically vulnerable if you do not let me go.”

He loosened his grip enough for you to slip away, but not before stealing a kiss, his mouth warm and clean against yours. It caught, for a second. The laugh in your throat quieted. His hand came up, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, and you felt the shift, the small downward pull in your stomach that always happened when Logan stopped playing and started looking.

“We have dinner,” you whispered.

“Not yet.”

“You are very bad at time.”

“I’m good at other things.”

“You need to put clothes away.”

“You need to shower.”

“Exactly. We have tasks.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, just enough to make your knees soften before he pulled back with an expression that said he knew exactly what he had done.

“Go shower,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes, “Don’t look proud.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“Go shower, Cherry.”

You did, mostly because if you did not, dinner would begin without you emotionally and physically.

When you came back out, the noise of the house had sunk into a late-afternoon rhythm- footsteps below, a burst of laughter from outside, distant voices near the yard, birds calling and then quieting as evening began to gather at the edges of the property.

Logan had actually put away his clothes. His duffel was tucked beside the wardrobe. His laptop was open on the bed in front of him, a notebook balanced against his thigh, one knee bent, hair partly dry and curling slightly at the ends. He had put on black athletic shorts and nothing else, because apparently his commitment to productivity did not extend to shirts.

He looked up when the bathroom door opened and you saw the exact second he stopped reading.

You had wrapped your damp hair in a towel for long enough to keep it from soaking the back of your nightdress, but you had taken it down before leaving the bathroom. Now it hung wet and heavy over one shoulder, darkened by water, dripping occasionally onto the cotton at your chest. Your skin still held the heat of the shower. The nightdress skimmed your body, soft and light, the little red details almost too pretty for the way Logan was looking at them.

You padded barefoot to the vanity and set down your comb, moisturiser, and perfume like you had not noticed him staring. For a while, he let you pretend.

You combed through the ends of your hair carefully, wincing once at a knot. You smoothed cream into your hands, working it over your knuckles and wrists, then up your forearms. You dabbed balm on your lips. You lifted your perfume bottle, the small cherry-glass one you had brought because the full bottle was too risky to travel with, and touched it to your throat, your wrists, the hollow behind your ear. Logan closed his laptop.

You met his eyes in the mirror, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You cannot say nothing while looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” His mouth curved, when you did not answer. He set the laptop aside, moved off the bed, and came up behind you, his hands settled at your waist and his chin dipped toward your shoulder. He did not shake water on you this time. He kissed the side of your neck, just above the embroidered edge of your nightdress, and the softness of it made your fingers pause around the perfume bottle.

“You unpacked,” you said, because saying his name felt too revealing.

“I was scared not to.”

“Good.”

His hands moved to feel the shape of you beneath the thin fabric, “Did my pile pass inspection?”

“It was adequate.”

“Adequate.”

“With room for improvement.”

He kissed below your ear and inhaled gently, “I’ll work on it.”

“You should.”

“You smell good.”

“I put perfume on.”

“You smelled good before.”

“That’s not how perfume works.”

“It is to me.”

Your eyes flicked to his reflection. There were things Logan said that were designed to make you roll your eyes, things designed to make you laugh, and things he said without quite realising they were dangerous.

That was one of the dangerous ones, warm enough that it slipped under your ribs and settled there.

You put the perfume bottle down. He watched your hand fall away from it, watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed, and then he kissed you again, this time lower, where your neck met your shoulder. His hands pressed slowly at your waist, thumbs stroking the soft place beneath your ribs through the cotton. You leaned back into him before you could think better of it, your damp hair cool against his bare chest.

“We have dinner at eight,” you murmured.

His mouth moved against your shoulder, “It’s not eight.”

“It is going to become eight.”

“Eventually.”

“That is how time works.”

His hands slid lower, over your hips, fingers catching the hem of the nightdress, “You’re very educational.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I watched you boss flowers around today.”

“They needed direction.”

“And the cousins.”

“They needed more.”

“And me.”

You let your head tilt back against his shoulder, “You liked that.”

“I liked being useful.”

“You liked my mother complimenting your shoulders.”

His smile pressed into your skin, “That too.”

You reached back and touched his hair. It was soft now, drying into waves at the ends, and he made a quiet sound when your nails grazed his scalp. That sound did something to you, something embarrassingly immediate and tender, because Logan could be all muscle and steadiness and hockey-bred force, but he melted in small, devastating ways when you were gentle with him. You loved having access to that. You loved that he gave it to you without making you fight for it.

He turned you gently by the waist, and you let him. His mouth found yours, warm and unhurried, and the room seemed to pull itself inward around the kiss. The open window, the fading birds, the old blue walls, the distant voices below - all of it became background to the slow press of his lips, the heat of his hands, the clean scent of soap on his skin.

You meant to keep it light. You really did. You meant to give him one sweet thing and then step away, finish your hair, put on dinner clothes, and walk downstairs like a sensible woman with a mother who noticed everything and a grandmother who thought furniture commentary was a social service.

Logan ruined that by kissing you like he had been waiting through every mile of the flight, every sibling insult, every crate moved, every flower watered, every minute of sitting across the kitchen from you while you were bright and bossy and loved by everyone in sight.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb under your chin. The other slid to the small of your back and pulled you in until your body met his, soft cotton against bare chest, your damp hair cold where it brushed his arm.  He kissed you deep and slow, like he had nowhere to be, like the house below was not full of relatives with opinions, like dinner was not sitting at the end of the evening waiting to expose every flush and swollen mouth.

You made a small sound before you could stop it.

He smiled against you, “Already?”

“Shut up.”

“Walls are thin.”

“I will actually hit you.”

“With what? Your moisturised hands?”

You bit his lower lip. The smile disappeared, instead he made a quiet sound in his throat, the one he usually tried to hide because you had once told him you liked it and he had never recovered. You kissed it out of him again, softer this time, fingers sliding into his hair, nails grazing lightly over his scalp until his hand flexed at your back.

“Cherry,” he said, and your name came out lower than before.

“Hm?”

He walked you backwards in response, careful despite the way his mouth moved against yours, one hand at your hip and the other spread warm between your shoulder blades. The backs of your knees touched the bed, and you both froze at the same time.

The brass frame gave the tiniest, most traitorous creak.

Logan looked down. You looked up. For one long second, neither of you breathed.

Then you whispered, “Nana warned you.”

“She warned both of us.”

“She was discussing furniture.”

“She was forecasting.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but Logan’s hands tightened at your waist, and the laughter changed into something softer when he lowered you onto the quilt with almost exaggerated care. The bed still made a sound, because it was old, opinionated, and clearly related to your family by temperament.

Logan froze again above you.

You stared at the ceiling, “We are never surviving this week.”

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his laugh quiet and hot against your skin, “We haven’t started it.”

“Exactly.”

He lifted his head and looked at you then. Really looked. The amusement faded at the edges, replaced by that focused heat that made the room feel smaller than it was. His fingers found the hem of your nightdress and stopped there, waiting. You nodded once.

He lifted the fabric slowly, not rushed, dragging it up your thighs, over your hips, his knuckles brushing bare skin as he went. His mouth followed lower, kissing the inside of your knee, then the soft place above it, then higher until your breath caught. One of his hands stayed on your thigh, thumb moving in firm little strokes that made you press your lips together. The other hand held the cotton gathered at your waist, keeping you open to him while his eyes lifted to your face.

“Quiet,” he murmured.

“You first.”

His mouth curved. Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, and the argument left you completely. It was unfair, the way he knew you now. A year of loving each other had made him patient and confident in a way that still managed to surprise you. He did not touch you like he was guessing. His fingers slid along your skin with purpose, thumb pressing at your hip to keep you still when you tried to shift closer, mouth brushing everywhere except where you needed him most because he knew exactly how quickly you got impatient and exactly how much he liked making you admit it.

“Logan,” you breathed.

His eyes flicked up, “Hm?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His smile was soft for half a second.

Then he pressed his mouth over your underwear, and your hand flew to your own lips before the sound could escape properly. The bed creaked. Both of you froze, waiting for a knock or amused shout of your names, but below, someone laughed, a door shut, footsteps moved somewhere in the hall and faded again; nobody called for you.

Logan’s fingers tightened around your thigh. You looked down at him, heart beating too hard, heat pooling low and unbearable. He looked back at you; you nodded.

His hand slid up, slow enough to make you tremble, and hooked into the waistband of your underwear. He drew the fabric down one leg, then the other, watching the way your body lifted for him despite the need to be quiet. There was something obscene about how careful he was. How tender. How completely undone his face looked while he touched you like you were something he knew and still could not quite believe he got to have.

He kissed your hip once. Then his fingers found you; in response you bit the side of your hand.

His touch was slow at first, two fingers sliding through the wet heat of you, spreading it with a patience that made your thighs tighten around his shoulders. He watched your face as he circled your clit with the pad of his thumb, light once, then firmer, then again in that steady rhythm that made your eyes flutter shut. His other hand pressed your thigh down against the quilt, holding you open when your hips tried to chase the movement.

“Baby,” he whispered, “Look at me.”

You did. His fingers dipped lower, teasing, then pressed inside you with a slow curl that made your whole body arch. The bed complained beneath you.

His hand came up over your mouth immediately. The room narrowed. His palm covered your mouth, warm and steady, and your eyes fluttered because the gesture was so familiar, he watched you, checking, always checking, and you nodded once against his hand. More than that, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and kept him there.

His jaw tightened, “Oh, you like that,” he whispered.

You made a sound into his palm that was supposed to be an insult and failed.

“I know,” his thumb brushed your cheek once, sweet enough to make your chest ache, “I know, baby.”

His fingers curled again, slow and deliberate, pressing into that place that made your thoughts scatter. His thumb moved in tight, careful circles, never losing rhythm even when your hips jerked against his hand. You grabbed at his shoulder, then his back, nails dragging over warm skin until he sucked in a breath of his own. His palm muffled you, but not enough. Not with the bed, not with the house, not with the way he was looking at you like the old blue room and every person below it had become background noise to the problem of making you fall apart quietly.

You tried. You really did, but the next sound broke through his fingers.

He stilled, eyes flicking toward the door. Footsteps passed in the hall.

Your heart slammed so hard you could feel it under his hand.

The footsteps faded.

Logan looked back at you, and there was something wicked under the caution now, “Need something better?” he murmured.

Your thighs tightened around his hips. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth beneath his hand, then to where your underwear had been pushed down one thigh and abandoned in the rush of his touch. He looked back at you.

“Okay?” he asked, so low the word barely had sound.

You nodded.

His hand left your mouth. The air felt cold where it had been. He reached down, took the underwear from where it had caught against your knee, and lifted it between you. For one heartbeat, you stared at him, eyes wide and hot, because there was something filthy about the tenderness of his face while he did it, something that made your stomach flip harder than if he had been rough with it.

He kissed you once, soft enough to make your chest ache, then pressed the fabric to your mouth.

“Bite down,” he whispered.

You did.

Logan looked like a man watching his own good sense leave the room, “Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

Then his mouth was on you.

You arched so sharply the bed complained beneath you, but the sound that tore up your throat disappeared into cotton. Logan’s hands locked around your thighs, spreading you open with the ease of someone who knew exactly how you liked to be held. He kept you where he wanted you and worked you apart with his tongue while you twisted against the quilt, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the bedsheet hard enough to wrinkle it beyond repair.

The world outside the room went hazy. The voices below became meaningless. The open window let in evening air and the last distant call of some bird retreating into the trees, and all you could feel was Logan’s mouth, Logan’s hands, Logan’s shoulders under your knees, the slow, molten drag of pleasure building so deep and heavy you forgot to be embarrassed by how desperately you were holding him there.

He took his time because he could. Because he had spent all afternoon watching you be bright and bossy and useful, and now he had you on the old brass bed, biting down on your own underwear while he licked you like the week had already given him something to prove.

Your orgasm came with your whole body pulling tight beneath him, thighs shaking around his head, your fingers twisting in his hair as the cotton muffled the broken sound of his name. Worked you through it with careful little touches of his tongue until you were trembling and pushing weakly at his shoulder.

Only then did he lift his head. His mouth was wet, eyes dark.

He looked at you like you were the problem and the reward.

You pulled the cotton from your mouth and tried to breathe, “You are evil.”

His smile was small, “You started it.”

“I took a shower.”

“You wore that.”

“It is a nightdress.”

“It is attempted murder.”

You laughed, and the laugh broke when he crawled back over you and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his mouth. It should have been too much. It was. You kissed him anyway, fingers dragging down his bare back, legs wrapping around his waist as he settled between them.

The bed creaked again. You both froze.

Then Logan sighed into your mouth as he pushed down his boxers with one hand, “I hate this bed.”

He sat up on his haunches, hair wild and eyes bright as he scanned the bedside table for his wallet- with greedy fingers he rooted around in the tight pockets, his body bent over yours at an angle that would've made you laugh if your mind hadn't softened to melted butter. Instead, you peppered kisses along his ribs that tensed as his breath hitched and his forgotten hand at your waist came up to drag his blunt nails against your scalp placatingly- he victoriously held up the small golden wrapper and readjusted over you.

You plucked the condom from his fingers, tore it open with your teeth and slinked your hands between the two of you- kissing him slowly when he moaned softly at the feeling of your fingers rolling the latex over him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and waited for him.

This time, when he moved, he did it slowly. One hand braced near your head, the other at your hip, fingers spread wide over the soft cotton still gathered around your waist. You watched him through half-lidded eyes as he lined himself up, breath catching when the blunt heat of him pressed against you.

He paused, “Okay?” he asked.

Your heart squeezed, “Yes,” you whispered.

He pushed in slowly, and your eyes closed at the stretch, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He went still halfway, forehead dropping near yours, breath rough and uneven. You could feel the restraint in him, the way his body wanted more than the room would allow, the way his hand tightened at your hip as if holding you still might help him hold himself together.

“Logan.”

“I know,” His voice was rough, “I know.”

He sank the rest of the way in with one slow roll of his hips, and you had to press your mouth to his shoulder to keep quiet.

“There,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Fuck.”

You clenched around him because he sounded ruined, and he immediately closed his eyes like he had been punished.

“Cherry.”

“What?”

“Don’t.”

You smiled against his skin, “Don’t what?”

His eyes opened, narrowed and hot, “You know what.”

You did it again. His hand came up over your mouth. You laughed once into his palm, breathless and nearly silent, and his expression cracked, affection pushing through the heat so hard it almost made you worse.

“You’re a nightmare,” he whispered.

“You love me.”

“I really do.”

Then he started moving. Slowly at first, because the bed was old and the walls were thin and neither of you were brave enough to test every warning Nana had given you in front of half the bloodline. But slow did not make it less. It made it deeper. Worse. Every careful thrust pressed the breath out of you. Every controlled roll of his hips made your thighs tighten around him. His hand stayed over your mouth, thumb stroking your cheek like an apology while his body did everything else like a confession.

You dragged your nails down his back. He buried his face in your neck to catch his own groan.

The bed gave another small creak. You both went still again, but he did not stop moving his hand. His fingers found your clit between you, slick and precise, circling in time with the shallow movements of his hips. The contrast of it, the absolute stillness of his body over yours while his fingers kept working, nearly ended you right there.

“Logan,” you breathed into his palm.

“I’ve got you,” his voice was barely there, “Quiet, baby.”

The next orgasm came slower, rolling through you in waves that made your back arch and your mouth open silently against his hand. He watched you the whole time, jaw clenched, eyes burning, his fingers slowing only when your body went loose beneath him.

By the time he came, it was with his face buried against your shoulder and your fingers in his hair, your leg hooked high around his waist, your mouth at his ear telling him softly, sweetly, that he was good, that you loved him, that you had him. He shuddered through it like the words were another kind of touch, his body heavy and warm over yours, the old bed finally quiet beneath you as if even the furniture had been subdued by exhaustion.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The room had dimmed. The blue walls had gone shadowy, the window framing the first darker line of evening beyond the garden. Somewhere outside, someone started laughing again. Somewhere downstairs, a dish clattered. Life had continued without you. Dinner was still approaching. Cowboy Week was still waiting with its schedules and horses and relatives and inevitable humiliations.

Logan lifted his head and looked at you, hair a mess, mouth soft, expression open in a way that made your chest hurt.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, then touched his cheek, “Very.”

“Good.”

“You?”

His smile was small, “Very.”

You kissed him once, gentle. Then you glanced toward the clock on the bedside table and gasped, “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“We have to get ready.”

He dropped his face to your shoulder, “No.”

“Yes.”

“Dinner can start without us.”

“No, it cannot, because my mother will know.”

“Your mother knows everything anyway.”

“That is not comforting.”

He rolled off you with a groan, and the bed creaked so loudly you both turned to stare at it.

From the hallway, Sarah’s voice floated past, bright and merciless, “Blue room treating you okay?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth. Logan stared at the ceiling like he was considering a new identity.

Hugh’s voice followed from farther down the hall, “Structural integrity still holding?”

Your father, distant but unmistakable, “Hugh.”

Nana, somewhere below, called, “It is an old bed!”

You buried your face in Logan’s chest and shook with laughter so hard you nearly cried.

Dinner, when you finally made it downstairs, had spread beyond the formal dining room and onto the lawn like the house had accepted defeat.

The tables had been set beneath the trees near the main house, long and crowded and glowing beneath strands of lights not yet needed but already beautiful. The linens were simple, the flowers bright, the plates mismatched in a way that had clearly taken effort to make look effortless. Pitchers of tea and lemonade sat alongside bottles of wine from Mama’s side. Baskets of bread, bowls of peaches and tomatoes, platters of grilled vegetables, smoked meat, salads, fruit, butter, honey, and things Logan did not know the names of but immediately wanted to eat covered the tables.

People moved around laughing, calling names, finding seats, swapping seats, ignoring assigned seats, being forced back to assigned seats by Nana, who had apparently decided Sarah’s printed schedules were lovely but seating was a moral issue.

Grandad sat at one end of the main table, already arguing with one of his brothers about a horse from 1987. Nana sat near the centre, because she liked to see everyone. Mama was pouring wine for an aunt from California. Daddy stood behind her chair, hand resting briefly on her shoulder before moving away to help one of the younger cousins with a stuck chair leg. Jordan and Maddie sat close enough that their knees touched under the table, speaking quietly in that steady language of people who did not need to perform affection for it to be obvious. Hugh had somehow ended up between two women who were both laughing at something he said, which was entirely predictable and deeply irritating.

Sarah waved you over, then immediately frowned, “Why is your hair wet?”

You sat down across from her, “I showered.”

“So did I, but I used a blow dryer because I respect dinner.”

“You forgot printed schedules.”

“I will not be silenced by administrative violence.”

Logan slid into the seat beside you, still slightly damp at the edges and looking composed enough that only you could tell he was not. Hugh leaned forward from several seats down, eyes narrowing.

You stared back.

He looked at Logan. Then at you. Then he smiled.

You pointed a fork at him, “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You thought it loudly.”

Logan coughed.

Hugh looked delighted, “Oh, he’s learning your lines now. That’s disgusting.”

Sarah gasped, “Wait, what did I miss?”

“Nothing,” you and Logan said together.

Hugh laughed so hard Nana told him to behave.

