summary: trust didn't come easily to you as a result of your colourful past. so when you end up in the starting lineup on your volleyball team and earn three victories in a row after a well known losing streak, people talk. dean di laurentis decides to give in to the rumours and seeks you out for a hot night. you refuse, and he finds himself trying to get to know you first in secret. since when did dean di laurentis play the long game?
tags: 18+ mdni, angst, fluff, comedy
characters: dean di laurentis, garrett graham, john logan, john tucker, hannah wells, allie hayes, beau maxwell, jules logan, reader
⤷ index
chapter one
𐙚｡⭑ ⇢ i'm far too obsessed with this man... just a heads up that i've only seen the show so far so that's my general knowledge of the characters. if they seem out of character, i do apologize! chapters may take a while if i don't have motivation or inspiration. also english is not my first language so i apologize in advance for any mistakes i may make.
𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 — dean di laurentis
𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐌 — briar hawks
𝐉𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐘 — #66
𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — defenseman
𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 — senior
𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄
flirty, chaotic, and far too charming for someone who should come with a warning label.
𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄
♡ fluff | ☆ angst | ✦ drama | ! smut
𖤐 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬;
! ♡ 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐏
↳ dean di laurentis x fem!reader
you’ve never been on top before, but dean has no problem letting you take your time.
𖤐 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢-𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬;
! ☆ ✦ 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋
↳ dean di laurentis x fem!reader
dean di laurentis needs a fake girlfriend for his family’s charity weekend. unfortunately, the girl he asks is the one person who can’t stand him. even more unfortunately, she might be the only one who can make it believable.
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey trophies on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
later that evening, the summer heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
Synopsis: Going home for Christmas to celebrate your sister's engagement is one thing. When the man she's marrying just happens to be the boyfriend she stole, and your parents are already worried about you being "perpetually alone," it becomes your own version of hell.
Dean needs more money. He used his college allowance already. 500,000 dollars really wasn't enough considering he bankrolls most of the parties on campus. His father, however, is sick of his shenanigans. He tells Dean that he has to prove he's responsible in order to get more money. Problem is, there isn't a responsible bone in Dean's body.
When you both meet at a party, you strike up a deal. Dean will pretend to be your boyfriend at your family's Christmas party in exchange for you pretending to be his girlfriend at his own family gathering. But what happens when things get too real?
CW: swearing, cheating, terrible family relationships, mentions of anxiety.
There will eventually be smut, so I'm going to go ahead and say MDNI!!!
Multiple parts, more than likely.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
You're pretty sure you woke up in an alternate reality. It would explain the awful headache you got the second that you opened your eyes, or the fact that you ran out of coffee grounds on today, of all days. It would also explain why you just got a text from your mom asking you to come home for winter break so that you can congratulate your sister on her engagement to Mark.
Mark. Ugh. The name itself puts a roiling pit in the bottom of your stomach. He had been your first everything. Then college had happened. You went off to Boston to pursue your philosophy degree. He stayed in Stockholm, your hometown in Wisconsin. When you came home for your first break in freshman year, you had found him with his tongue down your sister's throat in his garage.
Yeah, obviously you don't want to go back home to watch them practically hump each other on your parents' couch.
You set your phone down, determined not to bother with it right now. You have to focus on your epistemology final. In one hour, you'll be taking one of the most important tests of your life. Not really, but still, focus.
After eating a quick breakfast of toast and an over easy egg, no coffee because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, you get showered and dressed. You have to look good to feel good, so you take time to curl your hair and actually put more than mascara and lip gloss on.
By the time you walk out the door, the day already seems better. After your test, you can go to that little cafe you like to enjoy a coffee and maybe a sandwich. Maybe you can watch a movie with Phoebe-
SPLASH
You look down at your shirt, now stained brown with coffee, and gape. You look up sharply at the idiot who crashed into you. Your glare immediately sharpens.
Dean motherfucking Di Laurentis. Of course.
He scoffs at you, looking at his now crushed cup of coffee. He looks like he's searching for where the liquid inside went, the liquid currently all over your shirt.
"Are you fucking serious?" you ask, trying to fan your shirt to dry it. You blow on the fabric, hoping for any chance that you can save it.
"You ran into me, dude." he quips back, dropping his cup into a nearby trash can. "Did you forget how to look out for other people?"
You look up, laughing at the audacity of this boy. "Me? You were on your phone! While walking! Are you seriously blaming me because you were too busy sexting your girl of the day to actually walk?"
His eyebrows raise and he laughs at your heated words. "Wow. Okay. Big feelings. You definitely haven't filled up your kindness bucket today."
At your unamused glare, he laughs and softens. "I'm really sorry. Is there anything I can do? I could pay for your dry cleaning. Which cleaner do you use? I'll send them the money."
You shake your head and put your hand up to stop him. "I don't use a fucking dry cleaner. I'm not a rich prick like you. Also, I don't have time for this, I have to go." you snap, picking your bag back up from where you had dropped it.
Dean frowns, nodding. "Fine. Whatever. Okay." he says, stepping around you. "Sorry again." he calls out, walking away.
You frown at yourself. Why are you such a bitch? Usually you would've accepted a bit of help. You groan and look back down at your shirt. No time to ponder on why this person specifically irritates you. You could go back home and change, but that would just make you late to your test. Nope, you can't do that. Professor Jones is strict on being punctual on exam days.
You sigh deeply, steel yourself, and soldier on to class. Hopefully you won't be penalized for smelling like a caramel macchiato.
Seriously, who the hell drinks those?
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
"Man, fuck Benjamin Franklin. Like, honestly, I hate that bald bastard." Dean says, scowling at the flashcards in Tucker's hand.
Tucker laughs, flipping to another card. "I don't think he was even bald, dude." he says, watching Dean take another sip of his beer.
Dean frowns, head tilting in thought. "I thought they all were." he says, confusion writing all over his face.
"Reinforcing societal stereotypes before noon is a new low, even for you, Dean." Logan says as he enters the kitchen. He laughs as Dean flips him off. "Somebody didn't get his morning coffee."
"No, I literally didn't. Some chick with a stick up her ass bumped into me. I felt bad, though. Her shirt was white, and I basically ruined it." Dean says, sighing as he sets his beer down. "Fuck this. I'm failing U.S. History anyways. I need to get laid."
Dean walks over to the living room, flopping onto the couch as he opens his phone. Countless Snapchat notifications pop up. Almost all girls, with the exception of Garrett. Dean grins when he sees his favorite hook up, Kelcey, start typing.
Kelcey: We should study together.
Dean: For sure. Come over? I can kick the guys out.
Tucker walks past Dean, on his way up to his room. He looks at the smirk on Dean's face and laughs. "I know you aren't actually inviting someone over here. We have class in three hours!"
Dean sighs and looks over at Tucker. "It's scientifically proven that stress relief before a final increases your score. I'm just trying to do my best, man."
Tucker rolls his eyes. "What study is this? The Dickhead Daily? Get off your ass and go study those flashcards."
Dean groans and stands, giving his messages with Kelcey one last, longing glance. He texts her and tells her that he's busy and then puts his phone in his pocket.
"Whatever, Tuck. Just say that you get no play." he mutters as he trudges up the stairs.
The only answer he gets is a laugh as he closes his door.
Dick.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
The party, much like the ones before it, is a sweaty mess of alcohol, smoke, and sex.
Basically everything you can't stand right now.
Not only had your professor sneered at you when he caught sight of your ruined shirt, you had promptly forgot everything on your test. All because Dean Di Laurentis hadn't watched where he was going.
You sulk near the door, watching Phoebe, your best friend and old roommate, chat up a sophomore. She turns to smile at you, urging you to come over with a hand gesture. You shake your head with a soft smile, content to watch the party pass you by.
Half an hour later, Phoebe is long gone upstairs with her victim. You decide to head outside, tired of smelling weed and sweat. As you make your way, you notice John Logan. He's smiling with Garrett Graham and Hannah Wells, a couple you know from the Fifth Line drama Jules posts constantly. Your eyes roam appreciatively over Logan's well-built arms and chest, clad in a thin Henley shirt.
If only you dated hockey boys.
You finally step outside, breathing in the fresh air. It's cold, sharp in your nose. Perfect. You head to the side of the house, a blunt in your hand. You had nicked it from Phoebe before she went on her conquest. You lean against the wall, head tilted back to look at the stars as you flick your lighter on.
That's when your ears pick up a sound. A wet smack, followed by a breathy giggle. You choke on your own spit, already making you way back to the porch.
The giggles stop abruptly, hushed whispers following you as you ascend up the wooden steps. A girl runs out from around the corner of the house, ten feet away from where you had been. She is flushed, pulling the straps of her tank top back onto her shoulders. She shoots you a look as she pushes past you, heading into the house.
You're about to brush it off, considering you had been the one to cockblock, when a familiar voice sounds behind you.
"Oh hell no. You again? Why does this always happen to me?" Dean whines. He strides over to you, peering up at your face from his position at the bottom of the steps.
He looks damn good, a fitted grey shirt on with a pair of black jeans, his hair tousled. He is half-scowling, obviously too drunk to actually be pissed.
You smirk, sitting on the steps as you finally light your joint. "I didn't do anything to you. It's not my fault that you chose to hook up with someone outside."
Dean laughs and walks up the steps, sitting next to you. "You act like there was a crowd or something. We were clearly having a private moment." he quips back. "And anyways, why are you out here? The party is inside." he asks, watching you take a hit off of your blunt. He holds his hand out.
You had him the blunt hesitantly, figuring the least you can do is share. "I got overstimulated. These parties are always terrible." you explain, looking up at the night sky. You feel his gaze turn to you as he exhales.
"Anxiety? I get that." he says comfortingly, laying his own head back.
You snort, looking over. "When do you ever get anxious? Isn't that your whole thing? Big bad frat boy who doesn't give a fuck?"
He laughs, turning his own gaze to you. Your faces are separated by inches. "For the record, I give lots of fucks. I just pretend I don't, because I have a reputation to uphold." he says, taking another hit. He laughs as you swipe the joint from his hand, scowling. He blows the smoke out, smiling faintly. "And I do get anxious. Before games or tests. Or when I'm talking to pretty girls..." he trails off, eyes flicking down to your lips,
You snort, turning back to the sky. "Wow. That was good. Did you, I don't know, use ChatGPT to generate pick-up lines?" you ask.
He scrunches up his nose, shaking his head. "Hell no. Fuck AI." he says, offended.
You raise your eyebrows, looking over. "Shit. Dean Di Laurentis actually cares about the planet? I didn't figure you had such strong opinions on AI." you say, genuinely impressed. Usually when you make fun of people for using AI, they get offended and tell you off. Dean just openly admitted to hating it.
"I may be an idiot, but I'm not fucking stupid." he says. He takes one more hit, sitting up. "I should go. I have another final tomorrow."
You sit up, stubbing the blunt out. "Yeah, I have to start packing for break. I have to go see my family." you admit, sighing heavily.
He looks over, brows furrowed. "That's a sighing matter? Seeing your family?" he asks. You can't tell if he's genuinely curious or just wants another shot at getting into your pants.
"Yeah, my sister just got engaged to my ex-boyfriend. And, surprise, I have to be present for her to gloat about her victory." you reply, rubbing your eyes tiredly.
He gapes. "Fuck. That's rough." he says sadly. You almost laugh at his puppy-dog eyes. It's no wonder he gets so many women into his bed.
He sighs and shakes his head sadly. "And I thought my situation is bad." he says.
You look over, eyebrows raised. "And what could possibly be ailing you, Mr. Di Laurentis." you ask, curious to know why he sounds so exhausted.
He huffs and rubs his hand over his jaw. "If I tell you, it'll reinforce every stereotype you have about me." he admits, looking over.
You raise your hands. "I won't judge. I have an amazing poker face." you promise, nodding for him to go on.
He laughs and shakes his head. "I... need more money from my dad. I spent my entire college allowance last year on parties. I've been living off of the money I have in my account from working one summer. But that's going away soon. My dad won't give me anything because he thinks I'm just dicking around." he says, body relaxing as the words leave his lips. He hadn't told anyone else, not even Beau, about this. He didn't want anyone feeling sorry for, or judging, him.
You frown, scooting closer. "I really am sorry about that. I can sorta empathize with that." she says, resting a hand on his arm.
He looks over, blue eyes lowered in shame. "Really?" he asks hopefully.
"I mean, no, not really. But I'll pretend." you admit, smiling.
He laughs, looking over. "I like you. Not in a weird way. I'd fuck you, don't get me wrong. But I like you as a friend." he says, looking as confused as those words made you feel.
You scrunch your face up. "I've never been objectified and complimented in the same sentence before." you tease, laughing when his eyes widen. He really is sweet, you think.
He laughs too when he sees that you aren't actually mad. He looks back down at his shoes, chewing on his inner cheek. "I need to prove in some way that I'm mature. That I'm not irresponsible. I don't have a job, and I can't just get one. I don't have very good grades. Hell, I still haven't fully declared my major. The only thing I have going for me is hockey, and that isn't even enough." he says, exasperated.
You nod, thinking. Maybe he could do volunteer work? No, it's too obvious that he would be doing it for the money. Maybe he could apply for an internship? Unlikely that he would be chosen.
"Why don't you bring a girl home?"
His head snaps up at your sentence, brow furrowed again. "A girlfriend? I've never done that." he says cautiously.
You nod encouragingly. "Then it's perfect. Bring a girl, have her pretend that you've been dating for a while. If he sees you in a committed relationship, he'll be impressed with your responsibility." you explain.
He shakes his head. "How will I find a girl who will agree to that? I ghost most of the girls I hook up with." he says.
"I don't know, you're Dean Di Laurentis, you can figure it out." you say, nudging him.
He looks up. "Why don't you bring a guy home? To show your sister that you aren't missing anything?" he says, turning the same logic onto you.
You laugh, shaking your head. "Like anyone would ever agree to be my boyfriend, fake or not." you say, self-deprecating.
"I will."
It spoken so casually, so quietly, you almost don't hear it. Then you turn your head so fast that you almost get whiplash. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling. "We could fake for each other. I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
You laugh and shake your head. "No. I am not bringing you to my family's Christmas. My sister would jump you immediately." you say.
His hand goes to his chest as he feigns offense. "You think I fuck everything with a pulse, don't you? I would never betray you like that. Promise." he says, smiling boyishly. "I'll be the most loyal fake-boyfriend ever." he promises.
You laugh, half out of exasperation and half from amusement. His charm is working on you, and he can tell. You look over at him. "No bullshit?"
He nods, his smirk fading into something softer. "No bullshit." he echoes.
You nod and then stand, offering him a hand. You speak as you help him up. "Meet me at nine, Malones. Don't be late. We need to talk logistics." you command.
He grins down at you, his hand on your hip. "My first fake relationship and I don't even call the shots? Brutal." he teases.
You tug him down by his collar, hips lips inches from yours. His eyes widen, gulping suddenly.
"You never had any control, Dean. Don't be late tomorrow, okay?" you say softly.
He nods uselessly, watching you walk back into the house.
His heart is beating harder than when he scores a goal during one of his games. He blinks at where you had been, wondering if he's just signed himself up for heaven or absolute hell.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
word count: ~2,700
How do we like this? I wanted to write for Dean, especially since I've consumed almost every piece of media for him 😭
If you like this, let me know! I will write pt.2 as soon as I can!
Disclaimer: This fic features an Original Character (OC) Female Character who is Beau Maxwell's little sister.
Chapter 1
There’s a very specific kind of heartbreak reserved for girls who grow up loving the boy who never notices.
Camille Maxwell knows this better than anyone.
Everyone at Briar University knows Cami as Beau Maxwell’s younger sister — the witty sophomore with ink-stained fingers, an addiction to Nora Ephron movies, and dreams bigger than Manhattan skylines. Journalism and publishing major. English lit minor. Future editor-in-chief of some impossibly cool feminist magazine with a corner office at Condé Nast. The kind of girl who romanticizes rainy bookstores, annotated paperbacks, and impossible love stories.
The problem?
Her impossible love story has a name.
Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis.
Dean has been woven into her life for as long as she can remember — Beau’s best friend, Summer’s annoying older brother, the boy who used to carry her on his shoulders and call her “Millie” while she played dress-up in his mother’s closet. Her first crush. Her longest crush. The one thing she promised herself she’d outgrow.
And she almost did.
Until college put him back in her orbit.
Now Dean is everywhere again — sprawled across Beau’s couch, stealing fries off her plate, grinning at her like she’s still sixteen instead of twenty. And worse? Cami notices the way he looks at Allie. The quiet tenderness hidden beneath his usual charm. The kind of feeling Dean never seemed capable of before.
Which means two things become painfully clear:
1. Dean can fall in love.
2. And it’s never going to be her.
So Cami does the only thing she can — she pulls away. Less movie nights. Less hanging around their apartment. Less Dean.
Except Dean notices.
He notices the empty seat beside him. Notices how quiet the room feels without Cami’s laugh. Notices the way other guys look at her now — really look at her — and suddenly wants to break their jaws for it. For the first time, Dean sees what’s been right in front of him all along:
Camille Maxwell isn’t a little girl anymore.
She’s sharp-tongued and ambitious and devastatingly beautiful. She smells like coffee and old books and expensive perfume. She challenges him. Avoids him. Unravels him.
And just when Dean finally starts understanding what she means to him, he realizes he might already be too late.
Because maybe the hardest thing about loving your best friend’s little sister… is realizing someone else could love her better.
Tags: Brother's Best Friend, Best Friend's Brother, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Idiots in Love, oblivious dean heyward-di laurentis, College Hockey, Found Family, Yearning, PhD in Yearnalism, nickname as terms of endearment, she fell first he fell harder, Unrequited love (sort of), Not Actually Unrequited Love, no hatred for allie hayes, emotionally mature female character, supportive brother beau maxwell, Healthy Relationships
A/N: Started working on this story this week and still planning out the no of chapters and outlining the plot but I plan to update weekly at best. If this is something that interests you, pls let me know and I'll add you to the tag list so you know when I update the chapters :)
Dean Di Laurentis x pop star!Reader x Garrett Graham
Summary: fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now
Warnings: 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage. You stand in the center of the soundstage, the heat from the overhead lights baking into your bare skin. You’re wearing something that barely qualifies as clothing — a web of rhinestones, leather straps, and sheer mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Cut!”
The music cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Shawn’s voice echoes over the PA system, sharp and irritated. A second later, he’s stepping out from behind the monitors and striding toward you.
Shawn. Your manager. The owner of your record label.
Your boyfriend.
The word feels like ash in your mouth. He’s forty-two. You just turned twenty-one. He’s been the center of your universe since you were fifteen, the man who “discovered” you, molded you, and eventually, when you turned eighteen, moved you into his bed. He tells you he loves you. He tells you nobody else understands you.
Right now, he looks pissed.
“You’re stiff,” Shawn says, stepping into your personal space. He doesn’t care about the dozens of crew members watching. His hands settle heavily on your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin. “You look like a mannequin out there. Loosen up.”
You swallow hard, wrapping your arms around your torso. The air conditioning in the studio is freezing, but you’re sweating under the lights. “I’m trying, Shawn. But this choreography … it’s a lot. It doesn’t feel like me.”
He sighs, a harsh, condescending sound. He reaches up and brushes a stray piece of hair out of your face, his touch lingering. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. ‘You’ is what I say it is. This is what sells. Do you want the new album to flop? After everything I’ve done for you?”
“No,” you whisper automatically. It’s the answer you always give. “But the floor work-”
“The floor work is the climax of the video,” he interrupts smoothly. “When the beat drops, I want you on your knees. Look up at the camera. Part your lips. Make them want you.”
You stare at him, a knot tightening in your throat. “Make them want me how?”
“Mime it,” he says, dropping his voice, though the mic pack on his hip is probably picking it up. “You know exactly what I mean. Down on your knees. Work the air like you’re taking it. It’s edgy. It’s what the fans want to see from you now.”
The studio spins.
You look past him, catching the eye of the cameraman, the lighting tech, the makeup artist hovering with a powder brush. They all look away. Nobody says a word. Nobody ever says a word.
“No,” you say.
The syllable slips out before you can stop it.
Shawn’s eyes narrow. The charming, paternal warmth he uses in interviews vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” Your voice shakes, but you force the words out. The knot in your chest is expanding, turning into a crushing weight. “I’m not doing that. I’m a singer, Shawn. I’m not doing softcore porn for a music video.”
“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he snaps, stepping closer. “I made you. You would be singing in dive bars in the Midwest if it weren’t for me. You think you have a career without me? You think anyone gives a shit about your voice? They want to look at you.”
“Stop.” You take a step back, your heel catching on one of the leather straps of your thigh-high boots. You stumble, barely catching your balance.