Dinner began in the usual family way, which meant there was no clear beginning at all. People simply started passing plates, filling glasses, tearing bread, reaching across each other, scolding children, correcting stories, restarting old arguments with obvious pleasure. 

Logan was handed food from three directions before he had even unfolded his napkin. Nana made sure he took seconds of something he had not yet finished firsts of. Daddy asked him about training. Grandad asked if he had ever ridden western. Hugh answered for him and was immediately told by you to stop narrating other people’s lives.

The sky turned deeper gold. Then orange, then a soft, bruised pink near the horizon.

Cricket fell asleep against her mother’s lap clutching Logan’s puck.

You saw him notice. His face softened so openly that you had to look down at your plate for a second.

Under the table, his hand found your knee. You looked over at him.

He was watching Grandad explain something to Sarah about barrel turns, nodding like he understood half of it and cared anyway. The side of his face was lit by sunset. His hair had started to curl slightly at the ends. His boots were wrong, apparently, and he had no cowboy hat, and Hugh would never let him know peace, and tomorrow morning he was almost certainly going to discover muscles he had not used even in hockey.

But he was here. His thumb moved once over your knee.

You leaned closer, “You okay?”

He looked down at you, and the expression on his face made the noise around you dim for one dangerous second.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m good.”

“You sure? Cowboy Week technically hasn’t started yet.”

“I’m starting to understand that.”

“You can still run.”

He smiled, “Airport’s far.”

“Hugh would drive you for the drama.”

“Sarah would film it.”

“Jordan would judge your form.”

“Maddie would pack snacks.”

“Nana would make me eat first,” he said.

You laughed. His smile warmed, “I’m not running.”

The words were simple yet they landed anyway.

You slipped your hand under the table and threaded your fingers through his.

Across the lawn, someone lit the first lantern. Then another. The table glowed. The horses shifted in the distance. The first cicadas started up in the trees. Around you, your family kept talking, laughing, eating, arguing, living loudly beneath the Texas sky.

At the head of the table, Grandad lifted his glass and tapped it once. The noise slowly settled. “Before we start the week,” he said, though from Logan’s expression you knew he was thinking the same thing you were, which was- what the hell was today if not starting, “I’ll say what I say every year.”

Nana muttered, “And every year it gets longer.”

Grandad ignored her with the ease of fifty years of practice, “This land has held a lot of us. Some of us worked harder than we liked. Taught some of us more than we wanted. Brought some of us back when we needed it.”

The table quieted properly. You felt Logan’s hand tighten around yours.

“It’s not just horses,” Grandad said, “Not just work. Not just food and games and making fools of ourselves on that damn bull Hugh keeps insisting is tradition.”

“It is tradition,” Hugh said.

“It is a lawsuit,” Nana replied.

Laughter moved through the table. Grandad smiled, then lifted his glass a little higher, “It’s remembering. That’s all. Remembering where things started. Remembering who taught us. Remembering that family gets bigger, stranger, louder, and more impossible every year, and somehow we keep setting more plates.”

His eyes moved around the table. They paused, briefly, on Logan. Then Grandad looked back at Nana, and his voice softened, “And somehow, thank God, there’s always room.”

Your throat tightened. Nana looked away first, pretending to adjust her napkin.

Everyone raised a glass.

“To Cowboy Week,” Grandad said.

“To Cowboy Week,” the family echoed.

Logan lifted his glass with them.

You watched him do it. Watched the sunset catch on his face, watched your family’s light spill over his shoulders, watched the exact moment he understood that this was not just a visit. Beside you, Logan squeezed your hand once beneath the table. And you knew, with a sudden and ridiculous certainty, that by the time the week was over, there would be dust on his boots, sun on his neck, family jokes at his expense, a toddler with his hockey puck, and some new piece of him tucked into the land the way he had already tucked himself into everything else.

Cowboy Week had not even started.

But Logan was already in it.

And, God help him, he was not running.

[ifslothscouldfly]

You Just Sit There?

Garrett Graham x female reader

Summary: Garrett says the dumbest thing to his equestrian girlfriend.

Warnings: none just shit writing

—————————————————————————-

Garrett Graham was sprawled across the couch in the hockey house living room, one arm hanging over the side while half the team argued over an Xbox game.

Dean was yelling that Tucker was button-mashing.

Tucker insisted the game was cheating.

Logan was eating dry cereal straight from the box without looking away from the TV.

Someone had left hockey tape on the coffee table, there were three protein shakers on the kitchen island that no one claimed ownership of, and rock music drifted faintly from an upstairs bedroom.

In other words, a completely normal Saturday at the hockey house.

From the top of the stairs, Garrett's girlfriend came down carrying her barn bag over one shoulder. She already had on tan breeches, a fitted light blue quarter zip, tall riding socks, and her short hair haphazardly thrown into a nub for a bun. The only thing missing were her boots, which she left at the barn in her tack locker.

Dean looked her up and down.

"Damn."

She raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You horse people really dress like you're about to invade the English colonies."

She rolled her eyes.

"They're called riding clothes."

"They're expensive leggings."

"They're breeches."

"They're leggings with branding."

She laughed despite herself, throwing the nearby hockey tape at Dean’s head in retaliation, missing by miles.

"I'll see you idiots later."

Garrett glanced up from the couch.

"Heading to the barn?"

"Mhm."

"Jumping today?"

"If Lenka behaves."

Dean snorted.

"So... fifty-fifty?"

She smiled.

"Exactly."

Logan leaned over the back of the couch with wide brown eyes similar to a confused puppy.

"Genuine question."

She sighed, pausing at the door with her car keys in hand.

"Here we go."

"Is horseback riding actually hard?"

Before she could answer, Garrett laughed.

"No."

Every head turned toward him.

"I mean... you just sit there, right?"

The room falls silent, the only noise being the paused Xbox game on the TV.

Dean slowly set his controller down.

"Oh..."

Logan looked away and covered his face to hide his laughter from his confused teammates face.

"Tucker," Logan whispered, "he is going to die, do you think I’ll end up Captain?”

"What?" Garrett asked.

His girlfriend stared at him for several long seconds.

Then she smiled.

Not lovingly.

Not sweetly.

Dangerously.

"Oh, Garrett. You sweet summer child."

"What?"

"You really think that's all riding is?"

"Well..." He shrugged again, suddenly feeling as though he just stepped into a trap. "From the outside?"

"Kinda."

She nodded thoughtfully, humming lowly.

"Okay."

"...Okay?" Garrett contemplated what his obituary would say as she stared him down with a slowly growing cat like smile.

"Come with me."

"What?"

"To the barn."

Garrett laughed.

"Why?"

"So you can find out for yourself, silly.”

Dean burst into laughter.

"Oh, you idiot."

Logan reached for his phone.

"I'm canceling my plans."

"Why?"

"So I can witness your downfall."

Tucker leaned over the couch.

"If anyone asks if you've ridden before..."

Garrett looked over.

"...Yeah?"

"Lie."

-———————————————

The drive to the barn consisted almost entirely of Garrett explaining why he was convinced he'd be naturally talented.

"I play hockey."

"You do."

"I have balance."

"Mhm."

"I'm athletic."

"Very."

"I squat, like, four hundred pounds."

"I'm aware. Are you going to get to the point?”

"So obviously… I'll be fine."

She smiled at the road.

"I think you'll survive."

"So you admit, I'll be good."

"I absolutely did not say that."

-————————————————

The hunter-jumper barn sat on several acres just outside town, surrounded by white board fencing and rolling green paddocks where horses grazed lazily beneath the summer sun.

The moment Garrett stepped out of his girlfriends Mazda, the smell hit him.

Fresh hay.

Leather.

Clean shavings.

Horses.

It was an oddly comforting scent, one in which he had never experienced being a self proclaimed city boy.

Several horses and ponies lifted their heads from the grass as they walked toward the main main barn. Swallows darted in and out of the rafters, barn cats lounged on sunny fence posts, and somewhere in the distance someone was laughing as a pony emphatically refused to walk through a puddle with his rider.

"This place is huge."

"I think there’s about 25 horses on property right now."

"...25?"

"Give or take."

Inside, the barn was humming with activity.

A teenager pushed a wheelbarrow piled high with dirty bedding toward the manure pile.

Someone was sweeping the aisle.

Parents leaned against the viewing room windows with coffee cups in hand while watching lessons in the indoor arena. Seemingly unbothered by the constant commotion of kids laughing and horses nickering at one another.

A working student hurried past carrying three bridles over one shoulder and a bucket balanced effortlessly in her other hand.

A pony escaped one cross ties before being intercepted by a twelve-year-old without anyone seeming particularly concerned.

Two girls debated hoof polish with the seriousness of Supreme Court justices.

Garrett blinked.

“This is…”

He searched for the right word.

"...organized chaos."

His girlfriend smiled looking on fondly, seeming to immediately relax into the atmosphere.

"This is actually pretty quiet."

-————————————————

Before they had gone more than twenty feet, a little girl with two missing front teeth marched confidently up to Garrett.

She couldn't have been older than seven. Her paddock boots half zipped and her hair a rats nest.

She planted her hands on her hips.

"You're really tall."

Garrett smiled, unsure what was coming next.

"Thanks."

"Do you play basketball?"

"Hockey."

She nodded once.

"Cool."

Then she looked down.

"Why are you wearing jeans?"

Garrett glanced at himself.

"...Because they're pants?"

She looked horrified.

"You can't ride in jeans."

Before he could respond, another child , this one around ten , appeared beside her.

"Are you Miss Y/N boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

The boy nodded thoughtfully.

"She's really cool.”

"I know."

"Don't make her mad."

Garrett looked toward his girlfriend who was helping one of the working students re-wrap a standing bandage on a fat chestnut pony.

"...Little late for that."

"What'd you do?"

"I said riding looked easy."

Both children physically winced.

"Oof," the girl said.

"Dude," the boy added sympathetically while looking at him with eyes filled with judgment.

Garrett blinked.

"...Did I just get judged by elementary schoolers?"

A teenager walking past overheard.

"Yep."

Without even slowing down she added,

"Good luck."

-———————————————————————

His girlfriend disappeared into her own horse, Lenka's stall.

A moment later the big warmblood emerged beside her.

Conversation throughout the aisle softened almost instinctively.

Lenka was impossible to ignore.

Her dark bay coat gleamed like polished mahogany beneath the barn lights. Every muscle shifted beneath her skin as she walked, elegant and powerful without trying. She carried herself with quiet confidence, ears flicking curiously toward the people around her.

Several of the lesson program kids smiled the moment they saw her.

"Lenka!"

"I love her!"

"She's so pretty today!"

Garrett looked surprised at the children gushing over the large animal blinking lazily in the crossties, her back hoof relaxing as she settles.

"Your horse has fans?"

"She's been here a long time. Plus people always remember your horse and not you.”

As if on cue, a little girl wearing tiny tan breeches and pigtails came skipping over carrying a peppermint.

"Miss. Y/N, can I do her stretches today?"

His girlfriend smiled immediately and he couldn’t help but watch her in her own element.

"Of course. Flat hand please."

Garrett frowned as the child wandered over to the wall of muscle.

"...Her what?"

The little girl carefully offered Lenka the peppermint first.

The mare accepted it with exaggerated delicacy before lowering her enormous head.

"Good girl," the child whispered.

Then, with obvious practice, she gently encouraged Lenka to bend her neck around toward one shoulder.

"One..."

Lenka held the stretch patiently.

"Two..."

Then to the other side.

After that, the little girl encouraged Lenka to reach between her front knees before stretching toward each front hoof, rewarding every stretch with another tiny piece of peppermint.

Garrett watched in fascination.

"...What is she doing?"

"Carrot stretches."

"Except..."

"Peppermint stretches today."

"They help keep her neck and back flexible before work. My best girl is almost 15 and she deserves all the care.”

The little girl looked up proudly.

"Lenka likes doing them."

Lenka immediately huffed in the girl's face hoping to be presented with another peppermint for her efforts.

The child giggled.

"You already had four."

Garrett stared.

"She trusts a seven-year-old enough to put her entire head wherever she's asked."

His girlfriend smiled.

"Lenka knows when she is dealing with the kids."

"Why?"

"Because a lot of these kids have been helping to take care of her while I’ve been focused on school. I sometimes let our trainer use her in beginner kids lessons because she seems to enjoy it.”

"Wait. You’re telling me this horse teaches beginners?"

"When she's not showing."

Garrett looked at the giant warmblood in disbelief, Lenka staring back with a huff.

"The same horse that you said jumps a meter 1.30 fences?"

"The very same."

The little girl finished the final stretch before wrapping both arms around Lenka's face in a hug.

The mare closed her eyes.

Garrett felt something in his chest soften.

"I thought you said she was feisty."

"Oh, she is."

Almost as if on cue, another horse was lead past Lenka’s spot in the crossties.

Lenka flattened both ears dramatically toward the horse while snaking her head with irritation before immediately relaxing again as the little girl scratched her forehead.

"She's opinionated," his girlfriend corrected.

---

The same little girl looked up at Garrett with complete seriousness.

"Are you riding Lenka?"

"Apparently."

She considered this, pushing her lips together and narrowing her eyes up at him.

"For your first lesson?"

"Yeah."

She nodded solemnly.

"Don't bounce."

Garrett frowned. That didn’t sound ominous or anything.

"...Thanks?"

She grinned and skipped away before explaining further. Clearly done with the conversation in favor of her own spotted gray pony.

His girlfriend bit her lip, turning away to hide her smile.

"Oh..."

"What?"

"You'll understand later."

Another child yelled from farther down the aisle,

"Don't pull on her mouth!"

"And keep your heels down!" someone else added.

A working student carrying a stack of saddle pads laughed.

"They've adopted you."

Garrett looked around at the half-dozen children openly watching him like a science experiment. Patiently waiting to watch him lose all of his dignity in the ring. He would actually prefer to get slammed into the boards at a game than be judged by a group of barn rats.

"They're feral….."

His girlfriend grinned, leaning in and giving him a slow kiss on the lips before settling back to look at his face.

"Completely."

[downbadwellread]

𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 ⚭ dean di laurentis (series)

⊹ ⠀───────────────⠀ ⊹

playing · espresso by sabrina carpenter

pairing · dean di laurentis × fem!reader ("sunny") fandom · off campus format · series · seven parts · ongoing word count · ~34k

⊹ ⠀───────────────⠀ ⊹

𝐈. ⊹ the premise

for five years, "sunny" has turned dean di laurentis down with the dedication of an olympic athlete. (sunny's a nickname, by the way. no one's used her real name since she was a toddler.) it's their thing. he says something outrageous, she shuts him down, nobody gets hurt. she's gotten very good at making sure they're never alone together.

then her best friend gets engaged, the whole group flies to vegas, and somewhere between the second bottle of tequila and an elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit, she wakes up married to him. gold band, gaudy pawn-shop diamond, and absolutely no memory of how.

it's fine. they'll fix it quietly. nobody ever has to know.

she just has to keep the secret and survive dean di laurentis calling her his wife.

⊹ ⠀───────────────⠀ ⊹

𝐈𝐈. ⊹ warnings

explicit 18+ · MDNI · strong language · drinking · a blackout-drunk wedding · so much bickering · idiots in love

minors do not interact.

⊹ ⠀───────────────⠀ ⊹

𝐈𝐈𝐈. ⊹ chapters

⚭ i. feather ⚭ ii. bags ⚭ iii. waking up in vegas ⚭ iv. bad idea right? ⚭ v. the archer ⚭ vi. good luck, babe! ⚭ vii. lover

⊹ ⠀───────────────⠀ ⊹

i am so excited to share this one with you. i hope you love them as much as i do ♡

let me know what you think, i love hearing from you ♡

[harryspet]

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 (3) g.graham

pairing: Dark!Garrett Graham x Reader

synopsis: Garrett solves your roommate problem for you, but even though he gets you closer to him, you start to wonder how far he's willing to go to keep you there.

warnings: soft!dark!garrett, possessiveness, overprotectiveness, controlling relationship dynamic, innocent reader, shower spicy scene, choking, dub/con 18+ PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

word count: 3.4k

off campus masterlist

As soon as the bus got back to Briar, the next morning, Garrett Graham started his mission. Last night, he’d decided you and Paige were done. He was confident he knew what was best for you in this situation. You could’ve gotten hurt last night over Paige’s petty bullshit. It baffled him, especially now that he’d gotten to know you. He wouldn’t be exaggerating to say you’d never even hurt a fly. 

He’d barely slept last night; he didn’t even close his eyes until your location showed that you’d made it to the hockey house with Jules. 

Garrett knew he couldn’t hurt Paige; that was a line he’d never imagine crossing, but her boyfriend was free game. So when he and Dean knocked on yours and Paige’s apartment door that morning, still clad in their tracksuits, and a shirtless Ethan opened the door, Garrett wasted no time. 

Pushing at his chest, Garrett pulls Ethan deeper into the apartment. Ethan’s smile fades quickly before the confusion surfaces on his features. Dean locks the door behind them. “What’s going on? Y/N’s not here.” 

Garrett had every intention of maintaining his composure enough to make a clear threat, but he finds his blood is already boiling, and his breathing is erratic. “She’s not. She’s safe. No thanks to your fucking girlfriend.” 

The three men crowd in the living room or Y/N’s makeshift bedroom. Garrett pushes him, hard, and Ethan stumbles until he falls into the blinds of the far window. “What the fuck?” 

Paige appears from the bedroom, but Dean is already blocking her from intervening. 

"Whoa. Stay back."

 “Dean?” She asks, flabbergasted, “Garrett? Stop! What are you doing?” 

Garrett sees read. Ethan charges back at him in an attempt to defend himself. Garrett stumbles, but gains his bearings quickly before grabbing Ethan by his shirt and forcing him down. The coffee table rattles at the impact. Then Garrett’s fists start to fly, each blow serving as retaliation for all the harm Paige caused you. All he could imagine was you sitting alone on those steps last night. How broken you must’ve felt.  

Bruising his own fists, Garrett leaves him with a black eye, a bruised nose, and a busted lip. Only stopping when Dean grabs him and lifts him off of the older guy. “Okay, buddy, that’s enough.” He feels frustrated, initially, but the entire reason he brought Dean was to prevent overkill. And as another voice to convince Paige to back down and stay down.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but Garrett feels satisfaction when Paige kneels to expect her boyfriend’s injuries. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She shouts, and it’s completely rich coming from her.

“What’s wrong with me? You left her stranded last night.”

Paige’s lips part, hands running nervously through her red hair, “I ….I totally forgot. It was an accident —”

“Bullshit,” Garret cursed, “You forgot? You forgot the girl you’ve been using for money, your maid, as your fucking pet you drag around.”

“Y/N is one of my best friends!”

“And how did your best friend end up all alone last night while you ignored every single one of her calls?”

Paige doesn’t answer. 

“Not anymore. The two of you are done. She’s not living here anymore. We’re taking her shit, and you’re not gonna call her or text her ever again.”

“Are you serious?” Paige asks, incredulous, “You can’t make that decision for her.”

“Fucking watching me, “ Garrett only continues, his voice rising as he grows more furious, “If you see her on campus, you’re gonna walk the other way, or you’re not gonna like what I do next. Do you understand that?”

“Dean?” As a last-ditch effort, she looks to Dean for some kind of validation: “You know this is crazy, right?”

“I would drop it if I were you. Be smart, Paige. You don’t want this to become a bigger conversation.” 

Her relationship with Dean had overlapped with her and Ethan’s on multiple occasions. Ethan’s not able to pick up on the implied threat because of the massive headache Garrett’s given him, but Paige catches his meaning quickly.

"Dean," she says again, quieter this time.

"Drop it."

With a huff, she returned to tending Ethan, shaking his shoulders in an attempt to get him to focus.

Garrett gives Dean an impressed look. “We gonna grab Bunny’s stuff or what?” Dean asks, chin tilting towards the hallway closet. 

“Yeah.” 

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. 

The process should take longer, but naturally, not having a real room means you can’t have many belongings. He almost didn’t believe it when you’d told him she’d turned the coat closet into your personal one. Now he could visualize the handful of hangers, your backpack tucked into the corner, and the storage bins stacked with trinkets that you had no room to display. 

You’d smiled when you explained that arrangement. 

Garrett’s jaw clenches at the thought. 

You jolt up from your spot on Garrett’s bed when he shoves his bedroom door open. 

“Shit, I thought you’d be awake.”

You’d been curled up on top of his comforter, still in your clothes from last night. “No, no, I’m awake.” You rush out, looking him over, blue tracksuit and all. His forehead is slightly sweaty, and his breath is heavy. He was an all-star athlete, which ruled out the possibility that he was winded from walking up the stairs. You noticed your quilted, cotton duffle bag that you often used as your overnight bag in his hands. 

There’s a question on your lips, but you push it down. Garrett sets down your bag near the edge of the bed before he comes closer, sitting down beside you on his bed. 

“Are you okay?” He grabs you by your chin as his face leans closer. He tilts your head to each side to inspect you. You're sure your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep, but there was no reason you’d be bruised. No one bothered you at the restaurant, and Jules came to get you as soon as they could. It was the early hours of the morning by the time you’d made it back, but you were fine, thanks to Garrett. 

“I’m fine. Thank you…for last night,” You say quietly, sincerely, because you’re mostly just embarrassed at this point that last night even happened. He tilts your chin up, and his eyes search yours before he presses a soft kiss to your lips. You’re not sure when you’ll get used to that. 

“I just want you to be safe,” Garrett says against your lips, his hand moving from your chin to your arm and then down towards your waist. “You know how you agreed that you would let me take care of you?”

Your heartbeat quickens at the thought of that promise and that moment you shared in his car. “Yes.”

“Last night was a prime example of why I want you to rely on me. To trust me.”

With him this close, you see every emotion swirling in his eyes. He’s deadly serious. “I-I do trust you. I promise.” 

“Trust would be calling me as soon as you knew something was wrong.”

Your throat hurts. You didn’t think you had any tears left to cry, but you feel them threatening to fall again. “I didn’t I-I…I thought she would come.” Your voice cracks, “I’m sorry.”

Garrett’s lips press into a thin line of frustration. You wait desperately for him to say it’s okay, to relieve you of this feeling of impending doom. You don’t think you can take it if he’s mad at you. It’s already killing you to think about Paige and what a disaster your relationship is turning out to be.

Besides her, Garrett was the only friend you had here. “You promised me you would let me take care of you.”

Your stomach hurts. 

“I will,” You assure him, nodding your head.  “I want you to.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I want you to take care of me.”

"You need me?"

"I need you."

Garrett seals your promise with another kiss. That sinking feeling fades as you melt into Garrett’s arms. He pulls you into his lap, squeezing your body against his, and there’s a long moment where he’s petting your hair as you rest your head on his shoulder. You feel better like this. Your heart doesn’t hurt as much. 

For the first time, you consider a future that doesn’t revolve around work and school. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to care about something–someone else. You’d always done everything yourself. It might not be so bad to rely on someone else. 

As if he could sense where your mind was wandering. “You don’t have to worry about any of it anymore.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, your voice small, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. 

“We got all your stuff from your apartment. All of it’s in the spare bedroom now. A real bedroom.”

Your body stiffens as you lift your head from his shoulders. “What? Did Paige see you?”

“Paige isn’t going to do anything, Bunny.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t …it wouldn’t be fair–” The panic starts to build again. You meet his eyes, and they’re swirling again. His grip on you tightens, and you understand that there’s a fine line between this side of him and something beneath the surface. “Was she mad?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Garrett shakes his head, jaw flexing. “You’re not giving her any more money. You will sleep in a real bed, and you won’t ask her for anything ever again. Fuck her. Do you understand?”

You don’t let yourself fully comprehend the full weight of his words and decide to take the path of least resistance. “Yes, Garrett.”

“Good. I smell like a bus. Let’s shower together.”

“Together?”

“Uh huh.” Garrett pats your bottom playfully, “This is your house now.”

“I can’t stay here for free.”

“I just said you could.”

“But–” You stop yourself, now realizing the pattern. Nothing with him was a negotiation. You didn’t make your own suggestions. You followed his lead. You could worry if Garrett told you to worry. If not, then maybe it wasn’t something to freak out about. “Okay. The guys don’t mind?”

“‘Course not. They love you, Bunny.”

You wish you could believe him. Sure, everyone was nice to you. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why Garrett was interested in you and had seemingly started to focus all his attention on you. It was even harder to understand why his friends would like you. 

The events of last night and this morning, all of the new revelations made, led up to you showering with Garrett. 

The two of you stood in the upstairs bathroom, steam slowly rising from the shower as you watched Garrett peel off the clothes he'd slept in. When he turned around, his expression shifted into something resembling disappointment.

You were still fully dressed, your arms wrapped tightly around your torso, looking seconds away from curling up in the corner and crying.

“It’s a lot. All of this is a lot, Garrett.” 

Paige. 

The fact that all your things were now packed into his guestroom. 

Him. 

He approaches you, carefully, as if herding a scared animal. He shushes you. “It’s a lot,” He confirms. “Change is hard. Fall a part of you want. I’m here for you.” 

You nodded, heart heavy. “Lift your arms, baby.”

He undresses you slowly, lifting your crewneck above your head and then helping you out of your leggings. Your underwear and bra come next. You don’t meet his eyes the entire time. You focus on his chest, tan and sculpted. 

You notice his bruised knuckles for the first time.

“Your hands?”

“From the game,” He answers quickly, matter-of-fact. 

You can’t help it, an “I’m sorry” escapes from your lips as he unhooks your bra. You cover your chest with your arms as soon as your breasts are exposed to the air. 

Garret tsks at the sound of you apologizing for your appearance. “Don’t, Bunny.” 

Don’t apologize. 

Don’t cover yourself from me. 

His meaning is easy to understand. You let your arms fall back to your side, and then Garrett pulls down your underwear. He grabs your hand, wrapping your smaller one gently in his, and he guides your naked body towards the shower. You can see all of him, just like he can see all of you, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to make it through being so close to him. 

Garrett is a lot of man. The magnitude of him hadn’t fully set in until now, when there were absolutely no more secrets between the two of you. 

He lets you stand in front of him, and the majority of the shower is spent with Garrett’s hands roaming over your skin. He lathers your skin with body wash, and you do your best to accept the gentleness. If there were something he didn’t like about your body, he wouldn’t be touching you this way. He pays extra special attention to your nipples, his thumbs constantly rubbing over the peaks of your chest, hands squeezing at their fullness. 

You feel warmth spreading under your skin, especially in your center. You squeezed your lips tightly together to keep a desperate moan from escaping you. In an attempt to get your bearings, to allow yourself to think clearly, you turn around and look at Garrett for the first time since you entered the bathroom. 

He’s focused, and then you feel his hardness poking against your stomach. “I’m sorry,” You say automatically, and you cringe at yourself. 

“Don’t, Bunny,” He warns again; this time, he quiets you by placing his hands around your throat. 

Smooth and controlled, Garrett presses you against the wall, his grip tightening. 

With wide eyes, you stare back at him, but you’re not sure what version of Garret you’re seeing now. He crashes his lips against yours shortly after that. His knees between your legs, his hands keeping you pinned, he explores your mouth with his tongue. 

You’re not sure how you’re breathing at all. You feel lightheaded, but that somehow only makes his kiss feel better. 

He leaves you no room to wiggle away when he reaches between your legs. “Garrett, please,” You whimper against his lips, “I can’t–”

“I know you can,” He grunts back. “I want to see you.”

Thick fingers explore your center. He squeezes your neck whenever you try to close your eyes.

“Look at me, Bunny.”

“Good girl.” “You know what I want to see.”

He makes slow, consistent, agonizing circles over your most sensitive area. He increases his pressure when your lips part in a gasp. He reads your body so carefully that it’s as if your body reaches its crescendo as soon as he wills it. You don’t think he can choke you any harder, but you find yourself gasping for air as you let out helpless, shaking sounds. 

“Jesus, fuck, get on your knees, baby.”

You’re still shaking and breathing heavy, riding out your own wave of pleasure. Your knees are against the shower floor shortly after Garrett demands it. His fingers tangle in your hair. 

“Keep looking. Look at what you do to me, Bunny.”

There’s little work involved. All it seems to take is your face looking up at him. You watch as he touches himself, slow movements, and then rapid ones. 

“Fuck.”

Groaning, falling hard over the edge, he paints your lips and your chest. Although you’re overwhelmed by the sight of it and then the feeling, you don’t dare take your eyes away from him. 

The spare bedroom has a full-sized bed, and you find your sheets and comforter already decorating it. There’s a bay window on the furthest wall with plenty of room for all the things you might want to display. The closet is three times the size of your old one, and there’s an old wooden dresser Garrett said you could also use. The walls are bare, and there are old moving boxes in the corner, but it’s perfect. And it’s yours, which you’re not fully sure has sunk in yet.

Over the next week, Garrett helps you settle in, and the two of you step into a new routine. You ride to campus together, Garrett drives you to work when he can, and when he can’t, you usually end up with Jules or Beau. 

You see Paige outside of the College of Education building before class one day, talking with one of her friends, and as soon as you work up the courage to walk up to her, she spots you. Her face falls instantly. She turns away from you, says goodbye to her friend, and actually crosses the street. 

You’re surprised Paige hasn’t sent you an angry text yet. 

Part of you wondered what exactly Garrett had said to her. When he told her that you were moving in, was she sad? Did she try to defend your friendship? Maybe she was so pissed that she’d never talk to you again. 

Hours later, after your Literacy class, you walk out of the education building with the members of your group project. “We’re gonna study at the main library for the midterm tomorrow, Y/N, if you want to join.” Your classmate, Ben, tells you. His dark hair and sharp facial features contrast with his prescription glasses and boyish personality. 

You should ask Garrett first. “Oh, okay, I’ll let you know.”

Another one of your classmates, Sydney, adds on, “No, you should come, Y/N. We can start brainstorming ideas for lesson plans.” 

You smile politely. You had no other excuse except for Garrett, and you had a feeling they might give you a strange look if you told them you were asking Garrett Graham for permission to study with them. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“Good, it’s a plan,” She chirps. 

“If you need a ride or something, I got you,” Ben decides to add. His eyes are kind, and he seems to sense your hesitation about coming. 

“No,” You say a little too quickly, “I’ll have a ride. Um, so I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” You turn on your heels quickly, walking down a brick staircase towards the parking lot. 

Garrett’s got practice tonight, but he said he’d drop you home before he had to leave. You find his car in the front row, but he’s not inside; he’s leaning against the driver’s door. 

“Hey, Bunny.” He smiles, and you’re immediately relieved he’s in a good mood. “You look pretty.”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment: “You saw me this morning.” He was actually the one who told you to pair your white sneakers with your denim jacket. 

“And somehow you look better than before.”

Garrett grabs your chin and leans down to kiss you. The kiss is short-lived because seconds later, a male voice is calling your name. When you turn around, Ben is jogging towards the two of you. You inhale sharply and your nerves spike. 

“This is yours, right?” He approaches with his hands stretched towards you; the teddy bear keychain you’d had attached to your bag forever is in his hands. “Must’ve fallen off.”

Speechless, you reach out to accept it. You part your mouth to force out a statement of gratitude, but it never comes. 

Garrett breaks through the awkward silence, reaching out to shake Ben’s hand. “Hey, man, I’m Garrett. Y/N’s boyfriend.”

“Of course I know you. That was an insane game against Harvard, man. I’m Ben, we have a few classes together.”

“Good to meet you,” Garrett says, friendly. 

For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re going crazy. 

“Yeah, you too. You guys have a good night. See you tomorrow, Y/N.” 

“Yeah,” Is all you can manage. 

The drive back to the hockey house is too quiet. You squeeze the teddy bear charm in your hand. You’re the one who breaks the silence five minutes later. “I told some of my classmates I would come study at the library tomorrow night. We have that midterm Friday, and we also have this group project coming up.”

“Mmhm,” Garrett hums. 

“If that’s okay with you.”

“It’s school, Y/N, of course it’s okay with me.”

You let out a small breath, “Okay. I just thought … never mind.” 

“What’s his deal, though? That’s the guy who keeps offering you rides?”

“No, it’s been like two times. I think he’s just being nice.”

“Is a teddy bear that fucking precious that he needs to chase you down?”

“I don’t know. It might’ve been weirder if he held onto it … right?”

Garrett only hums in response. 

“You’ve never called yourself my boyfriend before.”

“Felt right.”

“So that means…”

“What do you think it means, Bunny?” Garrett reaches across the console, his large hand enveloping your thigh. 

“That I’m your girlfriend?”

Garrett smirks at you, “You’re everything to me, Bunny.”

yayyyy gf bunny :) reblogs and comments are much appreciated :):):):)

[puckingwonder]

MAMMA MIA (SOS)

abstract the worst possible thing that could happen, happened. or, tl;dr, you got knocked up by one of the three idiots (tucker erasure)

featuring dean di laurentis, john logan, garrett graham x fem!reader

content pregnancy, mention of morning sickness (emetophobia warning), mentions of nsfw activities, one night stands, shitty parents

There’s a foreign feeling in your stomach.

It’s distant, ancient even, but you can feel it the moment you wake in the morning. It comes up as a speedy journey to the toilet and an emptying of whatever was in your gut. Oh god.

Your mother warned you about this. What would happen if you weren’t careful. She was worried the moment the Briar acceptance letter was dropped off on her porch. On the car trip there, she spoke at you, not to you. 

‘Don’t even dare think about getting pregnant. You’re not here for fun, you’re here to learn.’

Oh, how you wished you took her advice. 

After a quick, sneaky trip to a nearby pharmacy, you had the proof in your hands. Two lines. Faint, for sure, but they were there. Your heart dropped to your ass as your vision turned bleary. Allie stared at you, and then the dipstick, and then Hannah. The brunette girl was frozen, mouth half agape, as she burnt her soft eyes into the floor. 

“What do I do?” you mumble, tears streaking down your tender cheeks. Allie wrapped her arm around your shoulder and pressed her nose into your collarbone. She stands on the tips of her toes to comfort you the best she can from where you're curled up on the bathroom counter. She lets you cry into her, patting your hair as Hannah just lingers there awkwardly. They have a muted conversation over your head. 

“Do you know who the father is?” Her voice makes you stop, sobs turning into a cruel, cold silence. Oh no.

They both read your change of character with ease. No, you don’t know, that’s the worst part. 

The last time you slept with Garrett Graham was two months ago. It was quick and mostly intoxicating. You don’t recall how it finished, or well, how he finished. You’ve always known him to be a gentleman, so maybe there’s a chance it’s not his. But then, he tends to become a different man with you. 

Dean? Maybe. You wouldn’t put it past him, the inability to pull out. He took you to a drive-in movie theatre a few weeks ago and put you through the backseat of his Jeep. He had to get the car deep cleaned a day later. 

Maybe it was John’s. Your sweet, kind John. You spent a Friday evening in his bedroom helping him study for an upcoming final. At some point he got touchy; you didn’t exactly deny him. You used protection the first time, but then he took you again in the shower. You assumed it would wash off and clog the drain again. But no, maybe he took root in your womb. 

“I—I don’t know," you blubber, all the emotion hitting at once. Allie pulls you back into her; your cheek digs into her sternum.

“It’s okay," she soothes. "We'll figure this out, okay?” The question was for you, but Hannah can’t help but nod along too. 

“Yeah, everything will be okay," she tries, but her voice wavers with uncertainty. 

Your stomach clenches. Maybe phantom, maybe real. You really don’t want to know; all you long for is a way to turn back the clock and maybe smack some sense into yourself before all of this even happened.

[lunsilun]

My Greatest Win

Beau Maxwell x Fem!reader

Summary: you and Beau cherish your pregnancy days before welcoming your baby girl in a heartfelt birth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The chaos of Briar University felt like another lifetime. Beau Maxwell once the cocky star quarterback was now an NFL starter, but some things never changed: that easy swagger, those dark brown eyes, and the way he still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Two years after graduation, you’d married him. Now, the whole Maxwell family had gathered at the countryside estate for the weekend. While his parents and sister Joanna filled the kitchen with laughter and the promise of a big family feast, you’d been gently sent outside to rest.

You lay on the wide porch swing-bed, propped up on pillows under a soft quilt, one hand resting on your rounded belly. The late afternoon sun warmed your skin, and the gentle rocking of the swing had finally calmed the little linebacker kicking inside you.

The screen door creaked. Beau stepped out in a simple white t-shirt and shorts, carrying two glasses of lemonade. He set them aside and climbed carefully onto the swing behind you, spooning you close. His hand slid over yours on your belly.

“Hey, mama,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “How are my two favorite people?”

“Peaceful,” you sighed, leaning back into his chest. “Your baby finally decided to take a break from practice.”

Beau chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your neck as he rubbed slow circles over your stomach. “Good. Can’t have my little guy wearing you out before dinner.” He nuzzled closer. “You look so damn beautiful like this.”

The swing swayed gently in the breeze. From inside, Joanna’s bright laughter mixed with their dad’s storytelling and the clink of dishes.

A few minutes later, Joanna poked her head out, grinning. “Mom wants to know if the pregnant lady needs extra strawberries. And Dad’s asking if Beau’s actually going to help grill or if he’s staying in full lovesick-husband mode.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Beau called back lazily, not moving an inch. “My wife and baby is my only priority me.”

Joanna rolled her eyes with fond amusement. “You’ve been milking that excuse since college.” She winked at you. “Holler if you need anything, sis.”

Once she disappeared, Beau’s arms tightened around you. A strong little kick thumped right under his palm.

He stilled, breath catching. “Was that…?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling.

Beau’s voice went thick with emotion. “That’s our kid.” He kissed the side of your head, holding you closer. “Can’t wait to bring them here every summer. Teach ‘em to throw a spiral. Come home to you both after every season.”

You turned your head for a soft kiss, the porch swing rocking you both in quiet rhythm. The golden fields stretched out ahead, the distant sounds of family warming the air. The kiss lingered, slow and sweet, until another little kick made you both laugh against each other’s lips.

“Already showing off,” Beau whispered, his hand gently pressing where the baby had struck. “Definitely mine.”

You stayed like that for a while longer, wrapped in each other as the sun dipped lower, painting the fields in deeper gold. The swing’s quiet creak mixed with the evening breeze and the distant clatter of plates being set inside.