“Get back on your mark,” Shawn orders, pointing at the tape on the floor. “Music!”
The bass blasts through the speakers again. The lights flash.
“Action!”
“No!” You scream it this time, covering your ears. The noise is too loud. The lights are too bright. The walls are closing in. You can’t breathe. You pull at the tight choker around your neck, ripping the rhinestones away.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Shawn yells over the track.
You don’t answer. You turn and run.
You push past the backup dancers, shove through the heavy soundproof doors of the studio, and burst out into the hallway. You’re hyperventilating, tears streaking your heavy stage makeup, ruining the perfect, doll-like face Shawn paid so much for. You just keep running.
***
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END?
TMZ Staff | May 29, 2026
Looks like the pressure of stardom has finally cracked another one, folks.
Sources exclusively tell TMZ that pop sensation and former teen sweetheart had a MASSIVE meltdown on the set of her highly anticipated new music video yesterday afternoon.
Insiders on the set report that the 21-year-old singer completely lost her grip on reality midway through the shoot. According to witnesses, she began screaming at the crew, violently ripping off her custom designer wardrobe, and behaving erratically before fleeing the soundstage in tears.
“It was full-on Britney 2007,” one crew member dishes to us. “She just snapped. She was yelling about the lights and the music, completely out of nowhere. Her boyfriend and manager, Shawn Nichols, was trying to calm her down, but she was completely hysterical.”
But wait, it gets worse.
Sources close to the singer’s camp confirm that following the bizarre outburst, she was transported to a private psychiatric facility in the Los Angeles area and placed on an involuntary 5150 psychiatric hold.
For those keeping track, a 5150 hold means the individual is considered a danger to themselves or others.
Shawn Nichols released a brief statement this morning: “We ask for privacy during this incredibly difficult time. She is receiving the best medical care possible, and we are focused entirely on her mental health and recovery.”
Is this the end of her career? Or just another Hollywood tragedy in the making? Stay tuned.
***
“Dude, this pizza is practically raw in the middle.”
“Then put it in the microwave, Logan. Or starve. I really don’t care.”
Garrett Graham doesn’t look up from his phone as he leans back against the worn fabric of the living room couch. His massive frame takes up entirely too much space, his legs stretched out over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a stack of empty red Solo cups.
“I’m not microwaving pizza, Garrett. What am I, a savage?” Logan complains, tossing the offending slice back into the cardboard box on the kitchen island.
“You literally ate cereal out of a saucepan this morning because you were too lazy to wash a bowl,” Tucker chimes in from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his textbook. “I’d say savage is an understatement.”
“It’s called efficiency, Tuck.”
In the kitchen, Dean is pouring himself a glass of water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his hair still wet from his post-workout shower. Dean is arguably the most objectively beautiful guy in the house — maybe on the entire Briar University campus. He knows it, too. With a trust fund that rivals the GDP of a small country, courtesy of his high-powered attorney parents and his mother’s luxury hotel empire, Dean’s life has always been a gilded ride.
But for all his wealth, Dean is annoyingly grounded. He’s charming, he’s lethal on the ice, and he rarely spends a night without a different girl in his bed. Usually two, if it’s a weekend.
“Speaking of efficiency,” Dean says, leaning against the counter and taking a long drink. “I need one of you to run interference for me tomorrow night. Jennifer wants to ‘talk about us’ after the party.”
Garrett snorts. “There is no ‘us’, man. You’ve hooked up with her twice.”
“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him. “Which is why I need Logan to spill a drink on me, or Tucker to fake a medical emergency. Something. I’m not doing the feelings talk. I don’t do feelings.”
“Handle your own women, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters, his eyes scanning the screen of his phone.
He frowns, his thumb freezing over the screen. He clicks a link on his Twitter feed, leaning forward slightly as the page loads.
“What?” Logan asks, catching the shift in Garrett’s demeanor.
“This article,” Garrett says, his deep voice dropping a fraction. “About that pop singer. The one with the new song that plays every five seconds at the gym.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, walking over and peering over Garrett’s shoulder. “The hot one. What about her?”
“Says she had a complete mental breakdown on set yesterday. TMZ is reporting she got institutionalized. Placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”
“That’s what it says.” Garrett scrolls down, his jaw tightening. “Says she started screaming, ripping off her clothes, and her manager had to step in. Now she’s locked up.”
Dean pulls a face, sinking onto the other end of the couch. “Man, Hollywood is toxic. But wait …” Dean furrows his brow, thinking. “Isn’t her manager also her boyfriend? The guy who runs her label?”
“Yeah. Shawn Nichols,” Logan says, grabbing a different, hopefully more cooked, slice of pizza. “The guy’s a billionaire.”
“He’s also like, fifty,” Dean says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Forty-two,” Garrett corrects, reading from the article.
“Whatever. She just turned twenty-one, right? I remember seeing pictures of her twenty-first birthday party a few weeks ago.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s fucking gross. He’s literally twice her age. And he’s her boss? How is nobody calling that out?”
“Because he has money,” Tucker says simply. “People with that kind of money control the narrative.”
Garrett stays quiet, staring at the screen. The glowing light reflects in his gray eyes. Something about the article is rubbing him the wrong way. It’s an itch right between his shoulder blades.
It’s too neat. Too perfectly packaged. Pop star goes crazy, heroic older boyfriend tries to save her, ultimately has to lock her up for her own good. Garrett knows a thing or two about controlling a narrative. He grew up in a house with a man who was revered by the public. A man who smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and signed autographs, playing the role of the perfect father and the perfect husband. And then the front door would close, and the monster would come out.
His father had beaten his mother for years. And after she died of lung cancer — after the one person who tried to shield Garrett was gone — the violence had turned entirely onto him.
Phil Graham had crafted a perfect public image while systematically destroying his son behind closed doors. So yeah, Garrett has a very finely tuned bullshit detector when it comes to official statements and perfect PR spins.
“It seems fishy,” Garrett says quietly.
“What does?” Dean asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.
“This whole thing.” Garrett tosses his phone onto the coffee table. “She’s twenty-one. She’s been with this guy since she was a teenager. Now suddenly she has a ‘breakdown’ on set, and within twenty-four hours she’s locked in a psych ward on a 5150 hold? That means someone signed off on it. Someone said she was a danger to herself. And I bet you anything it was him.”
Logan stops chewing. “You think he locked her up?”
“I think,” Garrett says, his voice hard, “that it’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do.”
The room goes quiet for a second. The boys know Garrett’s history — or at least, they know enough of it. They know not to push when he gets that dark, stormy look in his eyes.
Dean exhales slowly. “Well, if he is grooming her, that’s sick. I mean, my parents deal with high-profile divorces all the time. You wouldn’t believe the twisted shit rich guys pull to keep their wives or girlfriends in line. Locking her in a facility sounds exactly like something a controlling freak would do to keep her quiet.”
“It’s just another crazy Hollywood story,” Tucker says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing we can do about it from Massachusetts.”
Garrett nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s none of our business.”
He picks up his phone again, closing the browser tab. He forces the image of the girl out of his head. He doesn’t know her. She’s a celebrity, living a million miles away in a world that makes absolutely no sense. He has a hockey season to prepare for. He has a team to captain.
But as he pulls up the team schedule, he can’t quite shake the feeling of unease in his gut. He knows what it feels like to be trapped by someone who claims to love you.
“Anyway,” Dean says, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. “Back to my actual crisis. Jennifer. Tomorrow night. Who is taking the bullet for me?”
“I’ll do it,” Logan groans, tossing his crust back into the box. “But you’re buying the beer for the bender on Friday.”
“Done,” Dean grins, his easy charm returning in full force. “You’re a lifesaver, Logie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, Logie.”
The banter flows back into its natural rhythm, loud and effortless. The Briar hockey house goes back to normal. But on the coffee table, Garrett’s phone screen lights up with another notification, another headline flashing across the lock screen.
He flips the phone over, face down.
***
The air in Hastings, Massachusetts, is nothing like Los Angeles. It’s early September, but there’s already a sharp, biting chill in the wind that cuts straight through your oversized flannel shirt. You pull the fabric tighter around your chest, burying your hands in the deep pockets.
“It’s a lot of walking,” David Prescott says, his voice a low, comforting rumble beside you.
David is the Dean of Briar University. He is also your mother’s older brother, the uncle you haven’t seen in almost seven years, not since Shawn systematically cut you off from everyone who wasn’t on his payroll. David is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and kind eyes that look a little too much like your mom’s.
“I don’t mind the walking,” you say quietly. Your voice is still raspy, a lingering side effect of the screaming, the crying, and the long stretches of absolute silence over the past four months. “It’s nice. The air is clean.”
David pauses on the red brick pathway, gesturing to the sprawling, ivy-covered buildings that surround the main quad. Students are milling everywhere — laughing, throwing frisbees, hurrying to class. They look so young. They are your age, but they feel like a different species.
“The Vocal Performance building is just past the library,” David tells you, pointing toward a grand, modern structure made of glass and dark stone. “It’s one of the best programs in the country. Your professors have been briefed. They know you’re transferring in, and they know you want zero special treatment.”
“And they won’t … ask questions?” You ask, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek.
“They are professionals,” David says firmly. He turns to you, his expression softening. He places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch — an involuntary reaction that you hate, a reflex deeply ingrained from hands that grabbed, hands that held you down, hands that forced you into a white room.
David immediately drops his hand, taking a respectful half-step back. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you force yourself to say, offering a tight, fragile smile.
“Listen to me,” David says, holding your gaze. “You are safe here. Shawn Nichols cannot get onto this campus. He cannot call you, he cannot dictate your classes, and he absolutely cannot dictate your music. You are here to learn how to produce your own sound, write your own music, and take back your voice. You are just another student at Briar.”
You nod, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. Just another student. That’s all you want. You want to disappear into the crowd. You want to forget the sterile, blinding white lights of the psychiatric facility in Malibu. You want to forget the feeling of the sedatives hitting your bloodstream, making your limbs heavy and your mind thick with fog while Shawn stood in the doorway, watching you with that cold, dead expression, telling the doctors you were a danger to yourself.
You spent two months in that facility. Two months of mandated therapy, group circles, and trying to convince the doctors that you weren’t crazy — that your manager was a controlling, manipulative predator. It was only when David saw the news, hired his own high-powered legal team, and threatened Shawn with a very public, very ugly federal investigation for extortion and abuse that Shawn finally backed down and released his medical hold.
“Thank you, Uncle David,” you whisper. “For everything.”
He offers a gentle smile. “Go to class. Call me if you need anything. My office is always open.”
You take a deep breath, adjust the strap of your plain black backpack, and walk toward the music building.
The first hour actually goes well. Music Theory 301. You sit in the very back row, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your face and a pair of thick, non-prescription glasses. The professor talks about chord progressions and harmonic analysis, and for the first time in years, you feel a genuine spark of interest in music that doesn’t involve a marketing strategy. You take copious notes. You keep your head down.
When the lecture ends, you wait until the classroom is mostly empty before packing up your bag. You slip out into the busy hallway, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed linoleum floor.
“Excuse me?”
You freeze.
A girl with chunky highlights is standing in front of you, a smartphone clutched in her hand. She’s staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“Um, yes?” You ask, keeping your voice low.
“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It is you. I thought—I saw the rumors on TikTok that you were in Massachusetts, but I didn’t believe it! Oh my god!”
Your heart stutters. “I think you have the wrong person.”
You try to step around her, but she moves to block your path. “No, no, I know it’s you! The voice, the eyes! Guys! Guys, look!” She yells to the crowded hallway.
It happens in a matter of seconds. The whisper network is instantaneous. Heads snap in your direction. The casual hum of the hallway completely vanishes, replaced by a rising, electric buzz of recognition.
“Is that her?” “Holy shit, the pop star?” “I thought she was locked up in a psych ward!” “Look at her, she looks awful.” “Get a picture, get a picture!”
Phones. Dozens of them, raised in the air, the camera lenses staring at you like unblinking eyes.
The air in your lungs vanishes.
You stumble backward, your shoulder slamming into a row of metal lockers. The sound is deafening. The crowd is surging forward, a wall of bodies pressing in from all sides.
“Can we get a picture?” “Where’s Shawn?” “Are you having another breakdown?”
The voices blur together into a terrifying, dissonant roar. The hallway lights seem to burn brighter, painfully searing your retinas. Suddenly, you aren’t in the music building at Briar University anymore. You are back on the soundstage. You are back in the hospital.
Hands reach out, grabbing at your flannel shirt, brushing against your arm.
“Don’t touch me!” You scream, slapping wildly at the air.
“Whoa, freak out,” someone laughs. The flash of a phone camera blinds you.
Your chest tightens like a vise. You can’t breathe. There is no oxygen in the room. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down. You slide down the metal lockers, your knees giving out, hitting the floor hard. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your head in your arms, gasping for air that isn’t there.
They’re going to take me back. They’re going to sedate me. They’re going to lock me up.
“Give me some space! Seriously, back the fuck up!”
The voice is a sudden, booming thunderclap. It cuts through the chatter and the camera shutters like a hot knife.
“Move! Put your damn phones away, what is wrong with you people?” Another voice adds, sharper and laced with disgust.
Footsteps pound against the linoleum. Someone is shoving people aside.
“Hey. Hey, look at me.”
You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re hyperventilating, your vision swimming with black spots. You’re shaking so violently your teeth are chattering.
“Garrett, her lips are turning blue, man. She’s not breathing right,” the second voice says, sounding alarmed.
“I know. I got it.”
A large, incredibly warm hand hovers over your knee, not quite touching you, respecting your space. “Hey,” the deep voice says again. It’s calm. Incredibly, impossibly calm, anchoring you slightly to the ground. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack. You are safe. Nobody is going to touch you.”
“Dean, clear a path,” the voice commands.
“Way ahead of you. Back off, vultures! Show’s over!”
“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder now, okay?” The deep voice tells you. “I’m going to help you stand up, and we’re going to get out of this hallway.”
You manage a jerky nod. You can’t speak.
A large, firm hand grips your shoulder. The touch isn’t aggressive or grasping; it’s steady and supportive. He pulls you up with effortless strength. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, keeping your face hidden under the brim of your hat, trusting this stranger because the alternative is collapsing on the floor again.
“Keep your head down,” he murmurs, tucking you against his side, shielding you from the crowd with his massive frame. “Walk with me.”
You walk. The second guy — Dean — is walking backward in front of you, literally shoving people out of the way. “Move it, prep school. Put the phone down before I shove it down your throat. Yeah, that’s right, keep walking.”
You burst through a set of heavy double doors, and the shock of the cold September wind hits your face. It helps. It shocks your system just enough to force a ragged breath into your lungs.
They guide you down a side path, away from the quad, ducking behind the large stone architecture of the library until the noise of the crowd fades completely.
“In here,” the deep voice says.
A door opens, and you are ushered into what smells like an old, dusty study room. The door clicks shut behind you, instantly plunging the space into a quiet, comforting stillness.
You collapse into the nearest chair, leaning forward and putting your head between your knees. You focus on the scuffed toes of your boots.
In. Out. In. Out.
“Get her some water,” the deep voice says.
“Yeah, checking my pockets, Garrett, hold on — oh wait, I don’t carry water bottles in my sweatpants,” Dean snaps back, though there’s no real heat in it. “There’s a fountain in the hall. Give me ten seconds.”
The door opens and closes again.
You are alone with Garrett.
He doesn’t crowd you. He pulls up a chair a few feet away and sits down heavily.
“You’re doing good,” Garrett says quietly. His voice is a soothing rumble. “Four seconds in. Hold for four. Four seconds out. Try to match my counting, okay?”
He starts counting. His voice is rhythmic and steady. It takes a few minutes, but slowly, agonizingly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen. The black spots fade from your vision. The terror recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
You finally lift your head, pulling your glasses off your face and wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your flannel sleeve.
You look at him.
Garrett is sitting backward on a wooden chair, his arms crossed over the backrest. He is wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie, his broad shoulders filling out the thick material. He has dark, messy hair and striking gray eyes that are currently watching you with intense, quiet focus. He’s incredibly handsome, but it’s the lack of pity in his expression that catches you off guard. He isn’t looking at you like you’re broken. He’s looking at you like he understands exactly what just happened.
“Better?” He asks softly.
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse. “I’m … I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” Garrett says, his jaw tightening slightly. “People are animals. You got swarmed. Anyone would have panicked.”
The door clicks open, and Dean walks in, holding a paper cup of water. “They only had the tiny cups by the fountain, but-”
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
He stares at you. He looks at the paper cup in his hand, looks back at you, and then looks at Garrett.
Dean is equally as tall as Garrett, with perfectly styled dirty-blonde hair and the kind of sharp, devastatingly good looks that belong on a billboard. Right now, his mouth is slightly open.
“Here’s the water,” Dean says slowly, walking over and handing you the cup. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a small sip. The cool water helps soothe your raw throat.
Dean slowly backs up until he’s standing next to Garrett. He leans down, his eyes fixed on your face. “Garrett.”
“What, Dean?” Garrett asks, sounding slightly annoyed at his friend’s weird behavior.
“Garrett. Look at her.”
“I am looking at her,” Garrett says, though he turns his head to study you more closely.
You shrink back in the chair, pulling the baseball cap lower on your forehead. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold dread. They didn’t know. They helped you because they thought you were just a normal girl. Now they know. Now they’re going to look at you the same way everyone else does. Like a sideshow freak. Like the crazy pop star who got locked up.
Garrett’s brow furrows as he looks at you. His gray eyes trace the line of your jaw, the shape of your eyes, the pink flush still staining your pale cheeks. You can see the exact moment the realization hits him. His eyes widen slightly, his posture going completely rigid.
“Holy shit,” Dean whispers into the silence of the room. “You’re … you’re the pop star. From the articles. From the TV.”
You stare down at the paper cup in your hands, your knuckles turning white. “Yes,” you whisper.
“You’re the singer,” Garrett says, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth.
You flinch at his tone. You knew it. The compassion is gone, replaced by whatever judgments he’s formed from reading the tabloids.
“Yes,” you say again, your voice shaking slightly. “I am. Please don’t … please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
Dean crosses his arms, looking completely bewildered. “What are you doing in Hastings? The last time you were on the news, you were being …” He trails off, wincing slightly. “Well, you were in Los Angeles.”
“I was institutionalized,” you say bluntly, finding a sudden, desperate spark of anger. You look up, meeting Dean’s eyes, then Garrett’s. “That’s what you want to say, right? The crazy pop star who had a mental breakdown and got locked in a psych ward. That’s what everyone out there was screaming about. That’s why they had their cameras out.”
Garrett’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it,” you snap, standing up. Your legs are shaky, but you refuse to sit there and be analyzed. “Thank you for getting me out of the hallway. I really appreciate it. But I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need you to gawk at me. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”
You grab your backpack from the floor and turn toward the door.
“Hey. Wait.”
Garrett is out of his chair in a flash, stepping between you and the door. He doesn’t touch you — he’s careful to keep his hands down at his sides — but his sheer size makes it impossible to pass him.
“Move, please,” you say, staring fiercely at his chest.
“I wasn’t gawking,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, losing the edge it had a moment ago. “And I don’t think you’re crazy.”
You look up at him, startled.
Garrett holds your gaze, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. “I read the articles back in May. Me and my buddies, we talked about it. And honestly? The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit to me.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. “What?”
“Your manager,” Garrett says, his voice tight with an anger that surprises you. “The guy who signed off on your hold. He’s older, right? Much older.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“I know what it looks like when someone with a lot of power controls the narrative to cover up their own abuse,” Garrett says, his words deliberate and heavy. “It’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do. That’s what I said back then, and looking at you now? I know I was right.”
The breath catches in your throat. You stare at Garrett Graham, this massive, intimidating hockey player you met five minutes ago, and for the first time since you ran off that soundstage in Los Angeles, you feel seen. Truly, actually seen.
Dean exhales a long breath from across the room. “Damn, G. You called it.”
You look between the two of them, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “You … you don’t believe the tabloids?”
“I don’t believe anything TMZ prints,” Dean says, walking over to join Garrett. He shoots you a crooked, incredibly charming smile. “Besides, nobody is crazy enough to willingly move to New England in the winter unless they’re desperate for a fresh start. And lucky for you, you just ran into the two guys who basically run this campus.”
“Speak for yourself, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters.
“I speak for both of us, Graham.” Dean turns his attention back to you. “Look. You want to stay under the radar? It’s going to be tough now that people have seen you. But if you hang with us, people will eventually back off. We have a reputation to uphold. Nobody messes with our crew.”
You stare at them, bewildered. “You want me to … hang out with you?”
“We’re offering you protection, sweetheart,” Dean says, winking. “Consider us your unofficial bodyguards. For a very reasonable fee of … helping me pass Music Appreciation.”