Eventually, Richard Maxwell’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Alright, you two lovebirds. Food’s ready before it gets cold!”

Beau groaned but helped you up with careful hands, keeping one arm securely around your waist as you walked inside. The long dining table glowed under warm lights, piled with grilled steaks, fresh salads, roasted vegetables, and Joanna’s famous garlic bread.

Elena Maxwell lit up the second she saw you. “There’s our beautiful mother. Come sit right here.” She pulled out a cushioned chair and tucked a pillow behind your back without asking.

Joanna slid a plate in front of you piled high with extra strawberries on the side. “As promised. And I added whipped cream because my future niece or nephew deserves it.”

“You’re spoiling them already,” Beau teased, sitting beside you and resting his arm along the back of your chair.

“That’s the job of the favorite aunt,” Joanna shot back with a dramatic hair flip. “You just focus on keeping the little one from becoming as cocky as their dad.”

Richard chuckled from the head of the table, raising his glass. “To family, to new additions, and to Beau finally settling down sort of.”

“Hey,” Beau protested with a grin, “I’m plenty settled. I’ve got the ring, the house, and the most amazing wife in the world carrying our baby. I’d say I’m winning.”

Elena smiled softly, watching the two of you with misty eyes. “You two make it look easy. Just like your father and I did… back when we were young and foolish.”

The meal passed in comfortable chaos stories from Beau’s childhood, Joanna’s latest theater disasters, and gentle teasing about baby names. Every so often Beau’s hand would find yours under the table, or drift to rest on your belly like he couldn’t help himself.

Later, as the sky turned deep purple and fireflies began to flicker over the fields, you and Beau slipped back out to the porch swing. The house lights glowed behind you, full of warmth and laughter, but out here it was just the two of you again.

He pulled the quilt over your legs and tucked you against his chest.

“Best decision I ever made was chasing you down after that first game,” he murmured, voice low in the quiet night. “Best life I could’ve asked for.”

You laced your fingers with his over your belly and smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We’re just getting started.”

The swing rocked gently under the stars, carrying you both forward into the beautiful unknown together.

—————

The nursery was finally complete. Soft gray walls with navy accents, a wooden crib Beau had assembled himself (twice, after he decided the first try wasn’t perfect), and tiny onesies folded neatly in the dresser drawers. You stood in the middle of the room at nine months pregnant, one hand on your lower back, the other gently touching the mobile above the crib.

Beau came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. His big hands splayed protectively over your belly.

“Still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Our kid’s gonna sleep right here.”

You leaned back into him with a tired smile. “I keep coming in here just to look at everything. It feels like we’re actually ready.”

Beau turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him. Even at full term, he made you feel small and cherished. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his baby-blue eyes soft with emotion.

“You’ve done so much already, baby. The bag’s packed, the car seat’s installed, and I’ve got my phone on loud 24/7.” He kissed your forehead, then your lips. “I cleared everything with the team. I’m not missing a single second.”

A strong contraction rippled across your belly not quite labor, but close enough to make you wince. Beau noticed immediately and guided you over to the rocking chair in the corner. He knelt in front of you, strong hands gently massaging your swollen feet and ankles.

“Talk to me,” he said quietly. “What do you need right now? Tea? Heat pad? Me singing terribly off-key so the baby laughs at me instead of kicking you?”

You laughed softly, the sound turning into a sigh of relief as his thumbs worked a sore spot. “Just this. Keep rubbing my feet.”

He kept rubbing, patient and focused like he was on the field calling a game-winning play. “Joanna’s been blowing up my phone with memes and ‘emergency aunt tips.’ Mom and Dad are ready to fly in whenever we say the word.” His smile turned a little shy. “I told them I want the first night just the three of us before the whole Maxwell circus descends.”

You reached down to thread your fingers through his hair. “That sounds perfect.”

Beau rose up on his knees, pressing a slow kiss to your belly before resting his forehead against it. “Hey little one,” he whispered, “we’re right here waiting for you. Take your time… but not too much time, okay? Your mom’s a superstar, but I hate seeing her this tired.”

The baby gave a big kick in response. Beau grinned up at you, eyes shining.

“Already got opinions. Definitely a Maxwell.”

You cupped his face, heart full as you looked at the man who went from cocky quarterback to devoted husband and soon-to-be father.

“Come here,” you whispered.

Beau stood and carefully pulled you up into his arms, holding you close in the quiet glow of the nursery. No spotlight, no roaring crowd just the two of you in the home you’d made together.

“I love you,” he said against your hair. “More than I ever thought possible.”

You smiled into his chest. “We’re so close now.” He nodded, arms steady around you.

Labor hit hard and fast that night.

You woke Beau just after midnight with a sharp gasp as the first real contraction gripped you. He was instantly awake, calm but alert, helping you breathe through it while timing the contractions on his phone.

“Alright, baby, we’ve got this,” he said, voice steady even as his hands moved quickly. He grabbed the hospital bag, helped you into loose clothes, and had you in the truck within minutes. The whole drive he kept one hand on your thigh, talking you through every wave.

“You’re so strong. I’m right here. Just keep breathing like we practiced.”

By the time you reached the hospital, the contractions were close. The staff moved fast, getting you settled in a private room. Beau never left your side changing into scrubs, holding your hand, wiping your forehead with a cool cloth, and feeding you ice chips between pushes.

Hours blurred together. You were exhausted, sweating, gripping his hand like a lifeline.

“I can’t….” you gasped during a particularly rough contraction.

“Yes you can,” Beau whispered fiercely, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re the toughest person I know. Our baby’s almost here. I’m so proud of you, mama. Just a little more.”

He stayed right there through every push, encouraging you, never flinching. When the doctor finally announced, “One more big push!” Beau’s voice cracked with emotion.

“Come on, baby. You’ve got this.”

With one final effort, a loud, healthy cry filled the room.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said warmly, lifting your daughter onto your chest.

You sobbed with relief and joy as they placed her warm, wriggling little body against you. Beau let out a shaky laugh, tears slipping down his face as he leaned over both of you, one arm around your shoulders and a trembling hand gently touching his daughter’s back.

“Oh my God… look at her,” he whispered, voice thick. “She’s perfect. You did it, baby. You were incredible.”

Your daughter quieted as she settled against you, tiny fingers curling. Beau kissed your forehead, then the top of her head, his baby-blue eyes shining with pure awe.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m your dad. I’ve been waiting for you.”

The room felt quiet and sacred after the chaos. Just the three of you in those first golden moments. Beau stayed glued to your side as the nurses finished up, his hand never leaving either of you.

Later, once you were moved to a recovery room and the immediate rush settled, Beau climbed carefully onto the bed beside you. He wrapped his arms around you both, cradling his girls like they were the most precious thing in the world.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your hair. “For her. For us. I love you more than anything.”

You leaned into him, exhausted but glowing, watching your daughter sleep peacefully between you.

The Maxwell family would descend with love and chaos soon enough Joanna already texting nonstop but right now, it was just the three of you.

Your little family, finally complete.

[sunnydilaurentis]

to take away the pain | found family au

summary: in which nobody realises how much of the group's heart y/n holds until she's the one lying in a hospital bed instead of taking care of everyone else.

notes: thank you so much for this very sweet request, i loved writing it! seriously this group owns my whole heart. i love them. i love them. i love them <3

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

ꪆৎ

the first sign that something was wrong was the fact that you didn't answer your phone. normally, that wouldn't mean much. people missed calls all the time.

except you always answered your phone, or at the very least, sent a text.

especially when it was allie calling, which was why the third unanswered call made something uncomfortable settle low in her stomach, a feeling she couldn't quite explain.

"that's weird."

grace glanced up from where she was sitting across the table at the coffee shop, "what?"

"y/n isn't answering her phone."

sabrina frowned, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "maybe she's taking a nap?"

allie was already shaking her head. "she texted me forty minutes ago."

allie tries calling you again, however to her dismay it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot in her stomach tightens.

twenty minutes later she's outside your shared dorm, digging through her purse for the keys. the door has barely opened before allie's stomach sinks.

you hadn't even made it to your room. you were curled up on the couch in the common area, one of the throw blankets dragged haphazardly over your legs.

for a second you don't even seem to notice she's there. your head is tipped back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, one arm wrapped tightly around your stomach. every instinct in allie's body starts screaming.

she knew instantly that something was wrong. you looked awful. completely, genuinely awful.

pale enough to make allie's chest tighten, your face pinched with pain, your breathing shallow and uneven. one hand was pressed so tightly against your stomach that your knuckles had gone white, like letting go for even a second might somehow make it worse.

"jesus christ," allie breathes, dropping her bag by the door. "y/n?"

your eyes crack open slightly at the sound of her voice, and somehow, seeing the tears already gathering in your eyes makes allie feel even worse.

you try to smile, but the minimal action looks painful, like even moving the muscles in your face takes effort.

"hi."

the greeting comes out weak, barely above a whisper and allie's stomach drops even further, because this isn't you.

you're the person who talks with your hands, who fills every silence, who somehow manages to find something funny in every situation.

even when you're sick, especially when you're sick.

right now you sound exhausted.

drained.

like simply getting that one word out had cost you energy you didn't have to spare. "oh my god," allie says immediately, crossing the room.

"you look terrible."

a breath that might have been a laugh leaves you, or maybe a wince, it's hard to tell.

"thank you."

"i'm serious." she drops into a crouch beside the couch, one hand immediately finding your forehead.

"jesus, you're burning up."

your eyes close again. "i don't feel very good."

the understatement is so ridiculous that it would almost be funny if you didn't look like you were about thirty seconds away from passing out.

"what happened?"

"nothing."

"y/n."

you let out a slow breath. "my stomach hurts."

allie stares. you stare back for approximately two seconds before abruptly folding forward, one hand shooting toward the edge of the couch as your eyes squeeze shut.

the sound that leaves you isn't quite a gasp, isn't quite a groan, just pain.

raw and immediate.

allie's heart practically stops, she'd never seen you like this before.

you were the girl who powered through migraines, the girl who submitted assignments with fevers, the girl who insisted she was fine when she very clearly wasn't. seeing you unable to sit upright feels wrong. incredibly, undeniably wrong.

"we're going to the hospital."

"allie-"

"hospital."

"it's probably nothing."

"you literally can't sit up."

"that's dramatic."

allie gestures toward your current position. "you're folded in half, y/n."

you glance down at yourself, consider it, before nodding once. "okay."

a pause.

"maybe only a little dramatic."

-

twenty minutes later the pair were sitting in emergency. allie was drafting out a text to garrett, her fingers shaking.

allie

something's wrong with y/n

i'm taking her to the hospital

don't panic but maybe panic a little

the response came back in less than ten seconds.

garrett

fuck

which hospital

i'm coming

garrett had been halfway through lunch with the boys when the message from allie arrived. one second he was listening to logan argue with dean about something completely ridiculous and the next he was on his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

everyone immediately stopped talking.

dean frowned.

"what?"

garrett was already reaching for his keys.

"y/n is in the hospital."

silence. absolute silence.

"what?"

"why?"

"what happened?"

"which hospital?"

"was there an accident?"

the questions came all at once and garrett didn't have any answers. somehow that was the worst part, because if he knew what was wrong maybe he could handle it.

instead all he had was a text message.

something's wrong.

hospital.

don't panic.

which was exactly the sort of message guaranteed to make him panic.

"i'm driving."

dean was already standing, “we're all coming"

-

by the time they arrived at the hospital sabrina and grace had too, sitting beside allie, waiting.

nobody looked relaxed, nobody looked okay.

the harsh fluorescent lights washed everyone out. the waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic and exhaustion. people came and went, televisions murmured quietly overhead, time seemed to move strangely.

too slow, and yet too fast all at once.

dean had started pacing approximately fourteen seconds after arriving.

he hadn't stopped since.

back and forth. back and forth. wearing an invisible path into the hospital floor.

at some point he'd walked such a precise route between the reception desk and the vending machines that the nurse behind reception had started glancing up automatically every time he passed.

every now and then he'd drag a hand through his hair, ask if there were any updates, receive the same answer, before starting to pace again.

logan had bought six coffees, nobody drank them. they sat untouched on a nearby table, slowly going cold.

tucker had six different tabs open on his phone, every single one worse than the last.

"apparently if it ruptures-"

"tucker."

"what?"

"shut up."

"okay."

thirty seconds later.

"apparently recovery time-"

"tucker."

"right. i've got it, sorry"

garrett hadn't said much, which somehow worried everyone more.

he sat with his elbows on his knees and a folded information sheet in his hands. the nurse had given it to him forty minutes ago, he'd read it immediately, then read it again, and again, and again.

by now the edges had started to crease beneath his fingers while tiny white lines appeared where he'd folded and unfolded the paper too many times.

not because he was learning anything new, but because reading it felt better than doing nothing.

because doing nothing, and sitting in the waiting room helpless felt impossible, because every second he wasn't sitting right by your side looking at you felt wrong.

-

the thing nobody talks about later is the surgery.

or the diagnosis.

or even the fact that it had been appendicitis.

what everyone remembers is seeing you in the hospital room. that was the moment it became real.

the moment they finally saw you, hospital blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fact it wasn't cold.

hair messy, face pale.

hospital bracelet hanging loosely around your wrist, eyes glassy from exhaustion and pain medication.

small. you looked impossibly small.

for a second nobody moved. they'd all been imagining it, the hospital was abstract when it existed in a text message.

in updates from allie, in worried phone calls, in unanswered questions.

it was something happening somewhere else, something they couldn't quite picture.

but now, it wasn't abstract anymore.

there you were. curled beneath a blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around your stomach. you looked exhausted, fragile. smaller than any of them had ever seen you and suddenly it became terrifying, because this wasn't right.

this wasn't you.

you were supposed to be the person carrying snacks in your handbag for everyone else, the person forcing garrett to eat breakfast before practice, the person who somehow always noticed when somebody's smile looked a little forced.

the person who checked in, constantly, who remembered things, who took care of people. you were never supposed to be the person sitting in a hospital bed trying not to cry.

allie sat beside you, one hand wrapped tightly around yours. garrett was on the other side, not sitting, standing, like if he sat down something bad might happen.

every few seconds his eyes would scan your features.

checking. still there, still breathing, still okay.

or as okay as you could be.

he hadn't let go of your hand once, not once. his thumb moved absently over your knuckles, like he needed the physical confirmation that you were still next to him.

the automatic doors slid open behind him. nurses came and went, phones rang, doctors crossed the corridor.

you winced, barely. just slightly, the sort of movement most people would've missed. seven heads however immediately turned towards you, the reaction so automatic it would've been funny under any other circumstance.

"you okay?"

the words come from four different people at once. you blinked, mildly startled by the attention.

"yeah."

you weren't, everyone knew you weren't. your hand remained pressed protectively against your stomach. your face still tightened every few minutes when another wave of pain rolled through, and every single time it happened somebody in the group visibly tensed with you, as though they could somehow absorb part of it if they worried hard enough.

somehow you still managed a tired smile. "you guys don't have to stay."

logan looked genuinely offended, grace scoffed, sabrina stared, tucker looked like you'd personally insulted him and dean actually stopped pacing.

which might have been the most alarming thing he'd done all night.

"seriously?"

you blinked.

"what?"

"we're obviously staying."

"dean-"

"we're staying."

simple, final.

because there had never been any other option on the table.

you looked down. "i'm okay."

the shared expression around the room suggested absolutely nobody believed you.

"you've cried four times in the last hour," sabrina said gently.

"five," grace corrected.

allie lifted her hand, "six."

"guys."

"you cried because the nurse asked if you had allergies", grace states gently.

"that wasn't why i was crying."

"baby, you cried because they brought you apple juice," garrett said softly.

your face immediately flushed. “i was overwhelmed."

"exactly. that's not helping your argument."

the tiny smile that followed was enough to make the entire group visibly relax, which seemed ridiculous.

you had noticed it. the way they were watching you, the way dean kept pacing, the way garrett wouldn't let go, the way logan's jokes had completely disappeared, the way tucker kept looking up from his phone every thirty seconds just to make sure you were still okay. for the first time all day the brave smile slipped, just slightly.

fear replacing it. raw, honest, small.

everyone noticed and suddenly the room felt quieter, because they'd never seen that expression on your face before.

not once, not ever.

you were the strong one, the steady one, the safe place. seeing fear in your eyes felt wrong in a way none of them could explain.

garrett swallowed hard, dean looked away, grace squeezed allie's shoulder and logan stared at the floor. somehow the scariest part wasn't the surgery to come. it wasn’t the hospital or appendicitis itself.

it was seeing the person who always made everybody else feel safe looking like she needed someone to make her feel safe instead, and none of them were prepared for how much that would hurt.

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash | @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner | @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve | @s0ftdr1nks | @persasseajackson | @avengersheart | @brxght-world | @plants-w0rld | @hamilronweasley | @dyslexicepicfan | @livformadrid

[p1stach-io]

sugar talking: two

summary: dean will do anything to win you back, but winning you over proves harder than why he bargained for. (5.9k)

pairing: dean di laurentis x reader

content warning: relationship dysfunction, dean di laurentis is a mess, yearning, jealousy, language, alcohol, hurt/comfort.

authors note: this is for everyone who wanted to see how taking him back would play out. this may be the longest piece i’ve wrote on record but i couldn’t let this man get off so easily…

part one.

the tail-lights of suni's honda civic bled into the darkness of the gravel driveway, leaving nothing behind but the exhaust fumes and a hollow, ringing silence.

dean stood frozen under the dim glow of the porch light, his hand still half-raised in the air as if he could somehow catch the car and pull it back.

the cold night air slapped against his face, a brutal contrast to the suffocating heat of the house behind him, but he couldn't feel it.

his mouth was slightly open and his throat was completely dry.

i am officially withdrawing my terms.

the words repeated in his head, sharp and clinical, cutting right through the lingering buzz of the alcohol in his system.

dean di laurentis didn't get left hanging on driveways.

dean di laurentis didn't get tongue-tied.

he was the guy who always had the perfect pivot, the effortless laugh, the smooth reassurance that smoothed over any wrinkle.

but as he stared at the empty space where you had just been standing, a sickening wave of realization crashed over him.

he hadn't been playing a game.

you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.

the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.

two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.

"hey, man."

a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.

right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.

"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."

"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.

he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."

beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."

tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."

dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.

he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.

it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.

but the words died in his throat.

i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.

you had called it.

every single bit of it.

he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.

but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.

"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.

it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."

beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."

dean didn't go back inside the party.

he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.

after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.

you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.

"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.

her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.

"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.

"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."

you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."

"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.

"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."

she was right.

it was a crash.

but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.

you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.

so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.

you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.

which was much easier said than done.

it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.

you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.

she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.

but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.

you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.

she nodded immediately, completely understanding.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.

the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.

soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.

you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.

beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.

and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.

"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.

beau blinked. "what?"

"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."

hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.

"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."

"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."

allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"

hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."

beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."

"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."

that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.

"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."

"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."

hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."

you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.

it was ridiculous.

dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.

a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.

now it mostly just felt surreal.

beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."

you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"

"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”

“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."

a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.

"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."

"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.

the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.

a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.

you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"

the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.

"no." he shook his head.

"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."

that caught you off guard.

even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.

beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."

before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."

allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."

and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.

suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.

the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.

it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.

and right in the center was dean.

he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.

his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.

his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.

you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.

dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.

two can play that game.

you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.

he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.

you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.

you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.

liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.

you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.

garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.

you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.

"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.

"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"

"mhm?"

"kiss me."

he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.

he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.

you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.

you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.

and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.

a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.

when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.

you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.

the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.

dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.

his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.

watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.

dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.

he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.

beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.

you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.

so why did you feel like throwing up?

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.

it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.

you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.

for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.

god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.

you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.

dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.

you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."

he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."

"i'm really busy right now, dean."

"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"

you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."

"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"

you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.

you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.

"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."

the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.

he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.

"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."

"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.

"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."

dean went completely still.

"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.

"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."

"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."

"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."

he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.

finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.

"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."

he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

two more weeks passed. then three.

if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.

the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.

he wasn't partying.

he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.

but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.

the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.

every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.

no note.

just your exact, complicated order.

when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."

you left it on the counter the first three times.

by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.

it tasted like an apology.

then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.

you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.

but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.

he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.

normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.

instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.

he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.

"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.

you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.

he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.

"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."

you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"

"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.

once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.

"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."

you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"

"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.

"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."

tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."

you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.

tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.

if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.

"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.

he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."

you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.

"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.

you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."

"why is it infuriating?"

"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"

suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.

"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.

"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."

just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.

"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you didn't go to the rink to find him.

it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.

but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.

armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.

the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.

dean was alone.

he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.

it was just him, a puck, and a net.

he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.

he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.

he was trying to skate away from his own head.

you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.

"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.

dean froze.

his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.

he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.

for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.

"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.

"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."

before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.

"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.

naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.

but you didn't hit the ice.

dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.

you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.

"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.

he didn't let go.

his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.

he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.

no armor. just dean.

but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.

you didn't melt….. just yet.

"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."

"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.

"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.

“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."

he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.

"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."

you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.

your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.

"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.

"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."

"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."

you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.

"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.

"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"

a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.

it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.

"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."

you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."

dean didn't hesitate.

he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.

it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.

it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.

he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.

dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.

"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"

you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."

"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.

taglist: @strangegirl26sff @soleilgrec @tinkerbelltxt @maybankslover @junipermarche @cloudyzip @smilezzz-artzs @itmekelpy @dedicatedfangirl2001 @otraweasley99 @user2345 @shatteredinkpot @historygeekqueen @brianna28483 @bisexual-and-intellectual @nattieot7 @moonlitastra

[great33st]

‵、¸ 𝒕𝙝𝒆 𝒔𝙞𝒍𝙚𝒏𝙩 𝙛𝒓𝙖𝒄𝙩𝒖𝙧𝒆 ⊹ off campus

⌗ pairing — off campus boys x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — For the four captains of the Briar hockey team, the world has always had one unshakeable center: her. With her constant presence at games, their shared laughter at the fraternity house, and her unwavering support during every difficult time, she has become the light and anchor that holds the group together.

⌗ author’s note — This story contains heavy themes of sexual assault/rape and the emotional trauma following the event. It focuses deeply on the recovery, healing process, and the fierce protection of the main characters. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST

For the four players on the Briar hockey team, the world was divided into two very distinct spaces: the frozen, brutal chaos of the hockey rink, and the absolute calm that only you knew how to give them. For years, you had become an immovable constant in their lives. You weren't just a friend; you were their anchor, the light that kept them sane amidst the pressure from recruiters, grueling practices, and campus fame. You had been there for every victory and every defeat, treating dislocated shoulders with the college first-aid team, helping Logan memorize play sheets, or brewing strong coffee in the fraternity kitchen at three in the morning so Tucker wouldn't fail his exams.

Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes shared that same devotion. To them, you were the heart of the group, the one who always managed to make the loud, massive players lower their guard.

That Friday night, the fraternity house was in full swing after a crushing victory against the Huskies. The music vibrated through the wooden walls, and punch flowed in red plastic cups. In the midst of the swarm of students, the boys had a biological radar programmed exclusively for you. It didn't matter how crowded the main room was; their eyes always sought you out in the crowd.

―Hey, make way for the boss!― Logan shouted, pushing his way through a group of freshmen as soon as he saw you enter the main living room. You were wearing Garrett’s giant sweatshirt, which hung down almost to your knees. ―Tucker, move, she brought the snacks you asked for.―

―I swear, if Logan eats your share, I'm benching him next game,― Garrett said, approaching you immediately. He wrapped a massive arm around your shoulders, dropping a quick kiss on your temple. ―I was checking the entrance every five minutes. I thought you fell asleep in the library.―

―I had to finish the clinic report, Graham,― you replied with a smile, letting yourself be guided toward the comfort of the worn-out couches in the VIP lounge. ―But I promised you guys I’d come celebrate. Hey, boys.―

―Hey, beautiful,― Tucker greeted from the kitchen, poking his head out with a spatula in his hand. ―I made you the wings with the sauce you like. Don't let Dean get near them, he’s already had three beers and is being insufferable.―

Dean Di Laurentis, sitting on the edge of the sofa with a lazy smile, raised his cup in your direction, his eyes gleaming with sincere affection.

―Don't listen to Tucker, babe. I am perfectly sober and highly offended,― Dean joked, patting the empty space next to him. ―Come over here and tell us how your day went at the hospital. Hannah and Allie were looking for you all afternoon to plan the weekend trip.―

―It's true!― Allie exclaimed, stepping out of the kitchen alongside Hannah, both wearing massive smiles upon seeing you. ―We missed you at lunch. These idiots wouldn't let us talk in peace because of how wired they were over the game.―

―They were insufferable,― Hannah agreed, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you. ―Garrett wouldn't stop repeating that he scored the third goal because you were watching him from section 10. His ego is through the roof.―

―Because it's true,― Garrett interjected with absolute seriousness, looking at you with unwavering devotion. ―If she isn't in the front row of section 10, the puck simply doesn't go in. It's science, Wells. It's not up for debate.―

Laughter filled the space, a warm and familiar sound that wrapped around the room. You felt safe, protected by those four walls of muscle and loyalty that would have burned the whole world down if you had asked them to. Communication flowed effortlessly; they knew each other so well that Tucker knew exactly when you were stressed about your grades just by watching how you moved your fingers, and Logan knew when you needed a silent bear hug after a difficult shift in the ER. They were an unbreakable family.

The noise of the party continued outside, but in that corner of the house, surrounded by Hannah, Allie, and the four boys, time seemed to stand still. Dean reached out his arm to grab one of the wings Tucker had just placed on the coffee table, earning an immediate smack from Garrett.

―Wait for her to serve herself first, you animal,― Garrett grumbled at him. ―Where did your rich Connecticut boy manners go?―

―My manners died in the second period when the Huskies defenseman slammed me into the boards, Graham,― Dean replied, rolling his eyes, though he ended up smiling at you with that lazy warmth he reserved only for the group. ―Come on, babe, save my life and share one with me before Garrett puts me on impeachment trial.―

―Here, Dean, don't cry,― you said laughing, passing him the plate while settling deeper under Garrett’s arm. ―Though Tucker is right, the sauce turned out amazing today, Tuck. I really needed it after dealing with the health department's admission reports all day.―

Tucker smiled from the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, his eyes shining with domestic pride.

―I know, beautiful. That's why I made it. I knew your week was looking heavy with the clinical simulations. Logan wanted us to buy frozen pizza, but I told him not to even think about it. If you come to this house, we eat real food.―

―Hey! The frozen pizza from the corner isn't that bad,― Logan defended himself with his mouth half-full, earning a look of absolute disgust from Hannah.

―Logan, that pizza tastes like wet cardboard and you know it,― Hannah declared, crossing her legs. ―Be grateful you have Tucker in the house or you would have died of scurvy your freshman year. Anyway... changing the subject, tomorrow afternoon we have to go to the mall to check out the dresses for the end-of-term gala. Will you be able to come with us, or is the hospital going to kidnap you again?―

You looked at Hannah and then at Allie, feeling that warmth in your chest from knowing that they always included you in everything, despite your chaotic schedule.

―I have Saturday afternoon off,― you assured them, taking a sip of the drink Garrett had prepared for you. ―I promise not to make excuses. I urgently need a break from textbooks and lab coats.―

―Perfect!― Allie clapped enthusiastically. ―Because I saw a spectacular blue dress in the main store window that is going to look amazing on you. If these idiots behave, maybe we'll let them match with us.―

―I’ll wear blue if she asks me to,― Garrett declared without a second thought, gently squeezing your shoulder. ―I have absolutely no problem matching the team boss.―

―You are so whipped, Graham,― Logan mocked, throwing a crumpled napkin at him. ―We all know that if she asks you to wear a pink tutu for the next game against Harvard, you’ll put it on without a peep.―

―And I’d score three goals wearing it, Logan,― Garrett fired back with an arrogant smirk, making the whole room burst into laughter once again.

The night went on like that, between light jokes, promises of weekend trips, plans for the upcoming summer, and the absolute certainty that nothing in the world could break the bond they shared. You were their light, the girl they would give their lives for without a second thought, and they were your protectors, the hockey boys who made the demanding, cold world of college medicine much easier to bear. Nothing could go wrong when they were all together in that old fraternity living room.

The change did not happen gradually; it was a clean, sharp, and heartbreaking cut that left the entire fraternity house in absolute bewilderment. Two weeks after that perfect night of laughter, chicken wings, and promises of blue dresses, Briar was facing their rival university's team in one of the most tense, loud, and decisive games of the season. The atmosphere inside the hockey stadium was a cauldron about to boil over: the raw, white lights reflecting off the freshly polished ice, the deafening roars of the home crowd making the wooden bleachers shake, and pure adrenaline floating like an invisible mist inside the locker room.

Garrett Graham adjusted his heavy shoulder pads with mechanical movements, but his eyes were not fixed on the coach's strategy board. Dean Di Laurentis was checking the tape on his hockey stick for the third consecutive time, an unmistakable sign that his usual aristocratic indifference was being eaten away by nerves. Logan and Tucker came running into the preparation area after the final warm-up on the ice, ready for the final pep talk before jumping into the tunnel.

However, before crossing the metal gate that led to the rink, as they had done in every damn game since their freshman year of college, the four of them looked up at the same time toward section 10, the VIP row located right behind the home bench.

The seat was completely empty.

There was no blue Briar sweatshirt adorning the backrest, no encouraging smile waiting for their eyes to meet, no makeshift signs or medical notebooks resting on anyone's knees. Nothing. Only the cold, gray plastic of the uninhabited chair under the stadium spotlights. Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes were sitting a couple of rows higher, but their faces did not reflect the usual excitement of the game; they shared looks of deep concern, checking their cell phones every thirty seconds.

―Where the hell is she?― Logan asked, stopping dead in his tracks right at the threshold of the tunnel, adjusting his helmet with a trembling hand while his brow furrowed tightly. ―She told me Thursday morning she’d come. She promised me she was leaving early from her simulation shift at the health department.―

―She probably got delayed with some last-minute clinical report at the hospital,― Tucker replied, trying to force a pragmatic and calm tone of voice, although the pang of bad omen in his chest was so obvious that he couldn't even look Logan in the eye. ―Come on, boys, the referee's whistle is about to blow and we can't let the coach see us distracted. We'll celebrate with her at the house as soon as she gets there.―

But she didn't get there. Playing that game for the Briar captains was the closest thing to skating completely blind in the middle of a blizzard. Garrett, whose instinct on the rink was usually infallible, missed a clean pass in the neutral zone that cost the team a dangerous counterattack. Dean, consumed by a dull frustration he didn't know how to channel, received a two-minute penalty on the bench for excessive aggressiveness after slamming an opposing forward into the boards unnecessarily. Logan was on the verge of sparking a massive brawl in the second period just because an opposing defenseman skated too close to the empty bench. When the game ended, with a bitter and hard-fought victory barely secured in the last minute thanks to an individual play by Tucker, the boys didn't even celebrate on the ice. They walked into the locker room in silence, ripped the helmets off their heads, and pulled their phones out of their lockers immediately.

There were no missed calls. There were no text messages. The chat screen was completely static.

The next day, the majestic and noisy fraternity house felt unusually cold, as if the soul of the place had evaporated with the start of the weekend. Worried to the limit, Garrett and Dean decided to put aside the text messages that jumped straight to voicemail and went to look for you in person at your shared dorm on Sunday afternoon. They walked with firm steps along the campus path, hands shoved into the pockets of their varsity jackets, their jaws tense. When they knocked on the door, it was Allie who opened it, revealing an expression of total bewilderment, exhaustion, and an obvious sadness in her features.

―Hey, boys...― Allie said in a very low voice, taking a step back and glancing toward the inside of the long hallway that led to the rooms. ―It’s good that you're here.―

―Is she inside, Allie?― Garrett asked bluntly, trying to crane his neck to look over her shoulder into the common room. ―She didn't go to the game on Friday, she didn't even give a heads-up. She isn't answering Tucker's messages or Dean's calls. What the hell happened?―

Hannah approached from the dorm's small kitchen, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a frown of absolute frustration etched on her lips.

―The truth is, we don't have the slightest idea what's wrong with her, boys. We are just as scared as you are,― Hannah confessed, letting out a heavy sigh. ―She came back very late Friday night, long after the game ended. She didn't even turn on the living room lights. She locked herself straight in her room, and yesterday, Saturday, she barely crossed the threshold to grab a glass of water. She told us through the wood that she had a brutal academic workload with the hospital reports and that she needed to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. But today she got up before dawn, packed all her books into her backpack, and ran off to the medical library before either of us could make her breakfast. She’s... weird. Extremely distant. She’s avoiding us.―

―Distant with the two of you?― Dean asked, his hazel eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of confusion and restrained annoyance. ―She never does that. If her third year of med school had her this stressed, she would have told us on Friday in the kitchen. Tucker would have brought containers of food for the whole week to the hospital. I'm going to the library right now.―

―No, Dean, wait a second, don't go,― Allie begged him, placing a firm hand on his forearm to stop his advance. ―Hannah and I already went to look for her a couple of hours ago. We tried to sit next to her, we brought her a coffee, but she put up an invisible wall immediately. She gave us a perfectly fabricated excuse about a clinical simulation exam she has tomorrow morning and asked us please to leave her alone because she needed absolute concentration. She actively avoided us, boys. She didn't even hold our gaze for more than two seconds. It was like we were talking to a complete stranger.―

The four boys spent the next few days of the week trying with all their might to break that damn glass wall you had raised overnight around yourself. However, every time they managed to intercept you in the hallways of the faculty of health sciences or near the campus laboratories, your body language changed completely, turning into a painful declaration of rejection. You no longer stopped to laugh with them, nor did you allow them to take the heavy backpack off your shoulders; you pressed your books against your chest as if they were a protective shield, took an involuntary step back if any of them tried to wrap an arm around you, and always, with an icy precision, you had a flawless excuse ready on the tip of your tongue.

―I have a double shift in the emergency room, Logan, I really can't go to dinner at the house today,― you said on Tuesday morning, when he politely blocked your path near the faculty's coffee machines. ―I'm so sorry. Say hello to Tucker and Garrett for me.―

―But beautiful... Tucker made the beef lasagna just because he knows perfectly well it's your favorite food in the world,― Logan insisted, his voice laced with a tenderness so genuine it hurt to hear. He took a step forward and tried to touch your shoulder with the tips of his fingers to give you one of his usual bear hugs, but you flinched on the spot, dodging the physical contact with an almost violent speed, as if his hand were going to burn your skin. ―Hey... what's going on? Did we do something wrong? If it's because of the idiot joke I made at the party about the frozen pizza, I swear on my career it was just a joke...―

―It's nothing like that, Logan, really, nothing is wrong. It's not because of you, or the boys,― you cut him off abruptly, feeling a suffocating knot tighten in your throat as you took a step back. ―It's just the hospital. I'm... really deep in my own world lately, too tired with the clinical simulation practices. I have to go now, I'm extremely late for the lab. See you later.―

You walked away at a hurried pace down the old hallway, your eyes fixed on the gray floor tiles and your heart beating wildly against your ribs, forcing yourself not to look back even once. You couldn't allow yourself to see the expression of absolute pain and bewilderment you had left etched on Logan's face.

What none of the four Briar captains could even imagine at that moment was that your sudden distance was not born from academic fatigue or hospital stress. It was born from the purest, most paralyzing, dark, and destructive fear that a person could harbor in their soul. Behind your dull gaze, your marked dark circles, and your milimetrically structured excuses, hid the atrocious memory of that Friday night. The vivid memory of the deserted alley behind the hockey stadium, of rough and violent hands wearing the rival team's uniform, and of a cruel voice that had stripped away your innocence and peace in a second, whispering venomous words into your ear that had shattered you inside: ―This is what you really wanted, bitch. You spend your life surrounded by men like Tucker, Logan, Garrett, and Dean... you've been begging for this since the first day you stepped onto Briar.―

Guilt was eating you alive, settling into your chest like a black parasite. You felt dirty, completely broken, and the mere thought that your four unconditional protectors would find out that your closeness to them, that the pure love you had for them, and your constant presence in their world had been used by a monster as the perfect argument to hurt you, filled you with a terror so sharp that you preferred to turn off your own light forever before allowing them to see your bloody pieces.

By Thursday afternoon of that same week, the situation inside the Briar fraternity house had become completely unsustainable. The cheerful, competitive, and loud atmosphere that normally defined the athletes' home had vanished, replaced by a thick, tense silence heavy with a dull frustration. The team was losing its footing on the rink; Garrett Graham barked at the defensemen during morning practices over millimeter-wide mistakes, Dean Di Laurentis ignored the coach's instructions with a dangerous coldness, and Tucker had burned dinner twice in a row because his mind was floating far away from the kitchen, lost in the mystery of your disappearance. Logan, for his part, spent the dead hours sitting on the couch, staring blankly at his phone screen, waiting for a text from you that never arrived.

However, what finally set off all the group's alarms and transformed their worry into a desperate urgency was a chance discovery that Dean made around three in the afternoon, while heavy-footing his way toward the faculty of health sciences to fulfill a mandatory tutoring session.

As he crossed the faculty’s old hallway—a long corridor lined with colonial stone arches and large glass windows that looked into the clinical simulation laboratories where med students usually held their practices—Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His massive frame tensed completely beneath his dark Briar jacket. Through the glass, fogged up by the afternoon cold, he saw you.

You were sitting on a worn-out wooden bench at the end of the deserted corridor, where the sunlight barely managed to filter through. But you weren't alone.

Beau Maxwell was sitting right next to you.

Beau, the junior who was also part of the football team—he was the captain but had always maintained a low, quiet profile away from the campus spotlights, so to speak—was the only man you hadn't driven away with your perfect excuses. Dean watched in absolute silence, feeling a violent pang of territorial jealousy mixed with a suffocating anguish, as Beau maintained a highly respectful distance, holding a glass of mineral water for you with both hands while your shoulders remained completely slumped, your gaze fixed on the gray floor tiles and your body wrapped in a fragility they had never seen you possess. There was no laughter, none of the overwhelming and loud energy of the fraternity; there was only a sepulchral silence, a dead calm that you seemed to be using as a human shield to protect yourself from the rest of the world.