Garrett rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at you, the intensity in his eyes softening into something protective and warm. “He’s an idiot, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be navigating this campus alone if people are going to act like that. If you need a buffer, we’ve got you.”
You clutch the straps of your backpack, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected kindness. You expected judgment. You expected them to pull out their phones or treat you like a fragile piece of glass. Instead, they are offering you a shield.
“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t even know your names.”
Garrett holds out a large, calloused hand. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. And the idiot is Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Pleasure,” Dean grins.
You look at Garrett’s extended hand. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to pull away still strong. But you look up at his face, at the quiet understanding in his eyes, and you reach out.
Your small hand disappears inside his. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding.
“Y/N,” you say softly.
Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile that makes your heart do a strange, unexpected flutter.
“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Garrett says. “Welcome to Briar.”
***
It takes two full weeks of relentless badgering before you finally cave.
You are sitting in the back booth of Malone’s, picking at a plate of cold fries, sandwiched between two human walls of muscle. Garrett is on your left, scrolling through hockey stats on his phone, while Dean is on your right, actively trying to wear down your defenses.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been here a month. You go to class, you go to the library, you come to the diner with us, and you go back to your dorm. You are living the life of an eighty-year-old nun.”
“I like my life,” you say, taking a sip of your milkshake. “Nuns are very peaceful.”
“Nuns are boring,” Dean counters, stealing one of your fries. “And you, Y/N, are not boring. You need to let loose. Just a little. Come to the house tonight.”
“Dean, I don’t do parties.”
“It’s not a party,” Garrett chimes in, not looking up from his screen. “It’s a small gathering.”
“There will be a keg,” you point out.
Garrett finally looks up, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. “There will be three kegs. But it’s still a gathering.”
You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. Since the day they rescued you in the hallway, Garrett and Dean have somehow seamlessly integrated themselves into your daily routine. They walk you to the music building. They eat lunch with you. They scowl at anyone who stares at you a second too long. They are a loud, chaotic, fiercely protective barrier between you and the rest of the world.
But a Briar hockey house party? That’s entirely different.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the anxiety suddenly flaring up in your chest. “The noise. The people. If someone recognizes me, or if the music gets too loud …”
Garrett’s smirk vanishes. He sets his phone face-down on the table and turns to fully face you. His massive frame blocks out the rest of the diner.
“Hey. Look at me,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that instantly calms your racing heart.
You lift your head, meeting his intense gray eyes.
“Dean and I have a game tomorrow afternoon,” Garrett says softly. “We aren’t drinking tonight. We’re strictly on water and Gatorade. That means we will be completely sober, and completely alert.”
“One hundred percent,” Dean adds, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something fierce and serious.
“We are going to be right by your side,” Garrett continues, holding your gaze. “Nobody is going to crowd you. Nobody is going to touch you. If the music is too loud, we go upstairs to my room. If you want to leave after five minutes, I will personally drive you back to your dorm and walk you to your door. But you are safe with us. I promise you that.”
You look between the two of them. You see the sincerity radiating off Garrett, the fierce loyalty etched into Dean’s sharp features. They aren’t trying to parade you around. They genuinely just want you to experience a normal college night.
You take a deep breath. “Five minutes. If I hate it, we leave.”
Dean’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. “Yes! You won’t regret it, sweetheart. I’m going to make sure you have the time of your life.”
***
The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage.
For a split second, you freeze on the front porch of the off-campus house, the familiar vibration sending a cold spike of panic down your spine. It feels exactly like the soundstage in Los Angeles.
Then Garrett’s hand is on the small of your back — warm, massive, and incredibly steady.
“You good?” He murmurs, bending down so his mouth is close to your ear over the noise of the music.
You nod, forcing your shoulders to drop. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Dean pushes the front door open, and the three of you step inside. The house is packed. The air smells like cheap beer, sweet perfume, and sweat. Music blares from massive speakers in the corner, and red Solo cups are practically an accessory for everyone in the room.
It’s exactly the kind of environment you’ve avoided for years. But as you walk through the living room, flanked by the captain of the hockey team and his star winger, something incredible happens.
Nothing.
Nobody swarms you. Nobody shoves a camera in your face. A few people glance your way, eyes widening in recognition, but Garrett shoots them a dark, warning glare that has them instantly looking at the floor. Dean flashes his easy, charming smile, parting the crowd like the Red Sea as he leads you toward the kitchen.
“See? Easy,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen island. “Nobody is going to mess with you when you’re rolling with us.”
“You guys are terrifying,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping your lips.
“We’re cuddly teddy bears,” Garrett corrects, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and tossing one to Dean. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or whatever toxic sludge Logan is mixing in that cooler over there.”
You look at the cooler. You look at the red cups.
For the past seven years, your diet, your sleep schedule, and your alcohol intake were strictly monitored by Shawn and his team. You were never allowed to just have a drink. You were a product, and products don’t get hangovers.
“I want whatever is in the cooler,” you say, surprising yourself.
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say firmly. The word feels good. It feels entirely your own. “I want to have a drink.”
Dean grins, grabbing a red cup and dipping it into the cooler. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Cheers to autonomy.”
You take a sip. It tastes like cheap vodka and fruit punch, and it burns on the way down. It is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, loud laughter, and a profound, beautiful sense of normalcy. You drink. You actually drink, letting the alcohol warm your blood and loosen the tight, coiled anxiety that has lived in your chest for months.
Garrett and Dean never leave your side. They are true to their word, nursing their water bottles and acting as an invisible shield around you. When a drunk frat boy stumbles too close, Garrett simply steps in his path, folding his massive arms over his chest until the guy awkwardly apologizes and backs away. When a girl tries to sneak a photo of you, Dean gently but firmly blocks her camera, charming her into deleting it with a wink and a smile.
For the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t a pop star. You aren’t a headline. You’re just a girl at a party, laughing at Logan’s terrible dance moves and arguing with Tucker over which movie franchise is better.
By 2 AM, the house has mostly cleared out. The music has been turned down to a low, rhythmic hum.
You are sitting on the worn fabric of the living room couch, comfortably, beautifully drunk. The edges of the world are soft and fuzzy. You have your legs pulled up underneath you, a throw blanket draped over your lap.
Garrett is sitting on your left, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind your head. Dean is on your right, slouching lazily against the cushions. Logan and Tucker are sprawled out on the floor and the armchair, completely exhausted.
The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp.
“I can’t believe Coach has us on the ice at noon tomorrow,” Logan groans, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a crime against humanity.”
“You literally chose to play college hockey, you idiot,” Tucker says, throwing a crumpled-up napkin at Logan’s head.
You let out a soft, hazy giggle, leaning your head back against Garrett’s arm. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so you’re more comfortable, his large hand brushing the side of your shoulder. The touch sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
“You doing okay, Y/N?” Garrett asks softly, his deep voice rumbling right next to your ear.
“I’m perfect,” you slur slightly, looking up at him with a wide smile. “I’m really, really good.”
“You’re really, really drunk,” Dean chuckles, reaching over to tug playfully at a strand of your hair. “But it’s cute. You’re a happy drunk.”
“I’ve never been drunk before,” you confess, staring at the ceiling. “Shawn never let me.”
The name hangs in the air, heavy and dark. The easy, comfortable silence in the room instantly shifts. Logan stops rubbing his eyes. Dean’s hand falls away from your hair.
Tucker sits up in the armchair, his brow furrowed. He looks at you, his eyes slightly glazed from the beer, lowering his filter.
“Hey, Y/N,” Tucker says slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Tuck,” Garrett warns, his voice instantly dropping an octave, filled with a sharp, protective edge.
“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand vaguely in the air. The alcohol has numbed the sharpest edges of the panic. The memories don’t feel like they’re stabbing you tonight, they just feel like a movie you watched a long time ago. “You can ask.”
Tucker hesitates, but the question clearly burns in his throat. “Was it true? That TMZ article. I know you said the tabloids are bullshit, but … were you really involuntarily committed?”
A heavy sneaker flies across the room, nailing Tucker square in the chest.
“Ow! What the fuck, Logan?” Tucker yelps, rubbing his sternum.
“You don’t just ask someone that, you absolute moron!” Logan hisses, glaring at him.
“I was just asking! She said it was fine!”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Garrett snaps. The authority in his voice is absolute. The room goes dead silent.
Garrett looks down at you, his gray eyes dark with concern. His hand moves from the back of the couch to gently grip your shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word to him. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper. You look down at your hands, tracing the lines of your palms. “It’s true.”
The confession drops into the quiet room, fragile and devastating.
Dean shifts closer to you on the couch, the space between you vanishing. “Y/N …”
“He groomed me,” you say, the words spilling out of your mouth. Now that the dam is cracked, you can’t stop the flood. “I was fifteen. He was thirty-six. He told my mom he was going to make me a star. He isolated me from everyone. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family I was allowed to talk to. It was just him. He told me that if I didn’t love him back, he would drop me from the label and ruin my life.”
Logan lets out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. Tucker looks like he wants to be sick.
Garrett’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek. His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, anchoring you to the couch.
“He controlled everything,” you continue, your voice detached, hollowed out by the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret for so long. “What I wore. What I ate. How much I weighed. And then the new music video …”
You swallow hard, the phantom heat of the stage lights prickling against your skin.
“He wanted me to … he wanted me to do a routine on the floor. It was basically thinly veiled porn. In front of fifty crew members. I told him no. I told him I was a singer, not a porn star. And he …”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“He lost it. He told me nobody cared about my voice. He told me they just wanted to look at my body. And I just … I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I ripped my costume off and I ran. I just kept running.”
Dean lets out a string of vicious, whispered curses. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, intertwining his long fingers with yours. His grip is grounding, anchoring you from the right side.
“The next day,” you whisper, tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes, “his private security came to my hotel room. They told me I was having a psychotic break. They drove me to a private facility in Malibu. Shawn had already signed the paperwork for a 5150 hold, claiming I was a danger to myself and others.”
Garrett shifts on the couch, his massive body turning fully toward you. He pulls you gently against his side. You go willingly, collapsing against his solid chest, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.
“It was so white,” you sob quietly into his shirt. “The walls, the floors, the lights. They didn’t listen to me. I told them he was lying, that he was abusing me, but Shawn had already paid them off. They pinned me down to the bed.”
Your breath hitches, the memory of the heavy hands grabbing your arms making your heart race.
Garrett’s arms wrap entirely around you, pulling you practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, but it’s exactly what you need. You need the pressure. You need to know you are solid.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I’ve got you, Y/N. Nobody is ever going to hold you down again. I swear to god, I will kill anyone who tries.”
“They sedated me,” you cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of Garrett’s hoodie. “They pumped me full of so many drugs I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. For weeks, I would just wake up and stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My body … it didn’t even feel like my own body anymore. It felt like I was trapped inside a corpse.”
Dean moves closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms coming around to wrap over Garrett’s. You are entirely surrounded by them, cocooned in their heat, their strength, and their furious, unyielding protection.
“It’s over,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressing gently against your temple. “You’re here now. You’re with us. Your body is yours, sweetheart. Nobody is ever taking it away from you again.”
You break down completely. You sob into Garrett’s chest, letting out all the grief, the terror, and the profound, agonizing violation of the past six years. You cry for the teenager who was manipulated, and for the woman who was locked in a white room and forced into silence.
And they hold you.
Garrett rocks you slightly, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. He murmurs quiet, fierce promises into the quiet room. Promises of safety. Promises of violence against the man who hurt you.
Dean holds your hand against his chest, right over his heart, so you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating against your palm. He presses his face into your shoulder, sharing the weight of your trauma without a second thought.
On the other side of the room, Logan and Tucker sit in devastated silence, standing guard over the quiet intimacy of the couch.
For the first time in a very long time, as the alcohol slowly burns out of your system and the tears run dry, you don’t feel entirely broken. You feel exhausted. You feel raw.
But surrounded by the fierce, protective embrace of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you finally feel safe.
***
The sanctuary lasts exactly eight days.
Eight days of quiet mornings, shared coffees, and walking to class flanked by two human mountains who have unofficially made your safety their full-time job. You’re currently sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Garrett’s massive gray Briar University hoodies. It swallows you whole, the fleece smelling faintly of his cedarwood body wash and ice rink chill.
You’re laughing at something Tucker just said about Logan’s disastrous attempt to cook eggs, a genuine, easy sound that you haven’t heard from yourself in years. Garrett is standing behind you, casually leaning against the counter, his large hand resting absentmindedly on the back of your stool. Dean is across the island, scrolling through his phone with a piece of burnt toast dangling from his mouth.
It is peaceful. It is normal.
And then, in the span of a single second, it shatters.
Dean stops chewing. The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, snapping completely rigid. He lowers his phone, his eyes widening as he reads whatever is on the screen.
“Dean?” Logan asks, catching the shift in the room’s energy. “What is it?”
Dean doesn’t answer. His face drains of color. He looks up from his screen, his gaze snapping directly to you. There is a terrifying, naked panic in his eyes that makes the breath lodge in your throat.
“Dean,” Garrett says, his voice low, warning. He pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. “What are you looking at?”
“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He drops the toast onto a paper plate, his fingers gripping the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Talk to me,” Garrett barks.
“It’s TMZ,” Dean says, his voice sounding hollow. He looks at you, his expression agonizingly apologetic. “Sweetheart … I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t look. Just let me read it.”
The bottom drops out of your stomach. The world tilts on its axis, a loud, ringing sound starting up in your ears. “Read it,” you force out, your voice trembling. “Dean, read it right now.”
Dean swallows hard. He clears his throat, but his voice still shakes as he reads the headline aloud.
EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS IN PERIL? SHAWN NICHOLS FILES FOR CONSERVATORSHIP.
TMZ Staff | October 14, 2026
The drama surrounding the sudden disappearance of the music industry’s brightest young star has just taken a massive, shocking legal turn.
TMZ has obtained exclusive court documents filed late last night in Los Angeles County Superior Court by billionaire music mogul Shawn Nichols. Nichols, the 42-year-old CEO of Supernova Records and the singer’s long-time manager/boyfriend, is petitioning the court for an emergency, full-scale conservatorship over the 21-year-old pop star.
For those who don’t speak legalese, a conservatorship is a legal concept where a guardian or a protector is appointed by a judge to manage the financial affairs and/or daily life of another person due to physical or mental limitations. Yes, folks. The Britney Spears treatment.
According to the explosive 40-page filing, Nichols claims that the singer’s “sudden, erratic relocation to a remote East Coast college” is proof of a “deepening psychotic break” and “severe bipolar disorder.” The documents allege that following her 5150 psychiatric hold earlier this year, the singer went off her prescribed medication and was manipulated by estranged family members into fleeing the state.
Nichols’s legal team argues that the singer is entirely incapable of managing her multi-million dollar estate, her music catalog, or even providing for her own basic food and shelter. He is asking a judge to grant him complete legal authority over her finances, medical decisions, career moves, and personal liberties.
Nichols’s camp released a statement this morning: “Shawn loves her deeply and is heartbroken by her current, rapid mental decline. He is taking these extreme legal measures solely out of fear for her safety and well-being. He hopes to get her the intensive psychiatric help she desperately needs.”
If the judge signs off, the pop star could be legally forced to return to Los Angeles under Nichols’s direct supervision. Will her mysterious East Coast hideaway be enough to keep her out of his clutches? We’re hearing a judge is reviewing the emergency petition as we speak.
The kitchen goes dead silent.
The air is sucked out of the room. You sit frozen on the barstool, staring blankly at the marble countertop.
Conservatorship.
The word echoes in your skull, heavy and suffocating like a wet blanket. It’s a word that Shawn used to throw around in the dark, whispered into your ear when you fought back about a lyric or a photo shoot. I’ll declare you incompetent. I’ll take it all away. You won’t even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee without my permission.
“He’s going to take me back,” you whisper. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet kitchen, it rings like a gunshot.
You can’t. Your lungs are locked tight. A conservatorship. It means the end of everything. It means the end of Briar, the end of your vocal performance classes, the end of the quiet mornings in this kitchen. It means a judge signing a piece of paper that turns you back into Shawn Nichols’s property. It means forced sedatives, locked doors, and a lifetime of being entirely trapped in your own body.
“No,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip your hair. “No, no, no, he can’t. He can’t do this. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine!”
“I know,” Garrett says. His large hands are suddenly on your shoulders, turning you around to face him. He steps between your knees, crowding you, his massive chest blocking out the rest of the room. “Y/N. Look at me.”
“He’s going to send them,” you sob, the panic clawing its way up your throat, raw and agonizing. “He’s going to send the security guards again. They’re going to drag me out of here. He’s going to lock me up, Garrett. He’s going to own me.”
“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a violence that is terrifyingly comforting. “Do you hear me? I will break the jaw of any man who steps onto this campus looking for you. I will literally tear them apart. He is not touching you.”
“You don’t understand,” you cry, gripping the front of his Briar hockey shirt, your knuckles white. “He’s a billionaire. He buys judges. He buys doctors. He has a whole team of lawyers who do nothing but destroy people for a living. If a judge signs that paper … I won’t have any rights. I won’t even be a person anymore.”
Garrett wraps his arms around you, pulling you off the stool and flush against his chest. He holds you with crushing, desperate strength, burying his face in your hair. “I don’t care how much money he has. I don’t care how many lawyers he has. We’re going to fight this. We’re not letting you go.”
Across the kitchen, Dean is pacing.
He’s pacing so fast his bare feet squeak against the hardwood floor. His phone is pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is jumping visibly beneath his skin.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, ruining it. “Come on, Mom. You never go to court on a Monday morning …”
“Dean,” Tucker says quietly. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the cavalry,” Dean snaps. “This guy wants to play dirty with lawyers? Fine. We’ll play with the biggest sharks in the fucking ocean.”
The phone clicks.
“Dean, honey, I’m literally stepping into a deposition,” a sharp, elegant woman’s voice rings out over the speaker. “This better be an emergency.”
“It’s a massive emergency, Mom. Put Dad on speaker too if he’s in the office. Right now.”
There’s a rustle on the other end, a sigh of exasperation, and then the sound of a heavy wooden door clicking shut.
“You’re on speaker,” a deep, commanding voice says. Dean’s father. “Dean, what did you do? Did you get arrested? Did you wreck the car again?”
“I didn’t wreck anything, Dad. Shut up and listen to me,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes fixed on you. “I need legal advice. And I need it thirty seconds ago.”
“We practice corporate and high-asset divorce, Dean, we aren’t-”
“Mom. Listen.” Dean holds up a hand, pacing again. “I have a hypothetical question.”
“A hypothetical question,” his father repeats dryly. “For a thousand dollars an hour.”
“Just roll with it, okay?” Dean says, his voice tight. “Hypothetically. Let’s say I have a friend. A very close friend. And let’s say this friend is a twenty-one-year-old girl who is incredibly smart, completely sane, and currently attending college in Massachusetts.”
You sniffle against Garrett’s chest, turning your head just enough to watch Dean. Garrett’s hand is heavy and warm on the back of your neck, stroking your hair in a continuous, grounding rhythm.
“Okay. Go on,” his mother says, her tone shifting. The annoyance is gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge of a high-powered attorney.
“Hypothetically,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let’s say this friend used to be involved with a forty-two-year-old billionaire who controlled her entire life, her finances, and her career. And when she tried to leave him, he had her committed on a bullshit 5150 hold to silence her. Now, she’s escaped. She’s safe. But this billionaire just filed an emergency petition for a full conservatorship in Los Angeles County, claiming she’s psychotic. He’s trying to use her move to the East Coast as proof that she’s erratic.”
The line goes completely silent.
“Dean,” his mother says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a terrifying, lethal weight. “Is this ‘hypothetical’ friend currently sitting in your living room?”
Dean doesn’t blink. “Hypothetically? Yes. And she is terrified.”
A heavy sigh crackles over the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re talking about the pop star. The TMZ article just crossed my desk ten minutes ago.”
“I am talking about a hypothetical friend,” Dean insists stubbornly. “And I need to know how we stop it. Right now.”
“Alright,” his father says, his voice booming into the kitchen. The playful father is gone; this is the partner at a top-tier law firm speaking. “Listen closely. Conservatorships are extremely difficult to establish over a young, able-bodied adult unless there is overwhelming medical evidence of severe cognitive decline. A 5150 hold from months ago is not enough to grant a permanent conservatorship, but an emergency temporary one? If he bought the right judge, it’s possible.”
“So how do we stop the temporary one?” Dean demands.
“You establish jurisdiction in Massachusetts,” his mother answers instantly. “He filed in California. He’s banking on the fact that her primary residence is still listed in LA. If she’s enrolled at a university in Massachusetts, she needs to establish residency immediately. She needs a Massachusetts driver’s license, she needs a local bank account, and she needs to be evaluated by an independent, board-certified psychiatrist in the state of Massachusetts to prove she is of entirely sound mind.”
“Done,” Dean says, pulling a pen out of a drawer and uncapping it with his teeth, scribbling on a napkin. “What else?”
“She cannot go to California,” his father warns. “If she steps foot in that state, she falls under their jurisdiction, and if he gets a temporary order, the police can detain her. She stays on campus. Does she have any family?”
“My uncle,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy and weak.
Garrett turns slightly. “Her uncle is David Prescott. The Dean of Briar University.”
“Wait, David Prescott?” Dean’s mom asks, her voice rising in surprise. “I went to law school with David. He’s her uncle?”
“Yes,” Garrett says, his arm still locked around you like a vice.
“Okay, this just got a lot easier,” his mother says, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously in the background. “David is incredibly connected. Dean, you take her to David’s office the second you hang up this phone. Tell him to file a preemptive injunction in Massachusetts citing domestic abuse and coercive control. That blocks the California courts from enforcing anything out of state until a federal judge reviews it.”
“Coercive control,” Dean writes it down, underlining it twice.
“And Dean?” His father adds, his voice softening slightly. “This guy is a billionaire. He’s going to play dirty. He’s going to send private investigators. He’s going to leak more stories. Your friend needs to be prepared for this to get very public, and very ugly.”
“She’s not alone,” Dean says fiercely, staring right at you. “She’s got us.”
“Good,” his mother says. “I’m having my secretary clear my afternoon. I’m calling David Prescott myself. We don’t practice entertainment law, but I know the best sharks in the country who do. I’m going to send them an email right now. This Shawn guy thinks he can just buy a human being? He’s about to find out what happens when old money meets new trash.”
A tiny, breathless sob escapes your lips. It’s a sob of pure, overwhelming relief.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I owe you,” Dean says, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch.
“You owe us your attendance at Thanksgiving,” his dad replies dryly. “Keep her safe, Dean. Call us if anyone shows up at the house.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
Dean tosses the phone onto the counter and exhales a massive breath, running both hands through his hair. He looks at the napkin, then looks at you.
“You heard the lady,” Dean says, a slow, fiercely protective smile spreading across his face. “We are going to war.”
You pull back from Garrett’s chest, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Your hands are still shaking, but the suffocating, paralyzing terror is beginning to recede, replaced by a tiny, burning spark of defiance.
“He’s going to try to ruin me,” you say quietly, looking between Garrett and Dean. “If I fight this … if I don’t surrender, he’s going to release everything. Every bad photo, every secret. He’ll destroy my reputation.”
“Fuck your reputation,” Garrett says bluntly. He reaches out, cupping your face in both of his massive, warm hands. His thumbs gently wipe away the fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. “Your reputation isn’t your life. Your life is yours. He doesn’t get to own you just because he has a fat bank account and a big ego.”
“Garrett’s right,” Logan chimes in from the living room doorway, where he and Tucker have been standing guard. “We don’t care what TMZ says. We know who you are.”
“You want to sing, Y/N?” Dean asks, walking around the island and leaning against the counter right beside you. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand, squeezing it tight. “You want to write your own music? Then you fight him. You let my parents and your uncle drop a legal nuclear bomb on this guy. You let me and Garrett stand between you and any paparazzi who try to get close. But you do not give up.”
You look at Dean, at his bright, fierce eyes, and then up at Garrett, whose expression is locked into a mask of pure, unyielding devotion.
You spent years believing you were entirely alone. You spent years believing that if Shawn let go of you, you would simply cease to exist.
But sitting in the kitchen of a dilapidated college hockey house, surrounded by four guys who would literally take a bullet for you just because it’s the right thing to do, you realize Shawn was wrong. You aren’t weak. You just needed the right team to help you stand up.
You take a deep, shuddering breath. The air fills your lungs, crisp and clean.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice gaining a fraction of its strength back. “Okay. We fight.”
Garrett’s face breaks into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leans down and presses a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl.”
“Alright,” Dean claps his hands together, the energy in the room instantly shifting from terror to tactical execution. “Logan, Tucker. Perimeter check. Make sure nobody is lurking around the house. Garrett, get your keys. We’re going to the Dean’s office.”
“What about class?” Tucker asks, grabbing his jacket.
“Fuck class,” Dean says, grabbing his own keys from the bowl. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a thrilling, reckless loyalty. “We’ve got a predator to destroy.”
***
TRANSCRIPT: GOOD MORNING AMERICA
Air Date: October 18, 2026
MICHAEL STRAHAN: We are following breaking news this morning in the legal battle that has completely captivated the entertainment world. The fight for control over the life and multi-million dollar estate of pop music’s biggest young star.
ROBIN ROBERTS: That’s right, Michael. It has been four days since Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols filed an emergency petition for a conservatorship in Los Angeles, claiming his 21-year-old girlfriend and client had suffered a severe psychotic break and fled the state. But this morning, there is a massive roadblock for Nichols’s legal team.
MICHAEL STRAHAN: ABC News Chief Legal Correspondent Dan Abrams is here. Dan, what is happening with this case? Because it seems like the singer is not going down without a fight.
DAN ABRAMS: She absolutely isn’t, Michael. And she has some very heavy hitters in her corner. Late yesterday afternoon, a team of high-powered attorneys representing the singer filed an emergency injunction in a Massachusetts federal court. They are claiming that Shawn Nichols does not have jurisdiction because she is a legal resident of Massachusetts, currently enrolled at Briar University.
ROBIN ROBERTS: And they’re making some very serious allegations against Nichols, aren’t they?
DAN ABRAMS: Explosive allegations. The Massachusetts filing explicitly accuses Shawn Nichols of severe domestic abuse, coercive control, and using the initial 5150 psychiatric hold maliciously to silence her. They are asking the federal judge to not only deny the conservatorship but to issue a permanent restraining order against Nichols. It is officially a bi-coastal legal war, and it is going to get very messy.
***
The television clicks off, plunging the living room into heavy, suffocating silence.
You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed tightly against the front of the sofa, your knees pulled up to your chest. The remote slips from your fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.
Your chest tightens, the familiar, icy grip of panic wrapping around your lungs. You close your eyes, but all you see is Shawn’s face. You see the cold, dead look in his eyes when he told you that nobody would ever believe you. You see the flashing lights of the cameras. You feel the heavy, clinical weight of the sedatives pulling you under.
“Hey. Look at me.”
A large, warm hand cups your jaw.
You open your eyes. Garrett is kneeling on the floor right in front of you. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair sleep-mussed. It’s 6:30 in the morning. He hasn’t left your side in four days.
“Breathe, Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “In and out. Focus on me.”
“He’s going to destroy me,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The whole world is watching. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”
“The whole world thinks he’s a controlling piece of shit,” Dean corrects, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea. He sets them on the coffee table and drops onto the floor beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. “Did you hear what the guy on TV just said? We filed the injunction. He’s blocked. He can’t touch you.”
“But what if the judge in Massachusetts doesn’t believe me?” You ask, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. “What if they look at my medical records from the Malibu clinic? Shawn paid those doctors to say I was bipolar and severely unstable. It’s in black and white.”
Garrett shifts closer, his massive frame effectively shielding you from the rest of the room. He takes both of your shaking hands in his, his grip grounding and solid.
“Then we prove them wrong,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You have an evaluation with the state psychiatrist this afternoon. You go in there, you sit down, and you just be yourself. You tell them the truth.”
“I’m terrified,” you admit, the words tumbling out on a broken sob. “I’m so tired of fighting, Garrett. I just want to disappear.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. “I know you’re tired. But you don’t get to give up. We aren’t letting you.”
“If you need to fall apart, you fall apart right here,” Garrett adds, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “You let us carry the weight for a while. But when we walk into that doctor’s office today, you hold your head up. You show them exactly who you are. Do you understand?”
You look between them. Two gorgeous, massive hockey players who have completely upended their lives to build a fortress around yours.
You take a shaky breath, letting Garrett’s heat and Dean’s solid presence anchor you to the floor. “Okay. I can do it.”
***
THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: LEGAL BRIEFS
October 20, 2026 | By Priya Mehta
JURISDICTION DENIED: JUDGE BLOCKS SHAWN NICHOLS’S CONSERVATORSHIP BID IN CALIFORNIA
In a stunning defeat for Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols, a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge has officially denied his emergency petition for a temporary conservatorship over his former client and girlfriend.
The judge ruled that Nichols’s team failed to prove immediate, life-threatening peril, and more importantly, agreed with the singer’s legal team that California is no longer her state of legal residence.
Sources close to the singer’s legal team (which is being quietly spearheaded by high-powered East Coast firm Di Laurentis & Associates) confirm that she has successfully established residency in Massachusetts. Furthermore, a court-mandated, independent psychiatric evaluation conducted yesterday in Boston deemed her “entirely competent, lucid, and showing zero signs of cognitive decline or psychosis.”
The battle isn’t over, however. Nichols’s team is expected to appeal the jurisdiction ruling, moving the fight to federal court. But for now, the pop star remains free, and the music industry is left reeling from the allegations of coercive control and abuse that her team has placed on the public record.
***
The waiting room of the federal courthouse in Boston is sterile, freezing, and smells like lemon polish and anxiety.
You are sitting on a stiff wooden bench, wearing a conservative black blazer and slacks that Dean’s mother bought for you yesterday. Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your fingers are entirely numb.
The door to the judge’s chambers is closed. Inside, your uncle David, Dean’s mother, and a team of three terrifyingly sharp entertainment lawyers are currently arguing with Shawn’s legal team via video link.
You weren’t required to be in the room for the procedural arguments, which is a mercy, because just being in the same building as this legal battle is making your skin crawl.
“Drink this.”
Garrett appears in your line of sight, holding out a bottle of water. He is wearing a dark suit that stretches tight across his broad shoulders, making him look less like a college student and more like a lethal, high-end bodyguard. Dean is sitting on your other side, similarly dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, currently glaring at a paralegal who dared to look in your direction.
You take the water with a shaky hand, managing a tiny sip. “How long has it been?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Garrett says, sitting down heavily next to you. His thigh presses against yours, radiating a comforting heat. “My dad used to drag me to these things when I was a kid. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. It takes time.”
You flinch slightly at the mention of his father. You know the bare bones of Garrett’s history — the abuse, the pristine public image, the quiet nightmare behind closed doors. You know exactly why he hates Shawn Nichols with such a visceral, violent intensity.
“I feel sick,” you whisper, leaning your head against the hard cinderblock wall behind the bench.
“Do you want to walk?” Dean asks instantly, his attention snapping back to you. “We can walk the hallway. Stretch your legs.”
“No. I just want it to be over.”
Garrett shifts his arm, wrapping it around the back of the bench and letting his hand rest heavily on your far shoulder, pulling you slightly toward him. “It will be. My money is on Dean’s mom. The woman is terrifying.”
“She made a senior partner cry when I was in the fourth grade because he tried to overcharge a client,” Dean says proudly. “Shawn’s Hollywood lawyers don’t stand a chance against my mother. They’re used to bullying people. She’s used to destroying them.”
The heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers suddenly clicks open.
Your heart slams into your ribs. You shoot up from the bench, Garrett and Dean rising instantly beside you, flanking you like gargoyles.
Dean’s mother, Lori Heyward, steps out into the hallway. She looks impeccable. Not a single hair is out of place, and her tailored skirt suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She closes the door behind her and looks at the three of you.
Her face is completely unreadable.
“Mom?” Dean asks, the tension in his voice betraying his calm facade. “What happened?”
Lori lets out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, a sharp, predatory smile curves her lips.
“The California petition is officially dead,” Lori says, her voice crisp and echoing in the quiet hallway. “The judge threw it out with prejudice. Shawn Nichols has absolutely zero legal standing to petition for a conservatorship in this state or any other.”
The air leaves your lungs in a massive, dizzying rush.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, your hands flying over your mouth.
“Furthermore,” Lori continues, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “The judge reviewed the independent psychiatric evaluation and the evidence of coercive control we submitted. He granted the permanent restraining order. Nichols cannot contact you, he cannot approach you, and he cannot dictate your finances.”
You break.
The dam that has been holding back years of terror, manipulation, and suffocating control finally snaps. You let out a loud, breathless sob and collapse forward.
Garrett catches you before you can even stumble.
His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you completely off the ground as he buries his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life, crying so hard your entire body shakes.
“You’re free,” Garrett whispers fiercely into your ear, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re free, Y/N. He’s gone.”
Dean wraps his arms around both of you, crushing you in a massive, three-person hug in the middle of the federal courthouse. “We got him, sweetheart,” Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “We totally destroyed him.”
You cry until you can’t breathe, but for the first time in six years, they are tears of absolute joy.
***
@PopCultureTea The Shawn Nichols-Y/N court documents just got unsealed and HOLY SHIT. He didn’t just control her money, he literally weighed her food and had trackers on her phone. #FreeYN is trending for a reason. He’s a monster.
@MusicIndustryInsider Several other female artists formerly signed to Supernova Records are preparing to come forward with similar allegations of coercive control and abuse by Shawn Nichols. The dam is breaking.
@BriarHawksSupportClub Anyone else notice that Y/N has two massive Briar hockey players acting as her personal security detail? Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis haven’t let her out of their sight in weeks. Alpha energy overload.
@TMZ BREAKING: Shawn Nichols steps down as CEO of Supernova Records amidst federal investigation into extortion and abuse allegations.
***
It is snowing in Hastings.
Big, thick flakes are drifting down past the living room window of the hockey house, blanketing the front lawn in pristine white. Inside, the house is aggressively warm, the radiator hissing gently in the corner.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a red pen in the other. Sheet music is scattered everywhere — pages upon pages of lyrics, chord progressions, and hastily scribbled notes.
“No, that bridge is too slow,” you mutter to yourself, chewing on the end of the pen. “It needs to build. It needs more …”
“More bass,” Tucker suggests from the armchair, where he is aggressively losing a game of Mario Kart to Logan.
“It’s an acoustic ballad, Tuck. It doesn’t need bass,” you laugh, crossing out a line of lyrics and rewriting it.
The front door bangs open, bringing in a rush of freezing air. Garrett and Dean stomp onto the welcome mat, shaking the snow off their heavy winter coats. They just got back from practice, their hair damp with sweat and melted snow, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“I am freezing my balls off,” Dean complains, kicking his boots off. “Whose bright idea was it to go to college in the frozen tundra?”
“Yours, you idiot,” Garrett says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the hook.
Garrett walks into the living room, his eyes immediately finding you on the floor. The hard, intense lines of his face instantly soften. He walks over, sidestepping the scattered sheet music, and drops down onto the rug right behind you.
He wraps his large arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his cold nose in the crook of your neck.
“Jesus, Garrett, you’re freezing!” You squeal, squirming slightly, though you make no actual effort to pull away.
“Warm me up, then,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver straight down your spine. “What are you working on?”
“The new song,” you say, leaning back into his solid heat. “For my final project in Vocal Performance. I’m going to produce it myself.”
Dean walks into the room, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch, casually resting his bare feet near your thigh. “Is it about how much you love your two incredibly handsome, heroic best friends?”
“It’s about how much I hate your ego,” you tease, looking up at him.
Dean winks, taking a massive bite of pizza. “Same thing.”
You look down at the sheet music. It’s been three weeks since the judge’s ruling. Three weeks since Shawn Nichols was legally barred from your life. Three weeks since the music industry completely turned its back on him, launching a massive investigation into his label.
He is gone. Really, truly gone.
And you are still here.
You trace the notes on the page, the melody humming in your mind. It’s a song about a cage. It’s a song about the cold, blinding lights of a soundstage, and the terrifying silence of a white room.
But the bridge … the bridge is about the warmth of a cracked leather couch. It’s about gray eyes and crooked smiles. It’s about the fierce, violent, beautiful protection of the people who saw you when you were completely invisible.
“Play it for me,” Garrett says softly, his arms tightening around your waist.
“It’s not done yet,” you say, sudden shyness gripping you. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since you ran off that set in Los Angeles.
“I don’t care,” Garrett says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Play what you have.”
Dean mutes the TV, completely ignoring Logan’s indignant protests. Tucker turns around in his chair. The room goes entirely quiet, filled only with the soft hiss of the radiator and the gentle sound of the snow hitting the window glass.
You look at the acoustic guitar resting against the sofa.
You reach out and pull it into your lap. Garrett shifts slightly, giving you enough room to hold the instrument, but he doesn’t let go of you. His solid presence at your back is a physical anchor.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a deep, clean breath of Massachusetts air.
And for the first time in your life, you sing a song that belongs entirely to you.
***
“I still think you should skip,” Dean says, leaning casually against the brick wall of the music building. He reaches out, tugging playfully at the zipper of your winter coat. “We could go back to the house. I could make you hot chocolate. Garrett could brood in the corner and look intimidating. It would be a great Tuesday.”
“I have a mid-term, Dean,” you say, laughing as you swat his hand away. You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. “And unlike you, I actually care about passing my classes.”
Garrett snorts, standing on your other side with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark denim jacket. The wind off the quad is biting, rustling through his dark hair, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze him. “She’s got a point, man. Your GPA is currently resting on a razor’s edge.”
“My GPA is a work of abstract art,” Dean corrects smoothly. He pushes off the wall, his bright eyes softening as he looks down at you. The teasing lilt leaves his voice, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth that you’ve come to rely on. “Text us the second you’re out, okay? We’ll be right here.”
“I know,” you smile, the familiar flutter of affection settling comfortably in your chest. “You guys are always right here.”
Garrett reaches out, his large hand gently catching your chin. He tilts your head up and presses a warm, firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a second, a silent, fierce reassurance. “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. We’ll see you in an hour.”
You wave at them as you pull the heavy glass doors of the music building open, stepping into the heated lobby.
Garrett and Dean wait on the concrete steps. They don’t move a muscle until they watch you safely scan your student ID and disappear down the main academic hallway. Only when you are completely out of sight do they finally turn away, falling into stride beside each other as they head back toward the main quad.
“I’ve got a seminar in twenty minutes,” Dean groans, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Ethics in Modern Law. It is aggressively boring.”
“It’s a pre-law requirement,” Garrett points out, his long legs eating up the pavement. “If you didn’t want to take it, you shouldn’t have let your parents bully you into the major.”
“They didn’t bully me. They heavily suggested it while holding my trust fund hostage,” Dean smirks. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’m good at arguing. I might as well get paid for it.”
They turn the corner, taking the shortcut behind the campus library. It’s a quiet, shaded walkway, lined with tall oak trees and thick brick archways that block out the wind and the noise of the main campus. Because of the cold, the path is completely empty.
“You think Coach is actually going to bag skate us this afternoon?” Dean asks, stepping over a patch of frozen leaves. “Because I swear, my hamstrings are still-”
Garrett stops walking.
He stops so abruptly his heavy boots scuff loudly against the pavement.
“G?” Dean asks, taking another step before pausing and turning back. “What’s wrong?”
Garrett doesn’t answer. His entire body has gone completely rigid. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He is staring straight ahead down the shaded walkway, his gray eyes dark and lethal.
Dean follows his line of sight.
Standing about fifty yards away, near the side entrance of the music annex, is a man.
He stands out instantly. He isn’t wearing a Briar hoodie or a North Face jacket. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat over a perfectly pressed suit. He has silver hair at his temples, combed back meticulously. He is leaning against the stone railing, casually checking a silver watch on his wrist, his posture oozing a slimy, arrogant confidence.
Dean’s blood goes ice cold in his veins.
“No fucking way,” Dean whispers, the words catching in his throat.
“It’s him,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound human. It is a low, guttural snarl, vibrating with a violence so raw and absolute it makes the air around them feel heavy.
Shawn Nichols.
Here. On their campus. Fifty yards away from the building where you are currently sitting in a classroom, completely unaware that the monster from her nightmares has found her.
“He’s violating the restraining order,” Dean says, his mind instantly racing through the legal parameters. “He has to stay five hundred feet away from her. The music annex is attached to her building. He’s trying to ambush her.”
Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
He stalks forward, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between them and Shawn. Dean is right on his heels, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The easygoing, charming Briar University playboy completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
Shawn doesn’t notice them until they are less than ten feet away. He looks up from his watch, his perfectly manicured eyebrows drawing together in irritation at the heavy sound of their footsteps.
“Excuse me,” Shawn says, his voice dripping with condescension. “The library entrance is on the other side. This path is-”
Shawn cuts off.
He looks at Garrett. He looks at Dean. Recognition flashes in his cold eyes. He’s seen their faces. He’s seen the paparazzi photos of the two massive hockey players flanking you at the diner, flanking you at the courthouse, standing between you and the rest of the world.