Dean didn't think twice. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a direct message to the group chat of the four captains: ―Old hallway at the health faculty. Right now. Bring Tucker and Logan. She’s here with Maxwell.―

Less than ten minutes later, the four massive silhouettes of the Briar captains advanced in single file, with fast, firm, and determined steps through the stone corridor. They were ready to confront you once and for all, to demand a real explanation for your distance, to break that damn glass wall by force if necessary, and to brush Beau aside with the implacable authority granted to them by being the owners of the territory.

However, the four of them stopped dead in their tracks just before turning the corner that led to the practice locker room of the simulated hospital. The heavy, old oak door was slightly ajar, just a few inches, and the voices coming from inside resonated with terrifying clarity in the emptiness of the deserted hallway.

―You have to talk to them once and for all... please,― Beau’s voice was heard, soft, measured, laced with a compassion and concern so legitimate it was painful to listen to. ―I was with Garrett on the rink today during morning practice, and I swear to you he is completely losing his mind. He missed three free shots. Tucker isn't sleeping at all, he spends the whole night pacing around the kitchen. The boys are dying of worry for you, beautiful. They feel in their souls that they are losing you piece by piece, and they're going crazy because they don't understand what the hell they did wrong for you to shut them out of your life like this.―

A stifled sob, a broken, sharp sound full of suffering that the four boys instantly recognized as your voice, froze the blood right in their veins. Logan felt the air escape his lungs. The four of them immediately pressed themselves against the stone wall next to the door, holding their breath, their fists clenched so tightly inside their pockets that their knuckles turned completely white.

―I can't, Beau... I really can't look them in the face,― you replied through tears, and your voice sounded so devoid of all the strength, neatness, and analytical authority you usually assumed at the hospital that it sounded like the lament of a frightened little girl. ―Every time I see their blue sweatshirts on campus, every time I smell their cologne in the distance or hear their loud voices in the cafeteria, my brain just disconnects. I’m right back in that damn dark alley behind the stadium. I’m hearing that miserable guy from the rival team repeating every single one of his words to me while he pinned me against the wall.―

The silence that settled in the hallway for the next two seconds was purely electric, charged with the density of a blizzard about to erupt. Garrett's eyes widened, feeling the university floor vanish completely from beneath his feet. Dean rested the back of his head against the cold stone of the wall, his jaw so tight that a spasm of pure violence rippled through his neck.

―What exactly did that fucking monster tell you, beautiful?― Beau asked inside the room, his own voice trembling with pain. ―Tell me. You need to get it out of your head.―

―He told me... he told me this was what I really wanted,― you confessed in a choked cry that completely shattered the hearts of the four men listening outside. ―He grabbed me by my hair and whispered in my ear that I had asked for it by always living surrounded by men. He mentioned their names, Beau. He mentioned Tucker, Logan, Garrett, Dean... He told me with horrible contempt that since I always hung around the Briar captains, a bitch like me was just begging for a real hockey player to take her by force in the dark. He used my boys to destroy me! I feel like it's my fault... I feel like if I hadn't been so close to them at parties, if I hadn't gone to their games in section 10, that monster wouldn't have chosen me. I pushed them away because I can't let them see me broken because of them... I don't want them to carry that burden.―

On the other side of the door, the whole world of the four Briar captains ground to a halt, plunging into the abyss. A wave of remorse, brutal guilt, and heartbreaking pain hit them directly in the center of their chests as they understood the magnitude of the tragedy: their unconditional love, their constant protection, their loud hugs, and their territorial presence in your life had been manipulated and used by a psychopath from the rival team to subdue you, to strip away your peace, and to make you believe you were responsible for your own hell.

But the remorse and guilt lasted for barely a miserable second in their systems. Instantly, their blood boiled again, replaced by a fury so blind, so pure, so lethal, and so coordinated that the air in the health faculty seemed to freeze entirely. The unconditional love they had for you ―to the death― transformed into a dark instinct of possession, absolute protection, and relentless vengeance.

There were no medical excuses that mattered anymore. There was no academic distance they were going to respect. Their light was bleeding inside that room, and the four gods of Briar were ready to tear down the door and claim what was theirs.

The sound of the last sob that leaked through the crack of the simulated locker room's oak door didn't just travel through the thick air of the old hallway of the faculty of health sciences; it embedded itself directly into the center of the chests of the four men waiting outside, shattering the last barrier of their civilized restraint. The revelation of the truth—the cruel words of the rival team player, the weight of the unjustified guilt you were carrying in absolute solitude, and the perverse use of their own names as a psychological weapon to subdue you—transformed the initial remorse of the hockey captains into a unified, cold, and lethal force.

Garrett Graham didn't wait for anyone to give an order. His fingers, long and trained for the firmness of a hockey stick, closed around the brass knob of the half-open door. With a sharp, direct push devoid of all subtlety, the heavy wooden structure struck against the inner wall of the simulated classroom, cutting off the echo of the crying and Beau Maxwell’s comforting murmur.

The impact of the door resonated like a gunshot in the confined space. Looking up with red, swollen eyes from the tears, your breath hitching, you were met with the sight of the four massive silhouettes completely blocking the only exit from the room. Dean Di Laurentis entered first, his shoulders tense beneath his dark jacket, his jaw so tight that the veins in his neck stood out like steel wires, and a fixity in his hazel eyes that was genuinely terrifying. Behind him, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker fanned out, closing the space, transforming the practice room into a territory under absolute military control.

Beau Maxwell stood up from the wooden bench immediately. The massive football captain, carrying his imposing physical presence, instinctively placed himself half a step between you and the oncoming fury of the newcomers. His hands were open in a gesture of truce, but his feet were firmly planted, proving that he would not be easily intimidated, not even by the best friend he considered a brother.

―Boys, pump your goddamn brakes right now,― Beau said, his deep voice dropping in tone to try and dampen the static in the room, looking directly at Dean. ―I know what you heard from the hallway. I know you're furious, but this is not the time or the place for you to come in here like a goddamn Briar wrecking ball. She doesn't need your noise right now. She needs some fucking air.―

Dean took a step forward, completely ignoring Beau’s physical size, though his eyes scanned your figure curled up on the bench, locking onto how your hands trembled around the water glass and how you tried to hide your face behind your medical books as if you wanted to vanish from the face of the earth.

―Step aside, Beau,― Dean ordered, and his voice wasn't a shout, but a low, raspy murmur, heavy with an authority so icy it made the air in the simulated classroom seem to drop several degrees below zero. ―You're my best friend, Maxwell. I consider you my brother, and I respect more than anyone on this campus that you were here taking care of her this week when we were too stupid to see what was happening. But your shift is over. Move out of her goddamn way before I forget who you are.―

―I’m not moving if you're going to overwhelm her, Di Laurentis,― Beau shot back, holding his gaze with the same steel stubbornness he used to lead his own team on the football field. ―She’s terrified. Can’t you see that? Look at her. The last thing she needs is four goddamn six-foot-four apes starting to yell about witch hunts and vengeance in the middle of the health faculty.―

Garrett took a lateral step, placing himself right next to Beau. Resting a massive hand on the football captain's shoulder, he applied a downward pressure, firm but controlled, conveying an unmistakable warning.

―Beau, seriously, don't play shield with us today,― Garrett intervened, his dark eyes fixed on yours, devouring every trace of pain in your features. ―We appreciate what you did. You're a good guy, and you look out for your own. But she is our constant. She is our light. And if you think for a single second that we're going to stand on the other side of that door after hearing that some miserable fuck destroyed her peace using our names, then you don't know us at all. Give us some space. Now.―

Tucker, maintaining a remnant of the pragmatic sanity that characterized him, walked over to Beau and placed a hand on his opposite arm, guiding him gently but with an immovable force toward the classroom exit.

―Go to the cafeteria, Beau. Please,― Tucker asked in a thread of a voice that trembled with pure, restrained rage. ―Make sure nobody walks down this hallway for the next hour. Do us that favor as Dean’s friend. We’ve got her. We've got everything from this goddamn second on.―

Beau looked at Tucker, then at Logan, who remained by the door threshold with his arms crossed and an expression of pain so deep he seemed to be holding back the urge to punch the wall. Finally, Beau turned toward you, seeking your approval with his eyes. You, your chest rising and falling in silent spasms, nodded slightly, letting him know you were safe with them. Beau let out a long sigh, looked at the four hockey captains with one last silent warning in his eyes, gave Dean a firm slap on the shoulder in support, and walked out into the hallway, closing the heavy door behind him and leaving you all in a silence that felt eternal.

As soon as the lock clicked, the wall of containment you had maintained all week in front of your friends collapsed entirely. You shrank even further into the wooden bench, lowering your head, feeling the shame, the fear, and the dirty sensation of guilt choking your throat. You expected demands, you expected technical hockey questions, you expected the loud indignation that always characterized the Briar athletes.

But there was none of that.

Logan was the first to move. He crossed the distance between you with slow, almost floating steps, stripped of all the roughness of his usual movements on the hockey rink. He knelt directly on the gray tiled floor, right in front of your knees, forcing himself to stay below your line of sight so as not to be intimidating in the slightest. His large hands, scarred from games, extended with infinite slowness, not touching you just yet, silently asking for permission.

―Beautiful... look at me,― Logan asked, and his voice, usually cheerful, loud, and full of jokes, sounded broken, torn by a restrained crying he refused to let out in front of you. ―Please, beautiful, look at me. Don't hide from us. Not from us. I’m begging you.―

With a supreme effort that hurt your very soul, you raised your head slowly, letting your books drop onto the bench. Your eyes, flooded with fresh tears, met Logan's. The big Briar defenseman, the guy who leveled two-hundred-pound opponents on the ice without blinking, had eyes full of tears that rolled freely down his cheeks.

―It's not your fault,― Logan said in a desperate whisper, clenching his fists against his own thighs to restrain the urge to wrap his arms around you. ―Listen to me carefully. I don't give a fuck what that miserable monster told you in that alley to try and take away your peace. We don't care what he put in your head. You didn't ask for anything. Being close to us, laughing with us in the kitchen, coming to our games... that is the only pure and clean thing we have at this goddamn university. Don't let that piece of shit stain what you mean to us. I won't allow it.―

Tucker approached from the side, sitting on the edge of the wooden bench, leaving a respectful distance but close enough so you could feel the comforting warmth of his body. He took off his varsity jacket and, with extreme gentleness, draped it over your shoulders, covering your medical practice uniform, enveloping you in the familiar scent of fabric softener, coffee, and the home-like warmth that always emanated from him.

―I am so sorry I wasn't there,― Tucker said, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands for a second before looking at you with absolute seriousness. ―I’m sorry you had to spend this week alone in the hospital, inventing excuses to protect us from the pain. Thinking that you were suffering through this while I was cooking lasagna and complaining about exams... it turns my stomach, beautiful. You broke our hearts by pulling away, but now we understand. We understand everything. You are not going to carry this alone for another second.―

Dean, who had kept his distance a few paces away, staring out the window to try and control the tide of destructive violence that threatened to push him over the edge, turned slowly. He walked over to the bench and sat down on the other side of you, letting his massive shoulder brush yours through Tucker’s jacket. His hand slid along the wood of the bench until it touched your freezing fingers, wrapping them in a warm firmness that brought your pulse back.

―That coward will pay for every single one of his words, babe,― Dean whispered, his voice vibrating with a feline, dark, and purely territorial intensity. ―He used our names because he fears us. He used our place in your life because he knew the only way to weaken the strongest girl at Briar was to make her doubt her own family. But he made the worst mistake of his goddamn life. He touched you. Choose whether you want us to destroy him today or tomorrow, because one way or another, he’s going down. From today on, we are your shadow. You are not going to hide in the library anymore. You are not going to spend a shift alone at the hospital ever again.―

Garrett knelt beside Logan, completing the perfect circle around you. He took both of your hands in his, feeling the residual trembling of your body, and leaned in until his forehead rested against your fingers.

―You are our light, beautiful,― Garrett said, with a solemnity that felt like a sacred oath. ―Don't let the shadows of an alley blow out who you are. We’re getting you out of here, we’re going to the house, and we’re going to make sure you smile in section 10 again if it's the last thing we do on this campus. Hannah and Allie are already on their way to the fraternity. The whole group is closing ranks for you. You are not alone. Never again.―

The tears continued to fall down your cheeks, but this time, the suffocating weight of guilt began to dissolve under the impact of their words, replaced by the absolute certainty that, no matter how broken you felt at that moment, you had four unbreakable walls and a football captain watching your back outside, all willing to hold you up until you were back on your feet.

The journey from the faculty of health sciences to the Briar fraternity house was nothing like the group's usual walks. There was no loud laughter, no Logan shoving Dean, no Garrett arguing about game stats. The boys escorted you, forming an impassable physical barrier: Garrett walked to your left, his shoulder brushing yours; Dean positioned himself to your right, keeping his hand firmly intertwined with yours inside the pocket of Tucker's jacket; while Tucker himself and Logan covered the rear, scanning the campus with glances so sharp that any student attempting to approach and say hello immediately crossed the street.

When they arrived at the large wooden house, the front door opened before Garrett could even pull out his keys. Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes appeared on the threshold. The moment their eyes met yours, seeing your swollen cheeks and how you came wrapped in Tucker's massive varsity jacket, their expressions of frustration instantly transformed into pure female protective instinct.

―Oh, sweetheart!― Allie exclaimed, running down the porch steps to wrap you in a soft embrace, taking care not to press too hard against you. ―Come here. You're home now. Leave her to us, boys.―

Hannah stepped between you and the four players, placing a hand firmly on Garrett’s and Dean’s chests with absolute authority.

―We’re going up to her room,― Hannah sentenced, looking at the captains with a seriousness that admitted no replication. ―We’re giving her a hot shower, making her some tea, and making her feel clean and safe. You four stay down here. I don't want to hear shouting, I don't want to hear punching against the walls, and I don't want you going up there to overwhelm her with your testosterone questions until she is ready. Is that clear?―

―Hannah, we want to be with her,― Logan replied in a choked voice, clenching his jaw. ―I don't want to leave her alone for a single second.―

―She’s not going to be alone, Logan, she’s going to be with us,― Allie replied sweetly but with unwavering determination from your side. ―Trust us. Make her something light to eat and keep the house locked. We need this place to be a fortress right now.―

Dean let out a heavy sigh, releasing your hand with clear reluctance, but he leaned toward you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

―We're right downstairs, babe,― he whispered in your ear. ―Literally glued to the stairs. If you need anything at all, just call my name.―

You let Hannah and Allie guide you toward the upper floor, leading you away from the heavy atmosphere of the living room. As you entered your bedroom, the scent of lavender, your neatly arranged books, and the dim light of your nightstand lamp welcomed you like a balm. Allie locked the door and turned toward you with glistening eyes.

Those girls removed your dirty hospital clothes with infinite gentleness, set the shower to the perfect temperature, and helped you sit on the bed wrapped in your coziest, fluffiest pajamas. They didn't pressure you to talk; Hannah simply sat beside you, brushing your damp hair with rhythmic, soothing strokes, while Allie prepared a cup of chamomile tea with honey.

―Beau called us the second you guys stepped out of the old hallway,― Hannah confessed in a low voice, gently running the brush through your strands. ―He told us roughly what he heard. Beautiful... I am so sorry you kept that pain to yourself all week out of fear that these idiots would react badly. You know they're loud and possessive, but they love you to death. They would never, ever think this was your fault.―

―I was so scared, Hannah...― you managed to articulate, your voice barely a fragile thread as you held the warm cup between your hands. ―The guy from the rival team... he said it with such certainty. He said that since I always hang around the hockey captains, I was just looking to get men's attention. I thought that if Garrett and the others found out, they would feel like their friendship was the reason my life was ruined.―

―That is complete, misogynistic, disgusting garbage!― Allie exclaimed with restrained anger, sitting at the foot of the bed and taking hold of your ankles. ―That miserable fuck used the oldest, most cowardly tactic in the world to try and silence you. He wanted you to feel guilty so you wouldn't talk. But he made the worst mistake of his miserable existence by underestimating what you mean to this house. You are not the cause of anything bad. You are the victim of a monster, and you have an entire army ready to burn this university down for you.―

―That’s right,― Hannah agreed, setting the brush aside to wrap her arms around your shoulders. ―The boys downstairs look like caged lions, but they are coordinating. Dean already called his father to get the best specialist lawyers and psychologists in the state, and Garrett is gathering the stadium security footage with the coach’s help. You are not going to go through this alone—not in a courtroom, not on campus, and not in your mind. We are here, and they are downstairs ready to be your warriors.―

Meanwhile, on the ground floor, the fraternity kitchen had been transformed into a strategic command center. Tucker chopped vegetables for a broth with mechanical speed, discharging his fury onto the wooden cutting board, while Logan paced back and forth, destroying a tennis ball with his bare hands from the pure tension. Dean and Garrett sat at the table with a laptop open, their faces illuminated by the raw light of the screen, reviewing the rosters of the rival team players who had been at the stadium on the night of the assault.

―It has to be one of the defensemen from the second line,― Garrett growled, pointing at a photograph with his index finger. ―Beau said she mentioned he wore the Huskies uniform. On Friday night, the guys from the second line stayed celebrating at the bar on the corner of the stadium until late.―

―I don't give a fuck who it is, Garrett,― Dean sentenced, a sociopathic coldness settling into his hazel features. ―My dad is already pulling strings with the university dean to get the medical logs from that night and the security footage from the commercial zone in the alley. We are going to destroy him legally—we'll get him expelled, sent to prison, and if the law takes too long... well, Logan and I know exactly where their team stays when they come to town.―

―We’ll do both, Dean,― Tucker intervened, turning off the stove and looking at them with an absolute seriousness that curdled the blood. ―But first, the beautiful's food is ready. Logan, drop that damn ball and help me take this upstairs. Hannah said not to make any noise, so we’ll go in quietly. She needs us sane, not acting like goddamn savages.―

The four captains walked up the stairs in absolute silence, carrying a tray with hot food, the tea, and one of Dean's clean sweatshirts that they knew fit you giant and comforting. Knocking softly on the door, Hannah let them in, allowing the circle to complete itself once more around your bed. Seeing you there—clean, protected by your friends, and wearing the clothes of the house—the faces of the four boys visibly relaxed, reminding you that no matter how deep the fracture, their unconditional love would always be the perfect sanctuary to rebuild you.

[great33st]

‵、¸ 𝙩𝒉𝙚 𝙚𝒎𝙚𝒓𝙜𝒆𝙣𝒄𝙮 𝙨𝒉𝙞𝒇𝙩 part. iii ⊹ garrett graham & dean di laurentis

⌗ pairing — garrett graham x dean di laurentis x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — Determined to leave the crushing weight of the hospital behind, she steps into the chaotic energy of the championship after-party, completely unaware that her choices have already set a trap. In a single heartbeat, the territorial lines of the campus are redrawn. Her arrival sparks a silent, dangerous rivalry between Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis—turning a night of celebration into a high-stakes psychological game where her innocence is the ultimate prize, and neither captain has any intention of playing fair.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, high-content erotic scenes, and mature language suitable for adults audiences (18+ / MDNI).