Shawn doesn’t look intimidated. If anything, a slick, mocking smile spreads across his face.
“Well. If it isn’t the campus security detail,” Shawn says smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. “I was wondering when I’d run into you boys.”
“You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk off this campus,” Garrett says, stopping three feet away from Shawn. Garrett’s chest is heaving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is visibly jumping. “Before I break both of your fucking legs.”
Shawn chuckles. It’s a dry, hollow sound. “Violent. She always did like the aggressive type. Although, I have to say, I’m surprised she downgraded to a pair of meathead college athletes. The money must be tight now that she doesn’t have my credit cards.”
Dean steps up beside Garrett, his eyes locking onto Shawn. “You are violating a federal restraining order, Nichols. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops, and my mother will personally see to it that you spend the next five years in a maximum-security cell.”
“Ah, yes. The Di Laurentis boy,” Shawn sneers, looking Dean up and down with absolute disdain. “Tell your mother her little legal stunt in Boston was cute. But temporary. You kids don’t seem to understand how the real world works. Restraining orders are just pieces of paper. And she …” Shawn’s eyes flick toward the music building, his smile darkening into something twisted and possessive. “ … she belongs to me.”
Garrett sees red.
“She doesn’t belong to anybody,” Garrett growls, taking a step forward, invading Shawn’s personal space. “You’re a sick, pathetic old man who preys on teenagers because you’re too weak to handle a real woman. You’re nothing without her.”
Shawn’s mocking smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, ugly anger bleeding through his polished exterior. But he recovers quickly, leaning closer to Garrett.
“You think you’re saving her?” Shawn whispers, his voice turning into a venomous hiss. “You think you’re her hero? You’re a temporary distraction. I made her. I built her from the ground up. I know every sound she makes, every secret she has. I know exactly how she likes to be touched.”
The air leaves the alleyway.
“When she’s done playing college dress-up with you boys,” Shawn continues, his eyes glittering with malice, “She’ll come crawling back to me. They always do. She needs the discipline. She likes the control. And when she comes back, I’m going to make sure she never forgets who owns her-”
Garrett snaps.
With a roar of pure fury, Garrett pulls his right arm back, his massive fist curling into a wrecking ball, ready to cave Shawn’s skull in.
“Garrett, wait!”
Dean moves faster than he ever has on the ice. He lunges forward, catching Garrett’s arm mid-swing. The impact of stopping Garrett’s momentum sends a shockwave up Dean’s shoulder, but he holds on with a desperate, iron grip.
“Let me go, Dean!” Garrett roars, his eyes wild, completely consumed by the rage. He tries to rip his arm away, his focus locked entirely on Shawn’s smug face. “I’m going to kill him! Let me go!”
“No! Garrett, stop!” Dean shoves his entire body weight against Garrett’s chest, forcing the bigger man back a step. “Look at me! G, look at me!”
Garrett blinks, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto Dean’s face.
“He wants you to hit him,” Dean says, his voice low and intense, his hands gripping the lapels of Garrett’s jacket. “Look at him. He’s smiling. He wants you to assault him so he can press charges.”
Shawn adjusts his cuffs, looking entirely unbothered. “Listen to your friend, Graham. A felony assault charge would look terrible for a college player waiting to be signed. What would the Bruins say?”
Dean doesn’t look at Shawn. He keeps his eyes locked on Garrett.
“Garrett, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice deadly calm. “You have the draft. You have an NHL contract waiting for you. You have a spotless record. If you hit him, he ruins your career. He takes everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid. You cannot get your hands dirty on a piece of shit like this.”
Garrett’s breathing is ragged. He looks at Shawn, then back at Dean. The violent rage is still there, burning just beneath his skin, but the logic penetrates the haze. Garrett knows what’s at stake. He knows Shawn is baiting him.
Slowly, agonizingly, Garrett lowers his fist. He steps back, his chest rising and falling heavily.
Shawn smirks, a triumphant, sickening look of victory washing over his face. “Smart boy. Stick to hockey. Leave the grown-up matters to the men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a conversation to have with my girlfriend.”
Shawn turns to walk toward the music building.
“Hey, Shawn.”
Shawn stops, turning back around with an annoyed sigh. “What now?”
Dean is shrugging out of his heavy winter coat. He tosses it onto the frozen grass. He reaches up, casually unbuttoning the cuffs of his expensive button-down shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He takes his silver watch off and hands it to Garrett without looking.
“See, Garrett has a career to protect,” Dean says, his voice smooth, conversational, and completely terrifying. “He has rules.”
Dean rolls his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet walkway.
“Me, on the other hand?” Dean continues, taking a slow, measured step toward Shawn. “I’m not going pro. I have a trust fund that could buy and sell your pathetic little record label ten times over. My parents are the most ruthless, highly connected defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard. I don’t give a single flying fuck about a clean record.”
Shawn’s smug smile finally vanishes. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the sides, suddenly realizing exactly how alone they are in the shaded alleyway. “If you touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“I’ll have my lawyers tie it up in court for the next thirty years,” Dean smiles, a cold, devastating slash of white teeth. “It’ll be a fun hobby.”
Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out.
Dean lunges.
It isn’t a hockey fight. There is no jersey grabbing, no wild swinging. Dean is precise, fast, and completely merciless.
His first punch connects squarely with Shawn’s jaw. The crack of bone is sickeningly loud. Shawn’s head snaps to the side, a spray of blood painting the brick wall beside him, and he crumbles to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.
“That,” Dean snarls, his voice echoing off the archways, “is for locking her in a hospital.”
Shawn groans, rolling onto his side and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. He tries to scramble backward, his expensive wool coat scraping against the concrete. “You … you’re dead. I’ll ruin you …”
Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat, dragging him effortlessly back to his feet. Shawn is taller than you, but against a 200-pound college athlete fueled by pure hatred, he is nothing.
Dean drives his knee directly into Shawn’s stomach. All the air leaves Shawn’s lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.
“That,” Dean says, his chest heaving, “is for the drugs.”
Shawn falls to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as he tries to shield his face. “Please … wait …”
“And this,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “This is for every time you ever laid your hands on her.”
Dean brings his elbow down hard on the back of Shawn’s neck, driving him face-first into the concrete. Shawn goes completely limp, a low, pathetic whimper escaping his bloody lips.
Dean stands over him. He doesn’t stop. He reaches down, grabs Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him up just enough to deliver another crushing right hook to his cheekbone. Shawn’s head snaps back, and he collapses back onto the ground, unmoving.
He’s conscious, but barely. He is a bloody, broken mess on the freezing pavement, his arrogant veneer entirely stripped away.
Dean stands up straight. His knuckles are split and bleeding, staining his white shirt cuffs red. He’s breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his veins. He looks down at the man who terrorized you for six years, the man who made you fear your own shadow, and Dean feels absolutely nothing but satisfaction.
Dean slowly turns around.
Garrett is standing exactly where Dean left him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gray eyes dark and incredibly proud.
Dean reaches up, casually running a hand through his hair to fix it. He wipes a drop of Shawn’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Hey, Graham,” Dean asks, his voice returning to its normal, casual drawl.
“Yeah, Di Laurentis?” Garrett replies.
“You see any cameras around this corner?”
Garrett takes a slow, theatrical look around the shaded brick alleyway. He looks up at the library roof, then over at the trees. He looks back at Dean, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face.
“Just brick and ivy, man,” Garrett says. “Total dead zone.”
“Perfect.”
Dean reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and dials 911, holding the phone to his ear.
He waits for the operator to answer. And then, in a masterclass of acting that would win an Oscar, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. His posture slumps, his voice becomes frantic, breathless, and laced with absolute panic.
“Hello? Yes, 911? I need police and an ambulance at Briar University immediately,” Dean gasps into the phone, sounding genuinely terrified. “I’m behind the campus library. I … I don’t know what happened. This guy just came out of nowhere and attacked me.”
Garrett leans against the wall, watching Dean work with absolute awe.
“Yes, I’m a student,” Dean cries into the receiver. “His name is Shawn Nichols. He’s my friend’s stalker. He has a federal restraining order against him and he showed up on campus looking for her. I told him to leave, and he just went crazy. He lunged at me. I … I had to defend myself. I think I hurt him. Please hurry, I’m so scared.”
Dean gives the operator the exact cross streets, his voice shaking perfectly, before hanging up the phone.
The fake panic instantly drops from his face. He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He looks down at Shawn, who is groaning pathetically on the concrete, blood pooling around his expensive shoes.
“They’re on their way,” Dean says coldly. He steps closer to Shawn, crouching down so he is eye-level with the beaten man.
Shawn looks up at him through a swollen, rapidly bruising eye.
“Listen to me very carefully, Shawn,” Dean whispers, his voice lethal. “When the cops get here, you are going to tell them that you violated the restraining order. You are going to tell them that you attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense. If you try to say anything else, my mother will rip your life apart in court. And when she’s done, Garrett and I will find you again. And next time, there won’t be an ambulance.”
Shawn swallows hard, coughing on his own blood. He gives a weak, terrified nod.
Dean stands back up. He turns to Garrett, casually rolling his bloody sleeves back down.
“You know,” Garrett says, walking over and handing Dean his watch and winter coat. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”
Dean flashes a bright, bloody grin, slipping his watch back onto his wrist. “I have layers, G. Like an onion.”
“Well,” Garrett claps Dean firmly on the shoulder, his expression hardening into pure brotherhood. “Remind me to never piss you off.”
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, looking toward the music building where you are safely sitting in class. “I only get violent for the people I love.”
They stand side by side in the freezing wind, waiting for the sirens to arrive.
***
The front door of the hockey house opens with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar sound of heavy boots kicking off onto the welcome mat.
You look up from the music theory textbook spread across the kitchen island. You’ve been home for an hour, the quiet of the house slowly settling your nerves after the exam.
“How was the ethics seminar?” You call out, sliding off the barstool and padding into the hallway in your socks. “Did you survive without falling asleep-”
You stop dead in your tracks.
Dean is shrugging off his heavy winter coat, tossing it carelessly onto the hook. His hair is a mess, his chest is heaving slightly, and his tailored white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. But that isn’t what stops your heart.
It’s his hands.
His right hand is completely wrecked. The skin across his knuckles is split, raw, and bleeding freely. There are dark, smeared streaks of blood running down his fingers and staining the pristine white cuffs of his shirt a stark, terrifying crimson.
A sharp gasp rips from your throat. “Dean!”
Dean looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes what you’re looking at. He immediately tries to tuck his hands behind his back, a sheepish, almost guilty look crossing his face. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”
“Oh my god, your hand!” You sprint down the hallway, grabbing his arm and pulling his right hand forward. Your heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. “What happened? Did you get into a car accident? Did you fall? Garrett, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
Garrett steps into the hallway, casually locking the front door behind him. He doesn’t look panicked at all. In fact, he looks incredibly calm. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and practically glowing with a fierce, protective pride.
“He doesn’t need a hospital, Y/N,” Garrett says, his deep voice a soothing rumble in the frantic hallway.
“Look at him!” You cry, your fingers hovering over Dean’s bleeding knuckles, terrified to cause him more pain. “He’s bleeding everywhere! We need to clean this out, you need stitches-”
“Sweetheart. Hey. Look at me,” Dean says softly.
He uses his clean left hand to gently cup your cheek, forcing your panicked gaze away from the blood and up to his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. His bright eyes are warm, grounding, and completely entirely void of pain.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean promises, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “It barely even hurts.”
“How can you say that?” You whisper, your voice shaking. “Your hand is destroyed.”
“That’s because he hit a brick wall,” Garrett says casually, leaning his massive frame against the hallway wall. “Or, more accurately, a brick wall dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat.”
You freeze.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. The blood roaring in your ears suddenly goes deadly quiet.
“What?” You breathe out.
Dean sighs, shooting Garrett a mild glare before turning his full attention back to you. “He was here, Y/N. On campus. He was waiting outside the music annex.”
The name isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air, a dark, suffocating cloud. Shawn.
Your knees instantly turn to water. You stumble back a step, a primal, deeply ingrained terror seizing your throat. “He was here? How close did he get? Did he see me? I didn’t see him-”
“Hey, hey, stop,” Garrett is there in an instant, his large hands gripping your shoulders, anchoring you to the floor. “He didn’t see you. You were safely inside taking your exam. He didn’t get anywhere near you.”
“Then how …” You look from Garrett to Dean’s bloody knuckles. The realization hits you like a freight train. “You fought him?”
“He didn’t fight him,” Garrett corrects, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his handsome face. “Dean beat him into the fucking pavement.”
You stare at Dean in absolute shock.
“He was waiting for you,” Dean says, his voice losing its playful edge, turning hard and lethal. “He was violating the restraining order, and he was planning on ambushing you when you walked out. Garrett was going to kill him, but … Garrett is going pro. He has an NHL career to protect. So, I stepped in.”
“You … you beat him up?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“Very thoroughly,” Dean nods, a flash of pure, unapologetic satisfaction in his eyes. “I broke his nose. I shattered his jaw. I’m pretty sure I fractured a couple of his ribs. He won’t be doing much besides drinking out of a straw for the considerable future.”
“But … the police!” The panic surges back, hotter and more desperate this time. “Dean, he’s going to press charges! He’s going to ruin your life! He’s going to send you to jail!”
“He’s not sending anyone anywhere,” Dean chuckles, stepping closer to you. “I called the cops myself. I told them this deranged stalker showed up on campus, violated a federal restraining order, and attacked me unprovoked. I acted entirely in self-defense.”
Garrett laughs, a low, booming sound. “It was a masterclass, Y/N. You should have seen it. The cops showed up, Shawn is choking on his own blood, and Dean is playing the traumatized victim. His parents are already handling the paperwork. Shawn is the one who left in handcuffs, straight to the hospital ward under police guard.”
You stand perfectly still in the hallway.
You look at Dean. You look at the blood on his hands — Shawn’s blood. The blood of the man who controlled your every waking breath, the man who locked you in a sterile white room, the man who convinced you that you were entirely alone in the world.
Dean Di Laurentis, the wealthy, charming, carefree playboy of Briar University, shattered his own hands to protect you. He risked assault charges, he risked his reputation, he risked everything, simply because he refuses to let anyone hurt you.
And Garrett. Garrett stood back to protect his future, but he was fully prepared to throw it all away for you.
The overwhelming, crushing weight of their devotion crashes over you like a tidal wave.
Tears prick your eyes, hot and fast. A choked, breathless sob escapes your lips.
“Hey, no, don’t cry,” Dean says instantly, his face falling into genuine distress. He reaches for you, careful not to touch you with his bloody hand. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s over. He’s never coming near you again, I swear on my life.”
You don’t say a word. You step forward, grab the lapels of Dean’s unbuttoned shirt, pull him down to your height, and crash your lips against his.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. And then, with a low groan that vibrates deep in his chest, he kisses you back. His clean left hand sweeps around your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard chest. The kiss is desperate, bruising, and tasted like salt and adrenaline. It is a profound, messy explosion of everything you have been holding back for months.
You kiss him like he is the only oxygen left in the room. You pour every ounce of your gratitude, your terror, and your overwhelming affection into his mouth. Dean’s lips part, his tongue sweeping inside, entirely commanding, entirely devoted.
When you finally pull back, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Christ, Y/N.”
You step out of his arms, your chest heaving, and turn to Garrett.
Garrett is staring at you, his jaw clenched, his gray eyes burning with a heat so intense it practically singes your skin. He doesn’t move. He waits, completely perfectly still, letting you dictate the terms.
You walk right up to him. You slide your hands up his broad chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. You wrap your arms around his thick neck, and you pull him down.
Garrett doesn’t hesitate. His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the floor as his mouth crashes down on yours.
If Dean’s kiss was desperate, Garrett’s is a claim. It is fierce, territorial, and completely consuming. He kisses you with the absolute, unyielding intensity of a man who would gladly burn the world to the ground to keep you warm. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, whimpering softly into his mouth as his tongue meets yours.
He slowly lowers you back down to the floor, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth hovering mere millimeters from yours. His breath is hot against your lips.
“Are you sure?” Garrett whispers, his voice thick, heavy with restraint. “You don’t have to do this just because you’re grateful.”
“It’s not gratitude,” you breathe, looking up into his intense gray eyes. You turn your head, catching Dean’s gaze over Garrett’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. I’m so tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me. I want … I want you. Both of you.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, stepping up directly behind you. His chest presses against your back. “You have us. Every single piece of us.”
“Make me forget him,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Please.”
Garrett’s eyes darken. “Done.”
Garrett leans down, scooping you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weigh absolutely nothing. Dean leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They don’t go to Garrett’s room at the end of the hall. They take the first door on the right — Dean’s room.
Dean kicks the door shut behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
Garrett sets you down gently on the edge of Dean’s massive, king-sized bed. The room smells like expensive cologne and clean laundry.
“Let me wash my hands,” Dean says, his voice raspy. He walks into the attached en-suite bathroom, turning on the faucet.
You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a spike of nerves. For six years, sex was a transaction. It was something Shawn demanded, something you endured by going entirely numb and detaching from your own skin. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to participate.
Garrett kneels on the floor between your knees. He sees the sudden panic flash in your eyes, the slight tremble in your hands.
“Hey,” Garrett murmurs, his massive hands coming to rest gently on your thighs. He doesn’t grip you. He just rests them there, a grounding, solid weight. “Look at me.”
You meet his eyes.
“We are not him,” Garrett says, his voice quiet, steady, and an absolute vow. “Nobody is taking anything from you today. Your body belongs to you. You are completely in control. If you want us to stop, you tell us, and we stop. Instantly. If you want something, you tell us. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“You don’t have to be good at anything,” Dean says, walking out of the bathroom. He has stripped off his ruined shirt, his sculpted chest completely bare. His knuckles are washed clean, covered in sterile bandages. He drops onto the bed behind you, pulling you back so your back rests against his chest. “You just have to let us worship you.”
Dean presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right below your ear. At the exact same moment, Garrett leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your wrist.
The dual sensation is a shock to your system. It isn’t demanding. It is absolute, pure reverence.
Garrett slowly unbuttons your shirt, his large, calloused fingers moving with agonizing, beautiful care. He pushes the fabric off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s hands slide around your waist, pulling you securely against his warmth.
They strip you slowly. Every time a piece of clothing is removed, a kiss replaces it.
Garrett kisses your collarbone. Dean kisses your shoulder. Garrett’s hot mouth trails down your stomach, making you gasp, while Dean’s hands trace the curve of your hips. You are completely surrounded, entirely enveloped in their heat, their strength, and their devastating tenderness.
For the first time in your life, you are not a doll to be posed. You are a goddess, and this bed is an altar.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett groans, looking up at you as he pulls your jeans down your legs. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed skin with naked, starving adoration.
Dean’s hands slide up your ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. “Perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”
They lay you back against the pillows. Dean moves to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, his bright eyes locked onto your face. Garrett remains positioned between your legs, his massive frame kneeling at the edge of the bed.
The heat in the room is suffocating.
Garrett leans down, his mouth replacing his hands. His tongue traces the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow precision.
A sharp, shocked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly up, completely instinctively, to grip the bedsheets.
“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with lust. He captures your hands, gently intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them loosely above your head. “Let him.”
Garrett’s mouth finds your center.
The pleasure hits you like a lightning strike. It is so intense, so entirely overwhelming, that your back physically arches off the mattress.
“Garrett-” you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation completely shorts out your brain.
“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs against your wet skin, his breath hot and devastating. His tongue works with absolute, devastating precision, learning exactly what makes you whimper, exactly what makes you shake.
Dean leans over, his mouth capturing yours. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the slow, rhythmic glide of Garrett’s mouth lower down.
You are a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, singing, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure they are pouring into you. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to perform. All you have to do is feel.
“Dean,” you whimper into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively into Garrett’s relentless, driving mouth. “Please … I can’t …”
“Yes, you can,” Dean soothes, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping lightly at your collarbone. He releases one of your hands, his fingers trailing down your torso, slipping between your legs to join Garrett.
Two of Dean’s fingers slide smoothly inside of you.
You scream into the empty room.
The combination of Dean’s fingers stretching you deep and Garrett’s mouth perfectly working your clit is entirely too much. The pleasure builds instantly, a massive, crushing wave that completely sweeps you away.
“That’s it, Y/N,” Garrett growls encouragingly, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place as you unravel. “Give it to us.”
You shatter.
Your entire body goes rigid, climaxing so hard your vision goes entirely white. You cry out, your nails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders as the waves of pleasure rock through your system, completely washing away years of trauma, leaving behind only the blazing, brilliant heat of the present.
You are gasping for air, trembling violently, a puddle of absolute, melted exhaustion on the sheets.