⌗ the emergency shift.- part ii ⌗ the emergency shift.- part i | ⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST

The return to the epicenter of the party was like plunging all at once into a pool of freezing water. The blasting music hit your chest, making your ribs vibrate with a violence so deafening that it forced you to stop on the last step, closing your eyes for a brief second and breathing deeply so as not to lose your balance. The change in frequencies was brutal; you went from the static-charged silence in the dim light of the upstairs hallway to the uncontrolled roar of a human mass in full catharsis. But within a few minutes, the pure adrenaline from the encounter in the hallway began to dilute in your bloodstream, giving way to a strange, dense, and strangely pleasant feeling of lightness. The air downstairs was stale, thick, heavy with the sweat of bodies dancing pressed together in the main room, the sweetish smell of cheap beer spilled over the carpets, and that suffocating human heat that only Briar fraternities knew how to concentrate on victory nights. You decided, for once in your structured life, to turn off the switch of your clinical mind. You forced yourself to ignore the cognitive dissonance that threatened to analyze your every heartbeat and, to your own surprise, ended up enjoying the night like you hadn't in months.

You felt strangely comfortable, an absolute anomaly in your behavior patterns. The atmosphere of the house, which at the beginning of the night seemed like hostile territory, a wild jungle foreign to your orderly routine of textbooks, diagnostic simulations, and milimetric shifts, became warm, almost welcoming as the hours ticked by. By stopping the analysis of every corner as if it were a social experiment or a behavioral case study, you allowed the tide of the party to drag you in completely. You ended up sharing more than usual with the hockey guys. They were mountains of muscle with thunderous laughs, deep voices, and varsity jackets who, at the beginning of the night, had seemed like intimidating and overwhelming figures, but now, under the diffuse light of the room, revealed themselves as a group of loud, passionate, and surprisingly loyal college students.

Amid shared laughs, the constant clinking of red plastic cups, and exaggerated locker-room anecdotes about past games, bus trips, and ancestral rivalries with other faculties, you discovered a vital fact about the house's internal dynamics: John Tucker was the real engine and the silent heart of the place. While everyone else celebrated the victory by shouting and tearing up the room with jumps and team chants, Tucker calmly made sure the kitchen didn't end up in ashes. You found him there later, standing in front of the stove, spatula in hand and with a patience that seemed infinite, preparing mountains of snacks, spicy chicken wings, and fast food for the battalion of hungry athletes who walked in and out in search of provisions. He was, literally, the father of the group. He made sure no one drank too much without eating something solid first, cleaned up disasters before they became irreparable, and watched over the physical structure of the house surviving the weekend. Seeing him amiably scold a huge two-meter defenseman for leaving a cup misplaced on the counter he had just cleaned made you truly smile; it was a deeply human reminder that, behind the facade of campus demigods and heroes of the ice rink, they were just boys looking for a safe haven to drop their guard and be themselves.

Throughout the entire night, Garrett and Dean continued with their own thing. They fulfilled their roles as perfect hosts, moving through the room with an enviable ease that denoted how used they were to being the center of attention, and spent much of their time with Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes. You saw them laugh, dance under the low lights, and claim the space that rightfully belonged to them in Briar's complex social hierarchy. However, the flirting with you never completely stopped; it mutated into something much more subtle. There was no need for them to come talk to you or break the circle of people surrounding you; the tension had become subterranean, a thread invisible to the rest of the world but suffocating for you. It boiled down to a dark look from Dean from across the room while holding Allie's waist in the middle of the dance floor, a heavy gaze that locked onto your eyes for exactly three seconds before pulling away with a deliberate slowness that made your skin crawl. Or Garrett lifting his plastic cup in your direction with a complicit, feline, and tiny smile in the middle of a serious conversation with Hannah, letting you know that, no matter who he was talking to or what role he had to play in front of the crowd, a part of his attention remained fixed on the exact corner where you were. You knew perfectly well that you were playing with fire, that you were stepping into the forbidden ground of that emotional vandalism that your moral compass feared so much, but at that moment, under the anesthetic effect of social alcohol, the players' laughter, and the constant music, the heat of danger was delicious.

Toward the end of the early morning, when the music volume dropped a couple of decibels and the crowd began to scatter toward the upper bedrooms or look for taxis at the entrance, you ended up sitting on one of the wooden stools in the kitchen, swinging your loose legs and talking quietly with Beau. His presence was the perfect anchor, the gravitational force you needed not to float too far away from your own reality after a night so out of the ordinary. Beau talked about mundane and trivial things—the state of traffic on campus, the exams on Monday, how incredibly good the food Tucker had prepared tasted—and you limited yourself to listening to him, feeling the accumulated fatigue of the week finally settle into your muscles like a heavy blanket. Looking at the moderate mess in the kitchen and the party atmosphere that was slowly beginning to fade, you realized that, against all odds, it had been a great night. For something that completely broke your strict intern schedules, your clinical diagnosis simulations, and your hospital shifts, you had allowed yourself the luxury of simply being a twenty-one-year-old girl having a good time, free of professional labels and external expectations.

However, the idyll of the party did not last forever. Monday morning dragged you back to the raw, cold, and gray reality with the destructive violence of a slammed door. And on Tuesday, fate decided to test every ounce of your psychological and professional endurance at the hospital.

During your evening shift in the psychiatric emergency unit at the General Hospital, things spiraled out of control in the blink of an eye. You had been assigned the admission and initial evaluation of a young patient, a boy your own age caught in a severe psychotic episode stemming from a poorly treated college anxiety crisis and abuse of stimulants for studying. When trying to conduct the mandatory clinical interview in the evaluation cubicle, the environment turned hostile in a millisecond. The boy began to agitate, his wild eyes fixed on your uniform, shouting accusations that you were part of a conspiracy to lock him up and destroy his career. You tried to use your verbal de-escalation techniques, keeping your tone of voice low and your posture neutral, but the patient's paranoia escalated physically in a flash. With a violent movement, the boy threw a metal tray of instruments that was on the side table. The object crashed directly against the concrete wall, a few centimeters from your face, scattering forceps and gauze across the floor with a deafening crash.

The nurses in the unit had to intervene immediately, entering the cubicle to mechanically restrain the patient while he fought and shouted insults. You stood paralyzed in the corner of the room, your back pressed against the wall, the chart papers visibly trembling in your hands and the sharp beep of the code gray alarm drilling into your ears. It was a brutal technical and emotional inconvenience that left your body shaking and your mind plunged into a sea of doubts. The remorse for not knowing how to anticipate the patient's behavioral escalation, the guilt of feeling terrified instead of clinical, ate at your insides during the rest of the night shift. You spent the dead hours reviewing the procedure manual, wondering if you truly had the inner strength necessary to withstand the pressure of that profession.

On Wednesday morning you arrived at the university campus dragging your feet, with deep dark circles under your eyes that not even concealer could hide and a level of stress that bordered on a nervous breakdown. You hadn't eaten breakfast, your stomach was a tight knot of reheated coffee and suppressed nerves. You sat on one of the wooden benches in the main hallway of the faculty of health sciences, leaning your forehead against your bent knees and closing your eyes, feeling completely overwhelmed by the chaos of the hospital.

—Hey... breathe. You're going to wear down the tiles if you keep staring at them with that much intensity.

You lifted your head slowly, feeling your neck stiff. It was Beau. He carried two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, a paper bag from the cafeteria, and an expression of genuine, warm, and clean concern in his eyes that disarmed you instantly. He sat next to you on the bench without asking permission, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. He extended one of the cups and the bag to you.

—I know perfectly well that you haven't eaten anything all morning —Beau said, in a soft tone of voice, devoid of any mockery—. I know you when you enter that self-destruction mode from studying or the hospital. You have to eat something solid, or you're going to faint in the middle of the hallway. I brought you a cheese bagel. Come on, eat.

You didn't have the strength needed to fake your usual clinical facade of the "perfect intern who has everything under control." You accepted the coffee cup, feeling how the heat returned some sensitivity to your cold fingers. With your voice broken by accumulated fatigue and vulnerability right at the surface, you began to speak. You confessed to him what had happened on Tuesday in emergencies, the real and physical fear you felt when the tray hit the wall, and the tremendous clinical frustration of feeling that you had failed in managing the patient's crisis.

Beau did not interrupt you even once. He didn't try to give you a theoretical lesson, or quote textbook authors, or judge your lack of professional reflexes in a risky situation. He simply stayed there, by your side, listening to the chaotic venting of your saturated mind, allowing his shoulder to brush yours in a constant, solid, and peaceful contact that served as a shield against the rest of the world.

—You're not a diagnostic machine —Beau told you gently, reaching his peak right to your chest when you finished speaking. He leaned in a bit, looking for your gaze—. You're a third-year student, not a psychiatrist with twenty years of experience. You were afraid because you're alive, not because you're incompetent. And the fact that it hurts you so much, the fact that you're here worried about that boy's well-being and about what you could have done better, proves that you're going to be an amazing therapist. Stop punishing yourself for a difficult Tuesday. Do you promise me? Now, take a bite of the bagel, please. I need to see that you take care of yourself too.

As you watched him speak, observing the golden morning light streaming through the faculty windows and illuminating his calm, secure, and honest features, something in your chest changed rhythm completely. It was a subtle shift, a small and imperceptible crack in the stone wall that you had built with so much effort around your emotions to keep everyone at the exact distance of a diagnosis. Little by little, with a slowness that scared you, you realized that you were beginning to develop real, deep, and legitimate feelings for him.

This had nothing to do with the purely physical obsession, the runaway adrenaline, or the dark and destructive magnetism that Dean and Garrett triggered in your systems; Beau was a refuge. It was clean peace, it was unconditional support, it was the genuine desire to want to be near someone who looked at you for who you were in your vulnerability, and not for the power game or the conquest you represented in the campus social hierarchy. The idea of falling in love or developing such a real emotional bond toward him filled you with panic, adding a new layer of complexity and guilt to your already messy mental map. You felt torn, broken into pieces between the warmth Beau offered you and the dangerous attraction dragging you toward the two hockey players.

To make the week's cognitive dissonance worse, the attention of Briar's two captains did not give you the slightest truce, proving that their threads remained connected to you regardless of distance. That same afternoon, barely an hour after having said goodbye to Beau with your heart beating in a completely different way and your stomach finally full, your phone vibrated in your coat pocket. It was a direct message from a number you no longer needed to identify:

“We saw you in the health hallway with the good boy, doctor. You look much better when you're stressed by us in the kitchen than when you look for comfort in the wrong arms. See you soon.” — G.

You pressed the phone against your chest, feeling the pressure becoming unbearable. You had the warm feelings for Beau blooming inside you like a promise of stability, the guilt from the hospital crushing your academic morale, and the digital and psychological stalking of Dean and Garrett reminding you that you were trapped in a game you no longer knew if you wanted or could escape.

Because of all that, by Thursday afternoon your brain was on the verge of a total collapse from compassion fatigue and information overload. You felt that if you analyzed one more human behavior, if you heard a single monitor beep, or if you tried to categorize someone else's impulse in your notebooks, you would break into a thousand unrecoverable pieces. You needed an urgent escape, a space of absolute silence and cold where your analytical mind could not self-destruct with thoughts on a loop.

And your only sanctuary in the world was a very well-kept secret. Hardly anyone on the university campus knew that you knew how to skate. In an institution where ice hockey was an absolute religion and the rink was the exclusive and sacred property of elite athletes, you possessed a technical ability and a speed that you had jealously hidden from the public eye. It was a private talent, a space of pure control and bodily catarsis that only your brother and Gracie knew about. For the rest of the world, you were the serious intern, the girl with the books who spent her entire days locked in the library or running through the hospital hallways.

Taking advantage of a dead hour in the afternoon, a specific moment when the university hockey rink was usually completely deserted due to class schedule overlaps and technical breaks for the main team, you took refuge in the huge stadium. The silence of the place was sepulchral, almost religious, broken only by the low, rhythmic, and distant hum of the underground generators that kept the ice at the perfect temperature. You changed your street shoes for your personal skates on the wooden bench in the empty lobby, tying the laces with a mechanical and firm precision, feeling how the stiff, cold leather hugged your ankles, giving them the support that your mind couldn't find anywhere else.

When you took your first step onto the rink, crossing the line of the barrier, the characteristic and biting cold of the place hit your face with the force of a clean slap, instantly clearing the mental fog, the memory of the aggressive patient at the hospital, Beau's words, and the accumulated fatigue of the week. You began to move. At first you did it with slow, cautious impulses, testing the polished and perfect surface of the ice, but soon you gained speed. You glided with an innate fluidity that required no theoretical logic, no presumptive diagnoses, no academic approvals of any kind. There were no hospital rules in here. There were no gray codes. It was just you, the rhythmic, dry, and sharp sound of the steel blades cutting the frozen surface, and the freezing air filling your lungs with every step.

You let your own body remember the automatic turns, the perfect and milimetric leaning of the knees to keep the center of gravity low, and the glorious freedom of moving forward at full speed without a fixed direction. You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling the freezing wind whip your hair and numb your cheeks as you accelerated recklessly in the curves of the rink. For the first time all week, you truly breathed a sigh of relief, releasing all the accumulated tension in your chest in a long breath that instantly transformed into a small cloud of vapor floating in front of you. The ice was the only place in the universe where you had absolute control of movement, space, and time. Here you weren't the future therapist in charge of containing and fixing the chaos of other people's minds; here you were movement itself, a pure physical force without contradictions.

You made a clean transition backward, changing the front of the glide with flawless elegance and technique, crossing your legs in a perfect geometric pattern that left clean marks on the freshly resurfaced ice. You enjoyed the echo of your own hurried breathing resonating in the rafters of the huge empty stadium, feeling for a few minutes like the absolute owner of that frozen desert.

Or at least, that's what your mind wanted to believe.

As you braked near the center of the rink, right over the painted logo in the middle, digging the inside edges of the blades to stop dead and kicking up a small, bright, and dense cloud of frost that floated in the air before falling back down, you turned your head toward the upper stands. You were visually looking for the exit to start heading back, but your gaze instinctively drifted toward the press box and the VIP lounges, plunged into the shadow of the turned-off lights.

A sudden, sharp, electric, and deep shiver, which had absolutely nothing to do with the low temperature of the place, ran down your spine, paralyzing your muscles on the spot and freezing the air in your throat.

Leaning against the metal railing of the upper boxes, completely motionless, like two dark and lurking statues emerging from the stadium's shadow, were them. Dean Di Laurentis and Garrett Graham.

They weren't wearing their heavy game uniforms, or the pads that made them look like relentless and inhuman masses of muscle on the ice; they wore dark civilian jackets, jeans, and comfortable clothes, but their silhouettes were perfectly unmistakable to your eyes at any distance. You didn't know how long they had been hanging around there in the darkness of the empty stands, watching in absolute, consuming, and meticulous silence your every turn, your every transition backward, every moment of weakness and freedom in which you had believed yourself completely alone and free from the campus scrutiny.

Despite the considerable physical distance and the dim light of the stadium, you could feel the direct impact of their gazes on your skin. The way Dean's usually lazy and uninterested posture had tensed completely, his arms resting tightly on the iron railing and his hazel eyes shining with a new, dangerous, and possessive fascination from the height. Beside him, Garrett Graham stood tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket, but with his head slightly tilted forward, devouring the scene with the same icy and analytical intensity with which a team captain studies the structural weakness of his opponent before ordering a decisive and irreversible play.

You had stripped away your cold intern facade in front of them without knowing it. You had shown an intimate, free, and real part of yourself that was not recorded in your textbooks or protected by your moral codes. Your best-kept secret, your only space of peace, was completely exposed before the two men you had desperately tried to flee from all week, and the fragile truce of the routine you had built with Beau shattered into a thousand pieces under the weight of their silent glances from the darkness above. You had no escape; the game had moved to their own temple.

The end of spring at Briar did not bring calm, but rather the density of an outcome that had felt inevitable since the first slice of the blades on the ice. The entire university had poured itself into organizing the great end-of-cycle gala night, designed under the concept of classical Shakespearean theater. The campus authorities had allowed the transformation of the ancient gardens and the grand stone hall into a baroque labyrinth: crimson velvet draperies that choked the echo of conversations, gas torches casting elongated, flickering shadows against colonial walls, and the strict requirement to wear Venetian masks to erase identities, allowing darker impulses to circulate without the weight of social judgment.

For you, the night did not represent a celebration for having survived the third year of your studies; it was the physical conclusion of a cognitive dissonance that had torn your chest apart for months. You could no longer keep up the facade of the neat, analytical intern. The milimetric order of your clinical diagnoses, the progress notes you wrote with perfect handwriting at the hospital, and the ethical distance you strove so hard to maintain had completely crumbled before their territorial fixation and constant stalking.

You stopped in front of the lobby mirror before entering the grand ballroom. You wore a black silk dress that clung to your curves like a second skin, leaving your back completely bare down to the very base of your spine, where the fabric fell in a fluid drape that moved with every one of your trembling steps. The mask you chose was simple, made of dark lace, covering just enough to highlight the tightness of your jaw and the moisture in your eyes. The social consumption of alcohol floated in the room’s air like an invisible mist; spiced punch and champagne glasses circulated on silver trays, while a chamber orchestra distorted classical pieces with modern, deep bass, creating a dense, heavy, almost Dionysian atmosphere.

You scanned the crowd for Beau as soon as you crossed the threshold. You loved him. His warmth, his persistence in making sure you ate, his coffees in the faculty hallways, and his firm hand on your wrist after your crisis with the hospital patient had been your only safe harbor of peace in the middle of the storm. You found him near the side arches of the gala, away from the main noise. He was impeccable in his dark suit, holding a glass with that calm, honest, and clean smile that always, without fail, returned the breath that the other two stole from you.

You approached him with your heart beating with a tragic slowness, feeling the brush of silk against your legs as a reminder of your own betrayal. The weight of your secrets kept you from breathing. Noticing your proximity, Beau set his glass on a side table and turned toward you. His smile vanished almost immediately upon noticing the stiffness of your shoulders and the fixity of your gaze behind the black lace. He took your hands, finding them freezing despite the ballroom’s heat.

—You’re here —Beau said, his deep, soft voice dropping in volume to create a bubble between the two of you—. I’ve been looking for you among the masks for an hour. I brought you something to eat from the main table, I know you left the hospital late and surely haven't tasted a bite. Are you okay? You seem... distant.

—Don't worry about the food, Beau. Thank you —you replied, and your voice sounded broken, stripped of the academic authority you used to assume. You forced your eyes to hold his gaze, absorbing the clean light of his pupils for the last time—. I need you to listen to me very carefully. You have to leave this party. You have to get out of here right now.

Beau frowned, his hands tightening around yours with more firmness, trying to convey a stability you no longer possessed.

—What are you talking about? You just got here. If it's about what happened at the hospital on Tuesday, we already talked about it. You're human, you don't have to carry the whole weight of the unit by yourself. I'm here with you. We came to enjoy this together.

—You don't understand, Beau... it's not about the hospital —you said, feeling tears gather behind the lace mask, burning your eyelids—. I don't belong to your light. I don't belong to the peace you offer me, even though I desire it with every part of my being. What I am... what they have awakened in me during these weeks, is a behavioral anomaly that has no cure in my textbooks. The mental map I built is broken. I love you too much to drag you down into this abyss with me. You don't deserve the chaos that comes with me.

Beau remained completely motionless. His eyes scanned your face, looking for a crack to enter and save you, but the tragic resolution in your features gave him the answer before you could add another word. He knew the campus. He knew the territorial fixity of Dean Di Laurentis and the relentless authority of Garrett Graham. He understood the weight of the messages you had received, he understood the looks in the cafeteria, and he realized that your warning was not a burst of hysteria, but a definitive act of sacrifice to protect his integrity and his future from the psychological violence of the two captains.

—If I leave now... —Beau whispered, his voice heavy with a dull ache that broke your heart—, I know you won't look at me the same way in the hallways again. I know what this means.

—It means I am saving you from me —you articulated in a thread of a voice.

Beau let go of your hands slowly, feeling the immediate emptiness of the cold air between his fingers. He leaned toward you and gave you one last kiss on the forehead, a warm, slow, and painful contact that felt like a goodbye to a life you could never have.

—I hope you find whatever you're looking for in the dark —he murmured, before turning on his heels.

You watched him walk toward the grand ballroom exit, his straight silhouette losing itself definitively among the crowd of masks and velvet. As soon as he vanished from your field of vision, the last trace of light from your old life went out, leaving you alone in the dimness, ready to surrender yourself at the altar of your true owners.

As soon as Beau's figure crossed the threshold of the main doors, the atmosphere around you changed completely. Two massive, coordinated silhouettes emerged from the shadows. A large, firm hand belonging to Dean Di Laurentis rested directly on the bare skin of your upper back, sliding down with a deliberate slowness until it gripped your waist tightly, pinning your hips against his torso. At the same time, Garrett Graham appeared right in front of you, completely blocking off the ballroom.

—The time for playing doctor is over, baby —Dean whispered directly against your ear, his voice turning into a low, thick growl—. You gave the good boy his exit ticket. Now you belong to us completely.

—You have nowhere to run inside here —Garrett added, taking a step forward that shortened the distance until the fabric of his jacket brushed the silk of your dress.

Without giving you the slightest room to respond, they both guided you out of the main hall, dragging you through the deserted corridors of the old wing of the theatrical arts faculty. They brought you into the private dressing room area of the main theater, where the darkness was absolute. Garrett shut the heavy oak door behind him with a sharp thud, sliding the iron bolt.

The high tension that had accumulated exploded on the spot. Garrett cornered you against the solid wooden table of the dressing room, trapping both of your hands above your head with just one of his large, calloused hands. He leaned over you and claimed your mouth with a brutal, possessive kiss that forced your lips open, making you groan against his tongue.

At the same time, Dean positioned himself behind you. His hands slid down the black silk of your dress, moving up your bare thighs, caressing the inner skin with a pressure that made you gasp. With a clean, firm tug, Dean pulled down the back zipper of your dress. The black silk slipped off your shoulders, falling to your waist, leaving your firm breasts completely exposed to the cold air of the dressing room. Dean knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your side to trap one of your nipples between his wet lips, sucking with a rhythmic force while his fingers sought out your core.

You were a living paradox: your mind judged you severely, but your body surrendered completely, dripping wetness between your legs. Garrett let go of your hands, burying his fingers tightly into your short hair to force your head up to look him directly in the eyes, while his other hand unfastened his pants, exposing his erect, thick, and throbbing length.

—Look at me —Garrett ordered you, his voice cracked with pure lust—. Tell me what your psychology manual says about how much you want us to tear you to pieces in here.

Dean gripped your thighs tightly, lifting you completely and sitting you on the edge of the wooden table, spreading your legs wide open. Your soaked femininity was left fully exposed. Without further ado, Garrett positioned himself between your legs, held you firmly by the hips, and thrust into you in a single colossal push, sinking to the root and stretching your walls to the limit.

You let out a sharp cry of pleasure that was devoured by Dean's lips, who leaned in to kiss you with his tongue again, savoring your submission while Garrett began to thrust into you with a wild and ruthless rhythm. You felt Garrett's hot length hitting the depth of your womb, every impact making you moan. To drive you into absolute physical delirium, Dean's fingers descended to your pelvis, rubbing your erect clitoris with fast, circular motions that made you lose all sense of space.

After a few minutes of a frenzied rhythm, Garrett pulled out with a hoarse groan, leaving you empty and pulsing before Dean took over. He forced you to turn around, resting your hands and knees on the table. Dean positioned himself right behind you and plunged inside at once, penetrating you from behind with long, deep thrusts that made you claw at the wood.

While Dean slammed into you with animal force, making you collide against his pelvis, Garrett knelt in front of you on the table, gripping your jaw firmly to force your mouth open and make you take his erect member, burying it deep to the back of your throat. The exchange of fluids, the suffocating heat of your sweaty bodies, and the scent of explicit sex created the perfect storm.

—You're ours —Dean groaned near your ear, his hands leaving red marks on your hips as he accelerated the thrusts, feeling the spasmodic contractions of your vaginal muscles tightening around his length, announcing your orgasm.

The climax hit you with the force of lightning, a wave of heat that made you contract violently around Dean's length while you groaned muffledly with your mouth full. Seconds later, with a hoarse roar, Dean came deep inside you, flooding you with his hot seed, followed almost at the exact same instant by Garrett, who pulled out of your mouth to ejaculate over your chest, your neck, and your face in large, thick streams of white heat.

The absolute silence returned to the faculty dressing room, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic, and coupled sound of three ragged breaths trying to catch the air in the dim light. You collapsed completely onto the wooden surface of the table, your muscles limp, your body covered in foreign sweat, semen, and the shredded remnants of the black silk that was once your gala attire. The cognitive dissonance had died definitively on that floor; there was nothing left to analyze, no diagnosis to issue, no moral rule left to protect.

Garrett Graham moved first with an icy parsimony. He grabbed one of the clean towels from the vanity and wiped your face, your chest, and your legs with a possessive gentleness that instilled more fear than his own physical violence. He helped you sit up smoothly, supporting your weight while your legs trembled upon the invisible skates of your reality. Dean approached from behind, pulling what was left of the black dress over your shoulders, placing slow, wet kisses over the red marks his own fingers had left engraved upon your skin.

You looked at yourself in the vanity mirror, under the dim light of the dressing room: your eyes were no longer those of the neat, analytical, and distant hospital intern. The gaze looking back from the reflection belonged to someone who had crossed the behavioral point of no return. You had dropped the shield of your books forever.

There was no open ending in this story. No doubts were left floating in the air about what would happen on Monday on campus or in the weeks to come. As you walked out of that ancient dressing room, stepping through the deserted hallway flanked by both of them, holding their hands with a firmness born from pure acceptance, you assumed your destiny definitively as the dark queen of their territory.

You left behind the clean light and the promise of peace from Beau; you buried the rigidity of your medical manuals and ethics beneath the ice of the rink. You irreversibly became the third part of an indissoluble triangle, a perfect geometric structure of power, submission, and absolute desire, consumed and consecrated for eternity to the will of the two Briar captains. The curtain of your old life fell with force, and the tragedy of the perfect intern was buried forever under the weight of their shadows.

[severedlamb]

‘BEHIND CLOSED DOORS’

summary: garrett graham is your protective older brother and you’ve been sneaking around with dean behind his back.

contains: fluff + sexual content.

“oh my god, are you purposely trying to wake the whole house up?” you whisper shouted at dean who was in front of you on the stairs.

he turned his blonde head back to look at you, a perplexed look on his face as he threw both of his hands up in innocence.

dean had snuck you into the frat house. no one knew the two of you have been together for pretty much the entire summer, so it resulted in having to sneak in after dark.

your big brother just so happened to be deans best friend and roommate. he would put both of you in an early grave if he knew you were seeing dean “the manwhore” di laurentis of all people.

garrett loved both of you and had the patience of a saint, but he would castrate dean if he found out he had even looked at you in the wrong way.

“you were the one who had to get a snack first and couldn’t just come straight up” he whispered back pointedly, the wood creaking with each slow step the two of you took.

you narrowed your eyes at him before glancing down at the cookie in your hand. well . . . he wasn’t wrong, but you weren’t going to let him shame you out of your baked good.

as you stepped ahead of dean impatiently, a yelp of surprise escaped your mouth when he slapped your ass on the way past.

the tiny shorts and tank top didn’t go amiss with him and he had been desperate to get his hands on you from the second you walked through the door ten minutes ago.

dean had a smug grin on his face, his eyes resting on the curve of your behind.

you softly giggled and shook your head, padding barefooted across the hallway until you reached deans bedroom door.

the sound of another door opening made you freeze in place, your panicked gaze clashing with deans.

tucker stumbled out of his room and headed towards the bathroom, his hair sticking up in every direction as he rubbed at his eyes.

“hey, y/n” he slurred tiredly, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

“what the fuck” dean mouthed loudly before hissing in pain as you suddenly gripped your sharp nails into his skin, pulling him in to the safe confines of his four walls before anyone else saw you.

the two of you stood in silence until you heard tucker retreat back to his room.

breathing a sigh of relief, you flopped down on deans bed face first.

a whistle left deans lips, his hand resting on his chin as he admired the perfect view he had of your ass from where he was stood.

“fuck, baby you look absolutely heavenly right now” he muttered appreciatively.

deciding to put on a little show for him, you arched your back just enough to be able to hook your fingers underneath your shorts and panties.

you pulled them down your thighs at a frustratingly slow pace and left them in a pile at your feet, twisting your neck just in time to see dean adjust his loose grey sweatpants, his arousal being clear as day.

he was mumbling incoherent nonsense as he knelt down behind you, not being able to restrain himself any longer.

his breath was warm against your skin, the feeling of anticipation coursing through your body.

any previous fear of getting caught vanished as he his palms landed on your ass, squeezing at your flesh.

dean was always slow with it, never wanting to rush the moment despite how desperate he always was.

“perfect” he whispered to himself, his thumb spreading your folds, your glistening pussy on full display.

you never felt shy when you were with dean, letting him see every part of you unashamedly.

his thumb dipped inside of you, coating his digit in arousal of your own.

a shaky moan slipped out of your mouth, revelling in the feeling of his hands finally being on you.

dean leaned down placing experimental kisses against your pussy before you felt his tongue against you.

he liked to toy and tease with you, enjoying the sound of your breathing getting heavy and your legs wobbly in quiet desperation.

when his tongue was finally where you wanted it, your unfiltered whining filled the room, your hand slapping against your mouth as you remembered where you were.

the sound of dean lapping at your slick pussy made your stomach ache with desire.

his feel of blonde hair was light against your skin as he nestled himself against you as much as he was physically able to.

“fuck dean, don’t stop” you choked, your sensations heightened, all too aware of every little touch right now.

he hummed against you in agreement and that was all it took to push you over the edge.

your fingers gripped the covers and your sounds of pleasure circled the room as you fell apart on his tongue.

dean gripped your unsteady legs in his hands, letting you slowly ride your orgasm out.

he let up and you rolled onto your back, your heart beating so fast in your chest it felt like it was going to burst.

a loud bang on the door followed by a muffled voice sent a wave of panic through your body as you scrambled to pull your shorts back into place.

dean wiped his face with the back of his hand, and you could tell this whole situation amused him.

“di laurentis, i know you can hear me” someone shouted from the other side.

his eyes widened as he edged closer towards the closed door, “it’s your fucking brother” he mouthed at you.

“yooo, what’s up dude?” dean shouted back at garrett, not giving you time to process that your brother was stood a mere few feet away from you right now.

“it’s 3 in the fucking morning. we have practice in a few hours and some of us don’t want to hear this pornographic shit all night” garrett groaned in annoyance.

your head fell into your hands in horror and you wondered how if this was actually happening right now or if it was a bad dream.

“gotcha, dude. i’m heading to sleep now so you won’t hear another peep from me” dean says, throwing a wink your way as though he was lying through his teeth.

garrett’s response was nothing but muffled pissed off curse words as you heard him head back to his own room, the door slamming shut behind him.

“fuck! what is wrong with you? dean hissed, flinching back when your hand slapped against his forearm.

you pointed a finger at him, “this is all your fault”

he smirked at you smugly, “is it my fault that i’m good at fucki-“

you huffed and cut off his obvious crude remark by throwing one of his pillows at him, hitting him square in the chest, “i’m not coming over here anymore”

he raised his brows, wrapping you up in his monstrously strong arms and dragging you into bed next to him.

dean peppered sloppy kisses all over your face until you were a laughing mess in his arms, “you’re never leaving, actually”

your body flooded with heat and you looked up into those mischievous blue eyes, knowing he would keep you here forever if he could.

and you knew you’d let him.

[harryspet]

𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 (2) g.graham

pairing: Dark!Garrett Graham x Reader

synopsis: One date leads to another, and Garrett slowly but surely works his way into your life. As tensions escalate with your roommate, it becomes harder for him to let you out of his sight.

warnings: soft!dark!garrett, possessiveness, overprotectiveness, controlling relationship dynamic, innocent reader, future smut (i promise it's coming)

word count: 4k

part one

A scared yelp escapes you as you open your front door. Garrett texted you I’m here just five seconds ago. You find him in the hallway dressed in a forest-green sweatshirt and dark sweatpants, which stand in contrast to your cozy yellow sweater and favorite yoga pants. “Sorry,” you apologize quickly, hands against your cheeks as you feel them heat with embarrassment, “I thought you’d be waiting in your car.”

His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about. 

You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”

You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.

You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.

When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.

“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty. 

Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation. 

“Ready now, Bunny?”

Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”

You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”

He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”

You nodded quietly. 

“How often is he there?”

“Well, they just got back together–”

“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”

You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”

You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”

“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”

“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car. 

You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.

During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally. 

The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends? 

“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral. 

You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”

“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.” 

You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.

Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.

"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"

"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."

Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.

"Thank you so much."

"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"

"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.

Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.

"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.

Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.

Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.

"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."

"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."

You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.

He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.

"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.

"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."

"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."

You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.

"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"

"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"

"So what's your favorite movie?"

And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.

You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.

The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.

You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.

Paige: Are you still coming home tonight? Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week? Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :) Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st

"What's wrong?"

"What? Nothing."

You realize Garrett has paused the movie.

You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.

"Your hands are shaking."

The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.

Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.

"What did she say?"

"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"

"Y/N."

Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.

Then he holds out his hand expectantly.

Your heart starts beating faster.

You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.

"So her boyfriend's moving in?"

"Just for the week."

"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"

You can't meet his eyes.

"It pulls out," you mumble.

"Fuck that."

"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."

"Do you even have the money to give her?"

"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"

"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."

A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.

Garrett's jaw ticks.

You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.

"Please, can we finish the movie?"

Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.

Please.

Please.

Please.

You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.

"C'mere."

His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.

You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.

His tone lightens.

"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."

"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."

"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.

You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.

It's Beth March's death that gets you.

The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.

The rolling credits are the last thing you see.

And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one? 

Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy. 

And all of your responses were the same. 

So sorry!!

Of course!! 

That’s fine!! 

I really don’t mind!!!!

His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you. 

He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir. 

Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing. 

Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.

He'd make sure this became a regular thing.

You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.

"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.

Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.

"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.

"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."

"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."

"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.

"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.

"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."

"What?" you'd asked with a smile.

"A kiss."

You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"

"Yes, genius."

"I've never kissed anyone—"

Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"

"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."

"You've never kissed someone first?"

You nodded hesitantly.

"Then let me be your first."

A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.

"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"

You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.

Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.

You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"

Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.

Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.

If there was any control you had left, you let it go.

Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.

His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.

You only tried to pull away because you needed air.

He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.

"Garrett," you breathed.

Immediately, he loosened his grip.

"Can we... I feel..."

"You feel what, Bunny?"

"Overwhelmed."

"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."

"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."

Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.

Maybe he wanted something in between.

You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.

And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?

"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"

He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.

You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.

"I like you like this."

He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.

"Like what?"

"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"

"You can't?"

"I'm crazy about you."

He kissed your cheek.

Then the other.

Teasing you.

And you found yourself melting against him.

"I hate when you leave."

"Why?"

"This feels right, doesn't it?"

A kiss against your nose.

"You with me."

Another brush of his lips.

"I think you need me."

"I do?"

He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.

"I'll take good care of you."

You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.

"You'll let me take care of you, right?"

Your lips parted.

You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.

But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.

"Yes."

A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.

"Good fucking girl."

Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.

Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.

The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.

You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.

It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.

She agrees.

She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.

Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.

And ultimately, short-lived.

A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.

Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.

So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.

Except she's nowhere to be found.

The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.

The bus isn't running anymore.

And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.

Maybe she's just busy driving.

11:20.

You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.

11:35.

Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.

11:45.

Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.

"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.

"Why are you still in the city?"

You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.

"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."

"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."

Not a question.

An observation.

"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"

"I'm sitting outside the building."

"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"

You nod before realizing he can't see you.

"Y-yes."

"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."

Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.

"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"

You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.

"Okay, Garrett."

You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.

"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."

"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."

You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.

"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."

"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."

His voice is deep and eerily controlled.

"Are you inside yet?"

The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.

"I'm inside."

"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."

"Okay. Thank you so much."

"Yeah, of course, baby."

Hope you enjoyed this chapter more from the reader's perspective!! If you were not added to the taglist, it's probably because you did not reblog or leave your thoughts on the last chapter :)

[f1driverszona]

Second Masterlist

Some more f1 drivers, f2 drivers s

What kind of fics I write: dark, fluff, angst, smut

Key:

🧸 = Fluff ☪️ = angst 🔥 = smut 🖤 = dark 💛 = platonic

~ Toto wolff ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

Rumour has it ☪️🔥

There’s a rumour going on in the paddock that Toto Wolff is seeing his enemies daughter but is it just a rumour?

Sugar baby 🧸

Summary: your older richer boyfriend loves to spoil you even if you try to protest, he won’t stop spoiling you.

~ George Russell ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

Twisted game of hide and seek 🔥🖤

Summary: George makes you play a game of hide and seek when he overheard you talking about breaking up with him.

~ Fernando Alonso ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

~ Arthur Leclerc ~

One shots

Older but not wiser🖤🔥

Summary: Ever since you can remember, your bestfriend’s brother always use to follow you around and look at you with heart eyes, when you both got older you use to reject him cause he’s younger than you and your bestfriend’s little brother but it’s getting harder to reject him.

Imagines/blurbs

Painting skin🖤🔥

Summary: Arthur loved to paint you in his marks to make sure everyone knew you were off limits.

~ Mick Schumacher ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

~ Oscar Piastri ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

Heartless🖤☪️

Summary: if Oscar could go back in time to stop you from witnessing him doing a job and keep up his good gentleman act he would, instead now he’s stuck with you being fearful and hating him.

~ Mark Webber ~

One shots

Imagines/blurbs

Crazy but handsome 🖤☪️

Summary: you were just trying to get home before your parents gets home but instead you get snatch up by a dark handsome man who could be older enough to be your dad.

Series

Dark Alliance — Charles Leclerc & Arthur Leclerc

Mad Man — Charles Leclerc