Garrett crawls up the bed, his massive body blanketing yours. He kisses you, tasting your release on his own lips. “You are incredible,” he whispers against your mouth.
“I want you,” you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. You look over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes are completely black with lust. “Both of you. Now.”
Garrett and Dean shed the rest of their clothes in a matter of seconds.
The sheer size of them is intimidating, but looking at them now, you feel no fear. You only feel a desperate, burning need.
Garrett positions himself between your thighs, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you. He looks down at you, checking your eyes one last time. You nod, a silent, desperate plea.
With a low groan, Garrett pushes slowly inside of you.
He is massive, thick and solid, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, but he stops immediately, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him.
“Okay?” Garrett asks, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Please, Garrett.”
Garrett groans, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt.
The rhythm starts, a slow, heavy, relentless pounding that steals the breath from your lungs. Garrett is entirely focused, his gray eyes locked onto yours, reading every twitch of your face, ensuring that every thrust brings you nothing but pleasure.
Dean shifts behind you. He kneels on the bed, pulling your torso up so your back rests securely against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.
“We’ve got you,” Dean whispers in your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
Garrett picks up the pace, his thrusts driving deeper, harder. The friction is incredible. Dean’s hands are everywhere, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, whispering filthy, gorgeous praises into your ear while Garrett completely commands your body.
You are entirely, thoroughly claimed. You are the center of their universe, caught between two massive forces of nature who exist entirely for your pleasure.
“Y/N,” Garrett growls, his control finally beginning to fracture. His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He grabs your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “I’m close.”
“Dean,” you gasp, reaching back blindly with one hand, your fingers curling around the thick, hot length of his erection.
Dean hisses a sharp breath as your hand wraps around him. You stroke him, matching the frantic rhythm of Garrett’s hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean groans, his hips stuttering forward into your hand.
The climax hits you a second time, entirely unannounced. It rips through you with the force of a hurricane, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around Garrett.
With a roaring shout, Garrett thrusts deep one final time, completely unraveling inside of you.
Above you, Dean shudders violently, his own release spilling hotly over your hand as he buries his face in your hair, completely spent.
The three of you collapse together in a tangled, breathless mess of limbs, sweat, and completely ruined sheets.
The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged sounds of three people trying to catch their breath.
Garrett rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping you securely tethered to him. He pulls you against his chest, his large arm wrapping entirely around you. Dean is on your other side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow next to yours.
You are exhausted. You are a puddle of goo. You have never felt more alive.
You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the dim light of the bedroom. Dean’s right hand is resting near your face, the white bandages stark against his skin.
You gently reach out, pulling his injured hand toward your mouth.
Dean cracks an eye open, watching you through half-lidded, exhausted eyes.
You press a soft, lingering kiss to the bandaged knuckles. You press another kiss to his palm, and another to his wrist.
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender smile that completely transforms his sharp features. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead against yours.
“I love you, you know,” Dean whispers into the quiet room.
Garrett tightens his grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest from behind. He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “We both do. Always have.”
You close your eyes, surrounded by their heat, completely safe, and completely loved.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
And for the first time in your life, you know exactly what that word is supposed to mean.
***
The Briar University Performing Arts Center smells like floor wax, nervous sweat, and heavily sprayed hairspray.
You are pacing the narrow stretch of the backstage green room, your black leather boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the linoleum. It is the end-of-year showcase for the Vocal Performance majors. Beyond the heavy velvet curtains, an auditorium packed with five hundred people is buzzing with anticipation.
And you are currently hyperventilating.
“I can’t,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of your oversized denim jacket. “I can’t do it. I’m going to throw up. I need to leave.”
“You are not going to throw up, and you are not leaving,” a calm, impossibly steady voice says.
Garrett m steps into your path, effectively blocking your pacing. He is wearing a dark, charcoal-gray button-down shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He reaches out, his massive hands catching your wrists and gently prying your fingers away from your jacket.
“My throat is closing up,” you whisper, panic lacing every syllable. You look up into his gray eyes, completely terrified. “Garrett, the lights. What if the lights turn on and I just … what if I’m back there? What if I freeze?”
“If you freeze,” Dean says, stepping up right behind Garrett, “then Garrett and I walk right up on that stage, scoop you up, and carry you out the back door. We go get milkshakes, and we try again next year.”
You look past Garrett’s shoulder. Dean is wearing a tailored black suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like a devastatingly handsome menace, entirely out of place among the jittery theater and music students warming up around you.
“You guys aren’t even supposed to be back here,” you say, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “The stage manager said only performers.”
“The stage manager is a sophomore named Kyle who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet,” Dean smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I looked at him, Garrett cracked his knuckles, and suddenly Kyle decided we were essential personnel.”
“We are essential personnel,” Garrett murmurs, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your shoulders. His heat seeps through the denim of your jacket, anchoring you to the floor. “Listen to me, Y/N. You are not on a soundstage in Los Angeles. You are not surrounded by a crew of people on Shawn Nichols’s payroll.”
You swallow hard, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the solid, unyielding pressure of Garrett’s hands.
“You are in Hastings, Massachusetts,” Garrett continues, his voice a low, grounding rumble. “You wrote the arrangement. You picked the song. Nobody is telling you what to wear, and nobody is telling you how to move. This is your voice. This is your stage.”
“And if anyone out there looks at you the wrong way,” Dean adds, his voice dropping its playful edge, turning fierce and protective, “I will personally throw them through the nearest stained-glass window.”
You open your eyes, looking between the two of them.
It has been six months since Dean left Shawn broken and bleeding on the campus pavement. Six months since the restraining order became permanent, and Shawn’s entire empire began crumbling under federal investigations.
Six months of waking up in a warm bed, flanked by two men who worship the absolute ground you walk on. They have piece by piece, day by day, helped you put yourself back together. They didn’t fix you — they gave you the safe space you needed to fix yourself.
“Okay,” you breathe out, the vise around your chest finally loosening. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Of course you can,” Dean smiles, stepping forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Y/N?”
A frazzled girl with a clipboard pokes her head into the green room. “You’re up next. Three minutes.”
Your heart does a complicated flip, but the paralyzing terror is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric shot of adrenaline.
“We’re going to head to our seats,” Garrett says, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Logan and Tuck are saving them. Front row, center.”
“Don’t look at the crowd,” Dean orders gently, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Just look at us.”
“I will,” you promise.
They both give you one last, lingering look before turning and pushing their way through the backstage doors.
You take a deep breath. You shed the oversized denim jacket, leaving you in a simple, flowing black slip dress. Your hair is loose and natural, cascading down your back. There are no rhinestones. There are no leather straps. There is no heavy, doll-like stage makeup. It is just you.
“Next up, performing an acoustic arrangement on the guitar … Y/N.”
The announcer’s voice echoes over the PA system. The crowd claps politely.
You pick up the acoustic guitar resting on the stand, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under your fingers. You push through the heavy velvet curtains and step out onto the stage.
The lights hit you instantly.
For a fraction of a second, the brightness is blinding. A ghost of the old panic flares in your chest, a phantom echo of a music video set and a screaming manager. But then your vision adjusts, and you look down into the audience.
Front row. Center.
Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis are sitting side-by-side, their long legs practically touching the edge of the stage. Logan and Tucker are sitting next to them, beaming proudly.
Garrett’s gray eyes are locked onto you, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. Dean shoots you a slow, breathtaking smile, tapping his chest right over his heart.
The ghost of Shawn Nichols instantly evaporates.
You pull the microphone stand a few inches closer, adjust the strap of your guitar, and look directly at Dean and Garrett.
“Hi,” you say into the microphone. Your voice is soft, a little raspy, but it doesn’t shake. “This song is a cover. But the words … the words mean a lot to me. I want to dedicate this to the two people who reminded me what it feels like to be seen. Really seen.”
A hush falls over the auditorium. You can see Garrett’s jaw tighten with emotion, his posture going completely rigid. Dean’s smile softens into something incredibly tender, his eyes shining under the ambient light.
You place your fingers on the frets. You take a breath, close your eyes for just a second, and begin to play.
The acoustic chords ring out, stripped down, haunting, and beautiful. You lean into the microphone, and for the first time in over a year, you sing for an audience.
“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”
Your voice is completely different from the heavily produced, auto-tuned pop tracks Shawn forced you to record. It is raw. It is deeply soulful, carrying the weight of everything you have survived.
“‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow …”
You open your eyes, locking your gaze entirely on Garrett. He is staring at you like you are the only thing in the room. Like you are the only thing in the entire world.
“You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be. And I don’t want to go home right now …”
You shift your gaze to Dean. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looks entirely captivated, entirely yours.
As you hit the chorus, you strum the guitar a little harder, letting the emotion swell, letting the power of your own voice fill the massive auditorium.
“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand …”
You sing the words not to the crowd of five hundred people, but as a secret shared between the three of you. A confession of the months spent hiding, the months spent terrified of the tabloids, the cameras, and the judgments.
“When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.”
You pour every ounce of your trauma, your healing, and your profound, earth-shattering love for them into that single line. Because they do. They know the girl who cried on the floor of the hockey house, they know the girl who fought a billionaire in federal court, and they know the girl who is finally taking her life back.
The auditorium is dead silent, entirely spellbound by the raw, devastating honesty in your voice.
You finish the song, the final, haunting chord echoing softly through the speakers before fading into absolute silence.
For a heartbeat, nobody moves.
And then, Garrett is on his feet.
He stands up, his massive frame towering over the front row, clapping so hard it echoes like thunder. Dean is up a second later, completely ignoring protocol as he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a deafening, piercing whistle.
The rest of the auditorium erupts. Five hundred people stand up, the applause crashing over you in a massive, deafening wave.
You stand in the center of the stage, the guitar resting against your hip. The blinding lights don’t feel like a cage anymore. They feel like a sunrise. You look down at Garrett and Dean, a massive, tearful smile breaking across your face.
You did it. You took it back.
You offer a small bow, wave to the cheering crowd, and turn to walk off the stage.
The second the velvet curtains fall shut behind you, the adrenaline crashes out of your system, leaving your legs feeling like absolute jelly. You lean the guitar against a flight case, taking a deep, shaky breath, completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.
The heavy stage door bursts open.
“Y/N!”
You turn around just in time to be completely engulfed.
Garrett hits you first, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor. He spins you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You were perfect,” he growls, his voice thick and entirely wrecked with emotion. “God, sweetheart, you were absolutely perfect.”
“Garrett, put her down, it’s my turn,” Dean demands, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate joy.
Garrett sets you down, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.
Dean steps right into your space. He is holding the most massive, stunning bouquet of flowers you have ever seen in your entire life. It isn’t a standard dozen red roses. It is an explosion of deep blue hydrangeas, pure white peonies, and trailing green ivy — a completely custom, wildly expensive arrangement.
“For you,” Dean breathes, his eyes blazing as he practically shoves the massive bouquet into your arms.
“Dean, these are beautiful,” you gasp, struggling to hold the sheer weight of the flowers.
“You’re beautiful,” Dean says fiercely.
He doesn’t give you a second to respond. Dean grabs the lapels of your slip dress, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth against yours.
He kisses you within an inch of your life.
It isn’t a sweet, congratulatory peck. It is a sweeping, desperate, completely devastating kiss. Dean’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting the adrenaline and the joy still humming under your skin. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to press himself so entirely into your bones that you never doubt how much he loves you ever again.
You melt against him, the bouquet crushed between your chests, your free hand tangling in his perfectly styled hair. You kiss him back with everything you have, a small, breathy moan escaping your throat.
“Hey,” Garrett growls, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Share.”
Dean reluctantly pulls back, his chest heaving, a dark, incredibly satisfied smirk on his swollen lips. “She’s all yours, G.”
Garrett wastes no time. He slides his hand from the back of your neck into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, and brings his mouth down on yours.
Garrett’s kiss is a force of nature. It is deep, territorial, and completely commanding. He kisses you with a heavy, unyielding pressure that makes your knees completely give out. If Dean wasn’t holding you up from the other side, you would have collapsed onto the linoleum floor. Garrett’s tongue tangles with yours, slow and purposeful, a filthy promise of what is going to happen the second he gets you back to the hockey house.
“Excuse me? Guys?”
The three of you freeze.
You pull back from Garrett, your lips bruised and swollen, your face flushed dark red.
Kyle, the skinny sophomore stage manager, is standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking completely mortified. He is staring at the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact.
“Um, congratulations on a great performance, Y/N,” Kyle squeaks out. “But we really need to clear the backstage wing for the chamber choir. You guys are kind of … in the way.”
Garrett shoots a terrifying, lethal glare over his shoulder. “Give us a minute, Kyle.”
“Sure thing! Take your time!” Kyle practically squeaks, turning around and sprinting back toward the other side of the stage.
You burst out laughing, burying your hot, flushed face in the cool petals of the hydrangeas.
“You guys are going to get me expelled,” you giggle, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest.
“Worth it,” Dean winks, stepping close and casually wiping a smudge of your lipstick off the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. “Come on, superstar. Logan and Tucker went ahead to start the car. We’re taking you home.”
“Are we having a party?” You ask, looking between them as Garrett places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.
Garrett looks at Dean over your head. A slow, incredibly dark, incredibly explicit look passes between the two men.
“No,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that instantly makes your pulse spike. “No party. Just the three of us.”
“We are going to celebrate you properly,” Dean adds, his bright eyes tracking the line of your slip dress with absolute, naked hunger. “Behind closed doors. For a very, very long time.”
A shiver of pure anticipation shoots down your spine.
You step out into the cool Massachusetts night air, the heavy bouquet in your arms, flanked by the two men who saved your life. You look up at the dark sky, the stars entirely hidden by the city lights, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t afraid of the dark.
You aren’t afraid of anything at all.
“Take me home, then,” you smile.
Garrett pulls you tight against his side, Dean wraps his hand firmly around yours, and together, you walk away from the stage.
***
THE BOSTON GLOBE | SPORTS SECTION
October 12, 2028 | By Andrew Rhodes
ROOKIE PHENOM GARRETT GRAHAM BRINGS MORE THAN JUST GOALS TO THE GARDEN
The Boston Bruins have a new golden boy, and he’s not just making headlines on the ice.
Garrett Graham, the undrafted free agent out of Briar University, has been tearing up the NHL in his rookie season, boasting a staggering point streak that has Boston fans roaring. But while Graham’s lethal slapshot and commanding presence as a center are the talk of the locker room, the cameras at TD Garden can’t seem to stay away from the VIP box.
For the past two months, the city’s favorite pop star has been a permanent fixture at home games.
Sporting an oversized, vintage Bruins jersey with GRAHAM and the number 44 stitched across the back, the singer has been spotted aggressively cheering on her man from the glass. It’s a remarkable public resurgence for the 23-year-old artist, who famously stepped away from the spotlight two years ago following a highly publicized, brutal legal battle with her former label head.
But Graham isn’t the only man she’s sharing her time with. The internet has been set completely ablaze by the triad’s unapologetic dynamic. Often flanked in the VIP box by Dean Di Laurentis — Graham’s former Briar teammate and currently one of Harvard Law School’s most ruthless top-tier students — the trio has become Boston’s most fascinating, fiercely protective, and deeply private phenomenon.
Whether Graham is tapping the glass with his stick right in front of her seat after a goal, or Di Laurentis is caught on the Jumbotron kissing her cheek, one thing is absolutely clear: the pop princess has found her permanent security detail, and Boston is entirely here for it.
***
TIKTOK TRANSCRIPT | @PopCultureTea
Uploaded: February 15, 2029
(Video shows a shaky, zoomed-in smartphone recording taken on a snowy college campus. The text overlay reads: “Harvard Law just got 100% hotter ☕️💅”)
VOICEOVER (Female, excited): Okay, so I am literally shaking right now. I’m at Langdell Hall at Harvard Law, right? I’m just trying to survive my torts reading, and guess who walks in?
(The video zooms in on a girl wearing a long camel coat, a thick scarf, and dark sunglasses, carrying a tray of three iced coffees. She walks confidently through the heavy wooden doors of the law library.)
VOICEOVER: Yes! It is exactly who you think it is. She is literally hand-delivering iced coffees to Dean Di Laurentis during finals week.
(The camera pans slightly, showing Dean sitting at a massive oak table covered in open textbooks. He is wearing a gray Harvard sweater, glasses perched on his nose, looking deeply stressed. The singer walks up to him, sets the coffees down, and gently pushes his laptop screen down. Dean looks up, his entire face immediately breaking into a massive, gorgeous smile. He pulls her down onto his lap right in the middle of the quiet library.)
VOICEOVER: Look at them! He just pulled her right onto his lap! And for those of you in the comments always asking “who is she actually dating, the hockey player or the law student?” — the answer is both, babes. They don’t hide it. I saw Garrett Graham pick them both up in a Range Rover ten minutes later. We love a thriving, polyamorous, educated, athletic, multi-million dollar throuple.
(The video ends with Dean pressing a long kiss to the singer’s lips before taking a sip of the coffee.)
***
ROLLING STONE | EXCLUSIVE COVER STORY
May Issue, 2029 | By Alexa Simmons
THE LIBERATION: HOW POP’S BRIGHTEST STAR BROKE HER CAGE AND FOUND HER SANCTUARY
She meets me in a quiet, sunlit coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is no publicist hovering over her shoulder. There is no bodyguard standing at the door. She is wearing a faded vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip, and she orders her own oat milk latte.
It is a stark, jarring contrast to the girl the world knew three years ago — the heavily styled, tightly controlled platinum-selling artist who was never allowed to speak for herself.
Today, she is completely, undeniably free.
Her highly anticipated new album, Sanctuary, drops at midnight tonight. It is her first release since the harrowing federal court case that sent her former manager, Shawn Nichols, to federal prison for extortion, fraud, and coercive control.
“This album is the first time I’ve ever actually introduced myself,” she tells me, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Everything before this was a character. It was a doll that was dressed up, handed a script, and pushed onto a stage. Sanctuary is just me.”
The album, which she wrote and produced entirely on her own in a small studio she built in her Boston penthouse, is a raw, acoustic-driven departure from her bubblegum-pop past. It is devastatingly honest. It deals with trauma, survival, and the profound, life-altering power of unconditional love.
When I ask about her old discography — specifically the six multi-platinum albums whose master recordings are currently tied up in the bankruptcy liquidation of Supernova Records — she doesn’t flinch.
“The fans have been campaigning online for you to buy back your masters, or re-record them,” I point out. “Is that the plan?”
She shakes her head, offering a small, peaceful smile.
“No,” she says simply. “I’m not going to buy them, and I’m not going to re-record them.”
“Why not?”
She looks out the window for a moment, watching the busy Cambridge street. “Because those songs belong to a ghost. They were recorded under duress, by a teenager who was terrified of her own shadow. People keep asking me if I want to reclaim my masters so I can own my past. But the truth is … they were never truly mine anyway. Shawn Nichols built a cage, and he painted those songs on the walls to make it look pretty. I don’t want to buy the cage. I broke out of it. I’m leaving it exactly where it belongs: in the dust.”
It is a staggering statement of autonomy.
Before we finish the interview, her phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a picture of two men — Bruins star center Garrett Graham and soon-to-be lawyer Dean Di Laurentis, both wearing matching smirks.
She glances at the phone, and a soft, incredibly tender blush touches her cheeks.
“I have to ask,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “The world is entirely obsessed with the three of you. They are notoriously protective of you. How did that happen?”
“They saved my life,” she says, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unwavering devotion. “When the entire world thought I was crazy, when the media was tearing me apart … they just stood in front of me and refused to move. I wrote the title track of the album about them. They are my sanctuary. It’s really that simple.”
***
THE NEW YORK TIMES | ARTS & CULTURE
June 18, 2029
A TRIUMPHANT RETURN: BEACON THEATRE WITNESSES A REBIRTH
There are no pyrotechnics. There are no backup dancers in leather harnesses. There are no blinding lasers or heavy synthesized bass drops.
When she steps onto the legendary stage of Beacon Theatre for her first public concert in over three years, there is only a single spotlight, a vintage wooden stool, and an acoustic guitar.
The silence in the iconic, 2,800-seat venue was deafening as she walked to the microphone. Wearing a flowing, ethereal white gown, she looked less like the manufactured pop princess of the 2020s and more like a timeless, generational storyteller.
The two-hour, limited-engagement concert was a masterclass in vocal control and emotional vulnerability. Performing the entirety of her critically acclaimed new album, Sanctuary, she left the audience completely spellbound, and in many cases, openly weeping.
The emotional climax of the evening occurred during the encore. Before playing the final song, she stepped away from the microphone, looking up into the private VIP balcony on stage right. The spotlight didn’t follow her gaze, but everyone in the room knew who was sitting there.
“I spent a long time believing that my voice was a commodity,” she told the hushed crowd, her voice echoing perfectly in the legendary acoustics of the hall. “I believed that I was only worth what I could sell. But two people taught me that my voice is a weapon. And a shield. And a gift. This is for them.”
She played the final chord as a standing ovation shook the walls of Beacon Theatre. She has returned to the world, not as a product, but as a powerhouse.
***
The roar of the crowd is still ringing in your ears as the heavy stage door clicks shut, sealing you inside the hushed, carpeted hallway of Beacon Theatre’s backstage suites.
You lean back against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes, your chest heaving against the silk of your white gown.
You did it. Two hours. Just you and a guitar, in the most iconic venue in the world, and you didn’t panic once.
“There she is.”
You open your eyes.
Garrett and Dean are leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, waiting for you. They are both wearing impeccably tailored black tuxedos, the bow ties already undone and hanging loosely around their necks.
Garrett pushes off the wall first. He stalks down the hallway, his massive strides eating up the distance between you. He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches out, his large hands gripping your waist, and lifts you entirely off your feet, crushing his mouth against yours.
The kiss is devastatingly thorough. It tastes like expensive champagne, pure adrenaline, and overwhelming, fierce pride. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on tight as your feet dangle above the carpet.
“Incredible,” Garrett breathes out, tearing his mouth away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and completely entirely wrecked with emotion. “You were absolute magic up there, Y/N.”
“I second that,” Dean says, stepping up behind Garrett.
Garrett slowly lowers you back to the floor, keeping one heavy, grounding arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You turn to look at Dean.
Dean’s bright eyes are shining, a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on his lips. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I watched a lot of fancy people in expensive suits crying in the audience tonight. You broke their hearts and put them back together in two hours. You’re a literal superstar.”
“I was so nervous,” you admit, leaning into Dean’s touch, your hands coming up to rest flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Right before the curtain went up, my hands were shaking.”
“But you didn’t freeze,” Garrett says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “You walked out there and you owned the entire building.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, deeply affectionate kiss. “We’re taking you home to celebrate. The car is out back.”
The ride back to the penthouse suite they rented at The Plaza is a blur of flashing paparazzi bulbs, heavy velvet privacy curtains in the back of the town car, and the constant, grounding touch of their hands on yours. They don’t let go of you once.
By the time the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse click shut behind you, the exhaustion of the night is finally beginning to seep into your bones.
You kick off your heels, leaving them abandoned on the plush rug in the foyer. The suite is massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline of Central Park.
“Champagne?” Dean asks, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto a velvet armchair. He walks over to the wet bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon.
“Water, please,” you sigh, reaching behind your back to fumble with the invisible zipper of your gown.
“I got it,” Garrett murmurs.
He steps up directly behind you. His large, warm hands brush against your shoulder blades as he grips the tiny zipper, pulling it slowly down your spine. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver slightly, but Garrett’s chest presses warmly against your back, instantly combating the chill.
He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right between your shoulder blades.
You close your eyes, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I know you had to skip a team practice for this, Garrett.”
“I would have skipped the Stanley Cup finals for this,” Garrett says against your skin, his hands slipping around to your stomach, holding you securely. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”
Dean walks over, holding a crystal tumbler of ice water. He hands it to you, then simply stands in front of you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of you standing between them.
The white silk of your gown is pooled around your waist, held up only by Garrett’s arms.
“Did you mean what you said in that interview?” Dean asks quietly, his voice losing its usual playful banter. “About the masters. You really aren’t going to fight for them?”
You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat, before handing the glass back to Dean. He sets it on the side table without looking away from your face.
“I meant it,” you say, your voice completely steady. You look from Dean’s beautiful, sharp features back to Garrett’s intense gray eyes. “I spent my entire teenage life fighting for scraps of my own autonomy. Shawn made me believe that my worth was tied to those songs. That if I lost them, I lost myself.”
You reach out, taking Dean’s hand. You trace the faint, silvery scars across his knuckles — the permanent reminder of the day he shattered his own hands to protect your life.
“But I didn’t lose myself,” you whisper, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the scars. “I found myself. I found you two. Why would I want to go back and buy a cage when I have the entire sky right here?”
Dean exhales a shaky, ragged breath. He takes a step forward, completely closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around you, sandwiching you entirely between his chest and Garrett’s.
“I love you so damn much it actively hurts,” Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hot, damp kiss against your pulse point.
“We’re never letting you go,” Garrett adds, his deep voice vibrating right into your spine. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin silk of the gown, pulling a sharp, sudden gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? You’re stuck with us.”
“I’m counting on it,” you whimper, your head falling back onto Garrett’s shoulder as Dean’s hands slide down to grip your hips.
The emotional weight of the night — the triumph of the concert, the finality of letting go of your past, the profound safety of their arms — suddenly shifts, morphing into a heavy, burning heat that pools low in your stomach.
Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes entirely black with lust. “You were a goddess on that stage tonight. Do you have any idea what it does to us, sitting in the dark, watching five hundred people stare at you, knowing that you belong to us?”
“Tell me,” you challenge softly, a wicked, confident smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.
Garrett lets out a low, predatory growl. He spins you around in his arms, sweeping you completely off your feet. You shriek, a breathless sound of surprise and laughter, as he carries you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite.
He tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce slightly against the plush duvet, your silk dress riding dangerously high up your thighs.
Dean is right behind him. He kicks off his dress shoes and crawls onto the bed, hovering over you like a dark, magnificent shadow. Garrett follows, his knee sinking into the mattress on your other side.
You look up at them.
Three years ago, you were a ghost. You were a product, a prisoner, a girl who flinched at sudden movements and thought she had to earn the right to simply exist.
Now, you are lying on a bed in the penthouse of The Plaza, completely untouchable, utterly adored, and entirely in control.
“Take the dress off,” Garrett commands softly, his hands resting on your knees, gently pushing your legs apart to settle himself between them.
You smile, reaching for the fabric at your waist. “Help me.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss while his hands make quick work of the silk, pulling it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes sweeping over your bare skin with absolute worship.
“Perfect,” Dean whispers, his hands tracing the curve of your hips. “You are so incredibly perfect.”
“Mine,” Garrett growls, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his tongue swirling against your skin, sending a violent shiver crashing through your entire body.
“Ours,” Dean corrects, smirking as he unbuckles his belt.
“Ours,” Garrett agrees, his massive hands sliding up your ribs to pin your wrists loosely above your head.
You arch your back, completely surrendering to their heat, their strength, and their unyielding devotion.
The city of New York is alive and glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside this room, you are exactly where you belong. You are completely safe. You are thoroughly loved.
And for the rest of your life, you are finally truly free.
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has one rule: betas only, until he finds his fated mate. Everyone thinks it’s a joke … until the day your dying scent hits him like a freight train in the middle of campus. You were raised to believe alphas, bonds, and fairytales were lies designed to make you small. Dean’s about to spend the rest of his life proving otherwise
Warning: 18+ content
Read part two here
The harsh fluorescent lights of the Briar University hockey locker room buzz overhead, but the sound is completely drowned out by the chaotic sounds of athletic tape ripping, skates clattering, and overlapping male voices.
“Another one, Di Laurentis? Really?” Garrett asks, tossing his sweaty practice jersey into the center bin with a wet slap. He leans back against his locker, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s, what, three this week?”
“Four,” Dean corrects smoothly, not even looking up as he meticulously unlaces his skates. He offers a slow, easy grin that he knows is infuriating. “And it’s only Thursday. Don’t sell me short, G.”
Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”
“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”
“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”
“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”
“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”
Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.
But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.
“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.
Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”
“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”
Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”
“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”
“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.
“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”
He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.
He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.
He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.
He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.
“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”
***
You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.
It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.
Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.
“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”
It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”
“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”
“Coming,” you manage to say.
You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.
To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.
You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.
When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.
Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.
“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.
“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.
“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”
“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”
Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”
“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”
“And what do you think?”
You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”
Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”
Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.
You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.
“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”
“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”
“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”
“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”
“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”
“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”
“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.
“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
You drop the phone onto the bed.
“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.
You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.
But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.
You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.
You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.
Fantasies, your mom called them.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.
***
The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.
He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.
She smells like a beta.
“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”
Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.
Tonight, he just feels … tired.
“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”
The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”
“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”
He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.
He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.
“Well, that’s a first.”
Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”
Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”
Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”
“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”
Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.
“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.
“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”
“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”
“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”
Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?
Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.
***
You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.
The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.
Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.
“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”
“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.
“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”
“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”
“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”
“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”
“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”
You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”
“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”
You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”
“Not all of them,” Grace points out.
“Name one.”
Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”
You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.
You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.
“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat, it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”
“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.
You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.
I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.
You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.
For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.
***
The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.
You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.
“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”
“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”
“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”
You don’t feel fine.
Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.
“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.
The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.
You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.
But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.
Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.
You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.
The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.
***
“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.
Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”
“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”
“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.
“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”
Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.
He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.
Dean stops walking.
“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”
A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.
“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.
Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.
“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”
“Someone call 911!”
“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”
“No, idiot, don’t do that!”
Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.
“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”
He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.
It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.
“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”
“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.
Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.
“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”
Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.
“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.
“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”
Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.
The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.
“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.
“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”
“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”
He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.
It hits him like a freight train.
At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.
But then …
Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.
It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.
But Dean feels it in his teeth.
It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.
Dean stops breathing.
His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.
Mine.
The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.
Mine. Omega. Mine.
“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”
Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.
The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.
“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.
He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.
“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”
“Step back, please! Let us through!”
Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.
“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.
“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”
The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”
“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”
The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.
“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”
“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”
The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”
Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head.
“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”
“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.
As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.
“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.
“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.
“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”
Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”
Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”
“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”
Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”
Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.
The medic glares at him. “I told you-”
“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”
The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”
“Thank you.”
The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.
He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.
You look so incredibly fragile.
Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.
He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.
Instead, it’s a nightmare.
He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.
Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.
Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.
But right now, all that matters is you.
Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.
“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”
Your hand remains limp in his grip.
Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.
Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.
***
The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.
Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.
The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.
They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.
“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”
Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”
“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”
“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”
“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.
Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”
“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”
“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”
“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”
Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.
He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.
“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”
Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.
Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”
The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.
The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”
Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.
“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.
“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”
Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.
You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.
“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”
“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.
“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”
Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.
“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.
“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”
“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”
The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”
The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.
Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.
He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.
Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.
His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.
“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”
You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.
He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.
“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”
He squeezes your hand gently.
“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”
Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.
And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.
***
Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.
But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.
It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.
It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.
Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.
The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.
“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”
You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.
You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.
Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.
“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”
“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.
“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”
He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”
“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”
The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”
“Hey. Look at me.”
The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.
“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”
You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?
“Who are you?” You ask softly.
He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”
You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.
Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.
“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”
You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”
Your entire world stops.
You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.
You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”
Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”
“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”
Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.
“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”
“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.
“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.
Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”
He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.
“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”
You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”
“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”
You close your eyes. “My mom.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.
“Dean?” You whisper nervously.
He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”
“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”
“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”
“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”
“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”
You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.
Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”
He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.
He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.
A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.
“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”
You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.
Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.
Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.
“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”
“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”
You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.
“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”
The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”
“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”
“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.
You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”
Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”
The blood completely drains from your face.
Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.
“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”
Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”
“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”
“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.
You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.
Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.
But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.
“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”
You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.
“Good. Out,” he praises softly.
He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.
“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”
“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”
“But I don’t know what to do!”
“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”
“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.
“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”
Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”
You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.
For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.
***
The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.
The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.
Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.
He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.
“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”
When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.
You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.
But the most obvious change is the scent.
As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.
“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”
“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.
“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”
You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”
Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”
You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”
The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.
He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.
You stop dead in your tracks.
The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.
“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.
“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.
“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”
“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.
“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”
He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.
The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.
“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.
“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”
“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”
After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.
“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”
You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.
You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.
Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”
You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”
“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.
Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.
The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.
The heat hits.
It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”
“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”
He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.
You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.
Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.
“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”
“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.
You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”
“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”
He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.
Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.
“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.
“I’m not done,” he says simply.
He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.
You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.
Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.
Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.
You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.
Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
You meet his gaze.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”
Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”
He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.
You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”
“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”
He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.
You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.
“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”
The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.
He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.
“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.
“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”
“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”
Dean bites down.
His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.
The bond snaps into place.
It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.
At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.
Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.
“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”
You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.
He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”
“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.
Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.
Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”
“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”
Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.
“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”
“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”
A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”
You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”
“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”
You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.
“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.
“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.
He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”
You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.
For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.
This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.
As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.
you leave before sunrise because you're convinced dean di laurentis doesn't do second chances, and it's easier to disappear before he has the chance to ask you to.
the only problem? dean wakes up hoping you're still there.
when your paths cross again, dean is determined to prove that you're more than another name or another night, but believing him is harder than either of you expected. especially when you've spent your whole life feeling like the girl people eventually leave behind.
a four part slow burn full of yearning, quiet moments, earned trust, and the kind of love that grows through patience instead of grand gestures. featuring hannah and the briar gang becoming the family you never knew you needed, dean falling first (and hard), and two people learning that love isn't about never being afraid it's about choosing each other anyway.
for my insecure girlies who have been told their insecurities are too much for some people.
Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, insecurity & low self esteem, loneliness, emotional misunderstandings, dean's past playboy reputation, references to casual hookups, fear of abandonment, anxiety, lots of yearning, found family, emotional conversations, fluff, kisses, and a happy ending.
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 1
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
The first thing people noticed about Briar University was the hockey team.
The second thing they noticed was the noise.
Music drifted from open dorm windows. Students hurried between lectures with coffees balanced precariously in one hand and textbooks tucked beneath the other. Someone was always laughing. Someone was always shouting across the quad. Somewhere, a fraternity was already planning the next party despite it only being Tuesday afternoon.
It was loud.
For most people, it was comforting.
For you, it was simply another part of campus life.
You sat beneath the sprawling oak tree in the middle of the quad, your back resting against the rough bark as you highlighted another page of your literature textbook. Around you, students passed by in clusters, conversations blending into an indistinct hum that you barely paid attention to anymore.
You could hear every word if you wanted to.
You just rarely had any reason to join in.
A vibration buzzed against your thigh.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and smiled.
HANNAH: Meet me after my psych lecture? Coffee?
Your fingers flew across the keyboard.
Y/N: Only if you're buying.
Three little typing dots appeared almost instantly.
HANNAH: Absolutely not.
You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your phone away.
Hannah Wells had been one of the first people at Briar to treat you normally. She'd never spoken slower because you were mute. Never exaggerated her mouth movements. Never assumed you couldn't hear. She looked at you when she talked, gave you time to respond, and had even learned enough ASL to hold a conversation when your hands were full of books.
You appreciated that more than she probably realized.
Closing your textbook, you gathered your belongings and headed toward the English building.
Your next lecture started in ten minutes.
"Dean."
Dean Di Laurentis looked up from where he was lounging across two seats in the lecture hall.
"What?"
Garrett Graham dropped into the chair beside him with his usual unimpressed expression.
"You've got thirty seconds before Professor Reynolds gets here."
Dean grinned.
"That's plenty of time."
"For what?"
"I don't know yet."
Logan snorted from somewhere behind them.
"That's the most Dean answer I've ever heard."
Dean shrugged without an ounce of shame.
Life was good.
The hockey season had started well.
Classes weren't killing him.
The girls at Briar still smiled whenever he walked past.
Honestly?
Things were exactly as they should be.
Then someone slipped into the row in front of them.
Dean barely glanced up before something caught his attention.
She wasn't talking.
Not unusual.
Except...
She wasn't with anyone.
She placed a notebook neatly beside her laptop, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and began arranging highlighters with almost surgical precision.
Dean frowned.
She was pretty.
Really pretty.
Soft-looking sweater, headphones looped around her neck, backpack covered in tiny enamel pins from different classic novels.
Definitely not someone he'd seen at one of the hockey parties.
"Huh," he muttered.
Garrett followed his gaze for half a second.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Garrett gave him a look.
"You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"You're staring."
Dean ignored him.
The girl still hadn't spoken to anyone.
Not even when another student accidentally knocked one of her pens off the desk.
She simply bent down to pick it up before offering the apologetic student a small smile.
No words.
Interesting.
By the end of the lecture, Dean had learned exactly one thing.
She took incredibly neat notes.
He'd spent half the class pretending to pay attention while actually trying to figure out who she was.
When everyone began packing up, Dean made his decision.
"I'm going over there."
Garrett sighed dramatically.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"You always say that."
"Because you always embarrass yourself."
Dean flashed him a grin before hopping over the row.
He landed beside her desk just as she zipped her bag closed.
"Hey."
She looked up.
Bright eyes met his.
For a brief second, she simply blinked.
Dean smiled, resting an elbow casually against the desk.
"I'm Dean."
She stared at him.
No smile.
No greeting.
Nothing.
He chuckled awkwardly.
"Tough crowd."
Still nothing.
Dean scratched the back of his neck.
"Okay... either you're not interested, which, fair enough, or—"
She reached into the front pocket of her backpack.
For a split second Dean wondered if she was grabbing headphones to ignore him.
Instead, she pulled out a small laminated card.
She handed it to him.
Confused, Dean took it.
Neatly printed across the front were the words:
Hi! My name is Y/N. I'm mute, which means I can't speak. I can hear you perfectly well. I communicate using American Sign Language, writing, or my phone. Please be patient—I promise I'm not ignoring you.
Dean read it twice.
Then looked back up.
"Oh."
His face immediately flushed.
"Oh, wow."
He winced.
"I am so sorry."
Your lips curved into a small, reassuring smile.
You shook your head before pulling your phone from your pocket.
A few quick taps.
You turned the screen toward him.
You're okay. You didn't know.
Dean let out the breath he'd apparently been holding.
"I thought you were just... ignoring me."
Another tap.
Happens more often than you'd think.
Dean laughed softly.
"I definitely feel like an idiot now."
You tilted your head.
Another message appeared.
Not yet.
He blinked.
Then another.
You'll become an idiot if you keep apologising.
A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it.
"Fair enough."
For the first time, your smile widened enough to reach your eyes.
Dean noticed immediately.
He wasn't sure why, but it felt like he'd won something.
"I'm Dean," he repeated, slower this time, pointing to himself.
You watched the gesture before typing again.
I know. The entire campus knows who Dean Di Laurentis is.
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest.
"Ouch."
You raised a single eyebrow.
Dean laughed again.
"You've got jokes."
You simply shrugged.
The silence between you wasn't awkward.
It wasn't uncomfortable.
It was... easy.
Students streamed around the two of you, filling the hallway with conversation, footsteps, and laughter. Neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.
Dean realised something then.
Most conversations were filled with people waiting for their turn to speak.
This one wasn't.
Every time you typed something, he read it carefully. Every time he spoke, you watched him with complete attention before responding.
For the first time in a long while, Dean felt like someone was actually listening to him.
"So..." he said after a moment. "Can I walk you to your next class?"
You looked at your timetable, then back at him.
A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you typed.
Only if you promise not to flirt with every girl we pass.
Dean gasped in mock offense.
"I don't flirt with every girl."
You held his gaze for exactly three seconds.
Then slowly looked around the crowded hallway.
Back at him.
One eyebrow arched.
Dean sighed dramatically.
"...Okay, maybe most of them."
Your silent laugh escaped as nothing more than a warm breath and shaking shoulders, but it was infectious enough that Dean found himself laughing too.
He fell into step beside you as the two of you headed down the corridor.
Neither of you noticed Garrett and Logan watching from the lecture hall doorway.
Logan smirked.
"That's gotta be a new record."
Garrett folded his arms.
"For what?"
"Dean met her less than five minutes ago..."
Logan watched as Dean slowed his pace without even seeming to realize it, matching yours perfectly.
"...and he's already walking at her speed."
Garrett looked over at the pair disappearing into the crowd.
A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
𓏲ּ𝄢 read between the lines | series masterlist and intoduction
pairing: dean di laurentis x englishmajor!reader
warnings: alcohol consumption, language, mentions of past trauma, SLOW BURN
summary: when dean di laurentis gets signed up for a literature class as a joke gone too far, the last thing he expects is to be paired with the girl who actually does analysis for fun; the same girl who's spent the last two years convinced he's as shallow as everyone says he is. But Pride and Prejudice has a way of getting under people's skin, and first impressions were never meant to last
MASTERLIST:
part one: first impressions
part two: too soon to judge
part three: too proud to say so
part four: the proposal
part five: pemberley
a/n: i LOVE this universe so much and i hope you'll love it too. if you want to be added to the taglist, make sure to comment and i'll add you!! i'll try to upload the next parts once every couple of days or once a week. 💗.
pairing (eventually): Dean Di Laurentis x Figure Skater!Reader
warnings: slow burn, family angst, smut, past trauma mentions, usual college life ( i think that’s the ones i can think off the top of my head), SLOW.BURN.
summary: You're the younger sister of the world famous Scott Hunter. After your parents died, the only thing you’ve really known is the ice. Competitions, press and events all over the world that you go to because it’s a ‘must’ for the Hunter siblings. So when you got accepted into Briar University, you moved straight away. You also haven’t really talked to your brother since. (We don’t really talk about that though.)But besides that, you can certainly say you enjoyed hockey, but you were more of a figure skater. Dancing and the ice just sound like heaven to you.Much more than hockey anyway. So a rink, plus your dream university, sounded like a place you’d never want to leave. And you met people who you’d not trade for the world.
And boy isn’t it fun at Briar U.
And so what if things are a bit rocky with your brother?
It’ll be totally fine.
Totally.
series will be updated weekly, with my own idea for the plot unless someone requests something. so pls request!!
lmk if you want to be added to taglist!
likes comments and reblogs are very appreciated!!!
This is a fic that I have on my wattpad @ babybaiils it will be updated faster on my wattpad then on here but I’ll try to keep it as up to date here as possible!!! This series is going to be a LOT of parts and im rlly excited abt it so I hope yall like it! plsssss note it will have a lot of smut in it so if you’re under 18 it is not for you!! :p
Character Packs, Characters instagrams, Playlist and book description
Summary: Dean never expected a simple accident in a crowded university hallway to stay on his mind for days. After an unexpected encounter with a girl he can’t stop thinking about, he’s left questioning how much he takes communication for granted. Determined to make things right, Dean embarks on a journey that might change far more than just one first impression.
The first thing Dean noticed wasn’t her face.
It was the silence.
Briar University was chaos between classes.
Lockers slammed shut.
People shouted across the hallway.
Someone’s speaker blasted music that probably wasn’t allowed on campus.
The hockey team was arguing about practice.
Football players crowded the entrance, laughing loud enough to echo through the building.
It was the kind of noise Dean had grown used to.
He was laughing at something Logan had said over text while balancing an iced coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
Logan: If you’re late again, Coach is making you skate until you cry.
Dean snorted.
Dean: Worth it.
Without looking up, he rounded the corner.
Straight into someone.
Books flew everywhere.
A notebook slid halfway down the hallway.
Colored pens scattered across the polished floor.
“Oh, shit.” Dean nearly dropped his coffee as he immediately crouched down. “I’m so sorry.”
He reached for a textbook before another student stepped on it.
“I wasn’t looking.” Still kneeling, he handed it to its owner.
Only then did he actually look at her.
She was beautiful.
Not in the way girls usually tried to be on campus.
No heavy makeup.
No perfectly curled hair.
No outfit screaming for attention.
She looked…
Soft. Comfortable.
Her oversized cream sweater covered most of her hands, and a pair of headphones rested around her neck—not over her ears.
Dean noticed the detail without really thinking about it.
She accepted the book with a small smile.
He smiled sheepishly.
“I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.” Nothing.
No “It’s okay.”
Nothing at all.
Dean blinked.
“…Seriously?”
She continued gathering her things.
He frowned.
Had she just… Ignored him?
His ego took the tiniest hit.
“I said I’m sorry.” She finally looked up.
Her eyes met his.
Then she lifted her hands.
Her fingers moved gracefully.
Quickly. Confidently.
Dean stared.
“…Uh…” She repeated the movements slower.
His eyebrows pulled together.
“I…”
Another sentence.
More signs.
Dean felt completely lost.
“I don’t understand.” She stopped.
For just a second, disappointment crossed her face.
Then understanding.
She gently pointed toward her ear. Then shook her head.
Next, she touched her lips.
Another small shake.
Dean’s stomach dropped.
Oh.
She wasn’t ignoring him.
She couldn’t hear him.
Heat rushed to his face.
“Oh my God…” He whispered it mostly to himself.
She gave him a kind smile.
The kind that somehow made him feel even worse.
She signed one more sentence.
Dean had no idea what she’d said.
Not even one word.
Then she carefully placed the last notebook into her backpack.
Before leaving, she offered him one final smile.
Small. Warm.
Gone just as quickly as she disappeared into the crowd.
Dean stayed kneeling on the floor long after she’d left.
“…Dean?” Someone nudged his shoulder.
He looked up.
Garrett stood over him with Logan beside him, both carrying hockey bags.
Garrett raised an eyebrow.
“You planning on proposing to the floor?” Dean blinked.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring at the hallway for, like, two minutes.”
Logan glanced toward the direction the girl had gone.
“Who was she?” Dean slowly stood.
“I don’t know.” Garrett laughed.
“You don’t know who a girl is? That’s a first.” Dean barely heard him.
“She’s deaf.”
The teasing immediately disappeared from Garrett’s face.
“Oh.”
“I ran over her and when I apologized for it, she kept ignoring it. And I that she was just rude or something.” He explains to them. “Turns out that she just couldn’t hear me.”
Logan rubbed the back of his neck.
“That has to feel pretty crappy.”
“It does. Because she said something in sign language and I just stood here looking like an idiot.”
Dean looked down at the notebook she’d accidentally left behind.
A slim black journal. He picked it up.
There was no name on the cover.
Only a tiny silver moon in one corner.
“I need to give this back.” Garrett smirked.
“Sure.” Dean looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Garrett exchanged a knowing look with Logan.
“Just saying… I’ve never seen you volunteer to return a notebook before.” Dean rolled his eyes.
“I just feel bad.”
“Mhm.” Logan chuckled.
“We totally believe you.”
⸻
For the rest of the day… Dean couldn’t stop looking for her.
Every hallway.
Every lecture building.
Every coffee shop on campus.
Nothing.
By dinner, the notebook was still sitting on his desk.
He flipped through it exactly once.
Blank.
Every page. Not a single word.
Probably a new notebook.
He closed it immediately.
“I’m not a creep.” He wasn’t going to invade her privacy.
Still…
He wished he knew her name.
⸻
Three days later.
No sign of her.
Dean was beginning to wonder if she’d transferred.
Or if she’d somehow been a figment of his imagination.
“You’re distracted.” Dean looked up from his burger.
Across the dining hall table sat Garrett, Logan, Tucker and Beau.
“I’m eating.” Garrett snorted.
“You’ve been staring at the ketchup bottle for thirty seconds.” Dean glanced down.
“…Huh.” Beau narrowed his eyes.
“Okay what’s going on?”
“What?”
“This is getting weird.” Dean shrugged.
“I’m fine.”
“No.” Beau leaned forward.
“You never say you’re fine.” Logan nodded.
“He’s got a point.” Dean sighed dramatically.
“I bumped into this girl.” Garrett grinned.
“There it is.”
Dean ignored him.
“I thought she ignored me after I apologized.”
“And?”
“She’s deaf.” The table grew quieter.
Tucker was the first to speak.
“Ouch.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck.
“I felt like an asshole.”
“You didn’t know,” Tucker said.
“I know.” Dean sighed. “But she was signing something to me. And I just stood there and couldn’t even apologize properly.”
“She must had felt bad.” Beau said.
“It’s just frustrating, because we don’t know how excluded they feel until something like these happen.”
“What do you mean?” Logan asked.
“Do you think one of us would care to learn sign language? No, because we don’t know anyone that’s deaf, but we shouldn’t have to know someone to actually learn, so no one could feel what that girl felt.” He says frustrated and gathered his things and went out.
⸻
Later that night…
Dean sat alone in his room.
The notebook rested beside his laptop.
He stared at it.
Then at the search bar.
Then back at the notebook.
“This is ridiculous.” He typed anyway.
Beginner ASL lessons.
Hundreds of videos appeared.
He clicked the first one.
A smiling woman waved at the camera.
“Today we’re going to learn your first conversation in American Sign Language.”
Dean copied her.
Awkwardly.
His fingers refused to cooperate.
“How do people make this look so easy?”
He replayed the same thirty-second clip nearly twenty times.
Hello.
He practiced.
Again.
My name is…
Again.
By the time midnight rolled around, his fingers actually remembered the movements.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
He smiled to himself.
“Hello. My name is Dean.” The signs still felt clumsy.
But they were real.
A knock sounded at his door.
Dean barely looked up.
“It’s open.” The door swung inward.
Beau walked in carrying a bag of chips.
“So, I was thinking we could—” He stopped.
Dean froze. One hand still in the air.
Halfway through signing his own name.
Silence.
Beau slowly looked at the laptop.
The paused ASL lesson.
Then at Dean.
Then back to the screen.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“No…” Dean sighed.
“Don’t start.”
“Dude.”
“Beau.”
“Are you learning sign language?” Dean rubbed a hand over his face.
“…Maybe.” Beau burst into laughter.
Not mean laughter. The kind only a best friend could get away with.
“Oh, this is priceless.” Dean threw a pillow at him.
“Shut up.” Beau caught it easily.
“You are down bad.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve known this girl for approximately thirty seconds.” Dean pointed toward the laptop.
“I just…” He hesitated.
“I want to be able to apologize.” Beau’s smile softened.
For the first time since walking in, he stopped laughing.
“…That’s actually very nice of you.” Dean blinked.
“You think so?” Beau shrugged.
“I mean…” He tossed the pillow back. “You’re still completely screwed. But it’s nice that you’re trying.”
Dean smiled.
Beau nodded toward the laptop.
“I hope you find her again.”
Dean looked down at the notebook resting beside the keyboard.
“So do I.”
He had no idea that, somewhere else on campus, Y/N was wondering if she’d ever see the hockey player from the hallway again.
And sitting on her own desk…
Was a sticky note she’d written after the collision.
The cute guy with the green eyes still has my notebook.
I just got introduced to your work through your recent Puck Bunny fic with Garrett and Dean. It's amazing! So I was wondering if you could write a threesome with Allie, Dean, and reader who has the same type of attitude??
𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝑮𝒐𝒂𝒍𝒔 ꨄ︎ (Dean DiLaurentis And Allie Haye X FemReader)
Content: Smut, Praising, Allie Helping The Reader To Take It, Dean Has A Thing For Lesbians, Brat Taming, Double Head, Oral male recieving, Praises, Fingering
You paced the small dorm room, heart hammering against your ribs as you clutched your phone in one hand. The words you’d rehearsed a hundred times echoed in your head: “Allie, I’ve been in love with you for months. I know it’s sudden, but I can’t keep pretending anymore.” Your fingers trembled as you imagined saying them out loud. She was your best friend, your person. The one who made every late-night study session feel like an adventure and every laugh feel like home. You’d waited long enough. Today was the day.
A soft knock at the door made you jump. Before you could even answer, the handle turned and Allie stepped inside, her cheeks flushed and her smile brighter than you’d seen in weeks. She was practically glowing, blonde hair a little messy like she’d been running her hands through it.
“Hey, you,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a second. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “God, I’ve been dying to tell you this all day.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile as you set your phone down. Your confession could wait a minute. She looked too happy. “Tell me what?”
Allie bit her lip, then practically bounced across the room and grabbed both of your hands. “Dean and I… we’re official. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend official. He asked me last night after the game and I said yes. I can’t believe it’s real.”
The words hit you like ice water down your spine. Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. The charming, cocky hockey player who’d been circling Allie for weeks. Your stomach twisted, but you kept your face neutral, squeezing her hands back even as something sharp and ugly flared in your chest.
“Wow,” you managed, voice steadier than you felt. “That’s… that’s great, Allie. Really.”
She pulled you into a tight hug, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “I know it’s fast, but he makes me so happy. Like, stupid happy.”
You hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent, your heart aching with every beat. The confession you’d been ready to spill died on your tongue. How could you say anything now?
You tried to match her energy, but the knot in your stomach only tightened. The image of Dean’s cocky smirk and those stupid broad shoulders flashed in your mind, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out laced with something sharper than you intended.
“That’s… wow. Dean Di Laurentis, huh?” You forced a little laugh, dropping her hands gently so you could cross your arms over your chest. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Allie. I’m happy for you. But you know how those hockey guys are. Total manwhores. They’ll fuck anything with a pulse and a short skirt. One minute they’re all charming and ‘baby, you’re the only one,’ and the next they’re ghosting you for the next puck bunny who looks their way.”
Allie blinked, her smile faltering just a little. “Hey, Dean’s not like that—”
“Oh, come on,” you cut in, the jealousy burning hotter now, pushing you forward. You leaned against your desk, trying to look casual even as your voice dripped with shade. “They’re all the same. Popular hockey couple goals, right? Everyone on campus is gonna be talking about how perfect you two look together. The star player and the gorgeous blonde. So cute. So #relationshipgoals. Meanwhile the rest of us are just… here.”
You rolled your eyes, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t stop. Part of you wanted her to argue, to defend him less, to maybe just maybe look at you the way you’d been looking at her for months.
Allie tilted her head, studying you with a mix of confusion and concern. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never had a problem with Dean before.”
Before Allie could press you further, a familiar deep voice cut through the room from the doorway.
“Damn, I knew I smelled a jealous lesbian from down the hall. Just followed the scent and here we are.”
You both whipped around. Dean Di Laurentis leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place, that signature smirk plastered on his stupidly handsome face. He looked freshly showered after practice, hair still damp, wearing a Briar hoodie that stretched across his broad chest. His green eyes danced with amusement as they flicked between you and Allie.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he added casually, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click. “But these doors are thin as fuck, and you two weren’t exactly quiet. Manwhores who fuck anything with a pulse? Ouch. That one hurt a little, babe.”
Your face burned. “I’m not jealous,” you shot back quickly, crossing your arms tighter. “You’re imagining things. I was just being honest. Hockey players have a reputation for a reason.”
Allie’s eyes widened for a second, then she let out a soft giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound was light and way too affectionate. “Oh my god… you are jealous. That’s actually adorable.”
Dean’s smirk deepened as he moved closer, glancing at Allie with clear heat in his gaze before turning it on you. “See? Even your best friend thinks so. Cute little jealous girl throwing shade at couple goals.” He tilted his head, voice dropping lower. “Didn’t know I was stepping on someone’s territory here.”
The air in the small dorm room suddenly felt thicker, heavier. Allie was still smiling, cheeks pink, while Dean watched you like he was seeing you for the first time.
“I’m not jealous,” you insisted again, voice sharper this time even as your heart pounded so hard you were sure they could hear it. You took a small step back until your thighs hit the edge of your desk. “I’m just looking out for my friend, okay? That’s what best friends do. I don’t want you getting hurt by some cocky hockey player who—”
“Baby, please,” Allie interrupted softly, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. Her eyes were warm, knowing, and a little amused. “We’ve been dancing around this for months. I’ve always known you’re in love with me.”
Your breath caught. Before you could deny it again, Allie cupped your face with both hands and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or hesitant. Her lips were warm and sure, tasting like cherry lip gloss and something sweeter, and for a second the whole world narrowed to just her mouth moving against yours. You froze, then melted into it with a quiet, surprised sound, your hands instinctively gripping her waist.
When she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, both of you breathing harder, Dean’s low, rough voice broke the silence.
“Wow…” He let out a stunned laugh, eyes dark and hungry as he watched the two of you. “This is definitely hotter than fucking porn.”
Allie giggled against your lips, glancing over at him with a playful spark in her eyes, while you stood there dazed, lips tingling and cheeks burning.
You pulled back from Allie’s kiss, dazed and breathless, your lips still tingling. Your brain was short-circuiting, but the stubborn jealousy refused to let go completely. You glanced between them, heart racing.
“Okay… okay,” you muttered, trying to regain some control. “That doesn’t change my opinion about Dean. He’s still a manwhore. If we did a census around campus, more than half the girls here have probably fucked him at some point.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up, but instead of getting offended, that wicked, confident smirk returned full force. He stepped closer, crowding you gently against the desk until his tall frame loomed over you. His voice dropped into that low, velvet tone that made panties drop across Briar University.
“Well then… let me change your opinion,” he murmured, green eyes locked on yours. “And let me change that census while I’m at it.”
Before you could fire back another retort, Dean cupped the back of your neck and kissed you.
It was nothing like Allie’s sweet, knowing kiss. This one was hungry, dominant, and filthy. His mouth claimed yours with practiced ease, tongue teasing your bottom lip before sliding inside, hot and confident. One of his big hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against his hard body, and fuck — he smelled like fresh soap and something dangerously masculine.
You tried to stay stubborn. You really did.
But damn it… the man could kiss. Against your better judgment, you found yourself kissing him back, your hands fisting in his hoodie as a surprised, needy little sound escaped your throat.
When he finally pulled back, lips wet and smirk even cockier, Allie was watching the two of you with dark, heated eyes and a soft bite to her lower lip.
“See?” Dean rasped, thumb brushing your flushed cheek. “Not such a manwhore if I can make you melt like that.”
You couldn’t hold back anymore.
The second Dean pulled away, something inside you snapped. All the months of wanting Allie, the jealousy, the frustration, and the sudden overwhelming heat between the three of you exploded. You grabbed Allie first, kissing her hard and greedy, tongues sliding together. Then you turned to Dean, pulling him down by his hoodie and kissing him just as hungrily, biting his bottom lip.
You went back and forth between them like you were starving messy, desperate, greedy kisses that left all three of you breathing raggedly.
Allie let out a soft, delighted giggle against your mouth. “God, look at you… so greedy for both of us,” she whispered, clearly turned on by your sudden hunger.
She dipped her head and started kissing down your neck, warm lips and teasing little nips that made your knees weak. You moaned quietly, tilting your head to give her better access.
Dean watched the two of you for a second, eyes blazing with lust.
“Jesus Christ, thank you God,” he groaned, voice thick. “I owe you one, man. You know how much I love lesbians.”
While Allie sucked a sensitive spot on your neck that made you shiver, Dean reached down and started pushing his sweatpants and boxers down his hips. His hard cock sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip. He stroked himself slowly as he watched Allie mark your neck and you squirm between them.
Your eyes kept drifting down to Dean’s cock as he stroked it lazily, thick, long, and flushed. You couldn’t help it. Leaning closer to Allie while she kissed your neck, you whispered hotly against her ear, voice shaky with arousal:
“Fuck, Allie… he has the most beautiful, biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”Dean let out a low, amused chuckle right behind you.
“I’m listening, baby,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna get even harder.”
Allie giggled softly against your skin, then slowly dropped to her knees in front of you, looking up with dark, playful eyes. Her fingers slid under the hem of your blouse and started pulling it up, agonizingly slow, exposing your stomach, then your bra, and finally tugging it over your head and tossing it aside.
She ran her hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as she looked up at you again.“You wanna try it?” she asked, voice sweet but filthy, glancing sideways at Dean’s impressive length. “I don’t mind sharing.”
Your breath hitched, heart hammering wildly as you stood there in just your bra, Allie on her knees in front of you, and Dean watching hungrily with his cock in his hand. You didn’t even think about it. Your knees hit the floor almost automatically, eyes locked on Dean’s thick cock as you reached for him.
Before your lips could wrap around him, Dean’s big hand grabbed your jaw firmly, tilting your face up. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, eyes dark with lust and amusement.
“Look at you… on your knees so fast,” he murmured. Then he tapped his heavy cock against your cheek once, twice, then a little harder dirty, wet slaps that made your pussy throb. “These are for being such a fucking brat earlier. Talking shit about me being a manwhore while you’re dripping for my dick.”
You moaned shamelessly at the filthy treatment, the sound needy and desperate.
Allie watched with hooded eyes, clearly loving every second. She reached behind you and unhooked your bra with skilled fingers, letting it fall away and exposing your breasts to the cool air of the dorm. Your nipples hardened instantly under their combined gazes.
While you knelt there, face still held by Dean, Allie stood up just enough to start stripping herself — peeling off her top, then shimmying out of her jeans, revealing smooth skin and pretty pink lace panties.
“God, you look so good like this,” Allie whispered, voice full of heat as she ran her fingers through your hair.
Dean tapped his cock against your lips this time. “Open up, brat.”
You opened your mouth obediently and took Dean’s thick cock between your lips, sucking him eagerly. He was big — stretching your mouth in the most delicious way — and you moaned around him as you started bobbing your head, taking him deeper with every pass.
“Fuck… that’s it,” Dean groaned, one hand gently stroking your hair while the other reached for Allie. “Such a good girl sucking my cock like you were made for it.”
Allie smiled and moved closer, dropping back down to her knees beside you. She leaned in and started playing with Dean’s heavy balls, massaging them with soft fingers while you worked his shaft with your mouth. The wet, obscene sounds filled the small dorm room.
Dean’s head fell back for a second, a deep moan rumbling from his chest. “Look at you two… my pretty girls. So fucking perfect. Sharing my cock like this? I’m in heaven.”
While you sucked him harder, hollowing your cheeks, your hand slid between Allie’s thighs. You pushed her lace panties aside and found her soaked clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the sensitive bud. Allie gasped softly, hips twitching toward your touch, her fingers tightening around Dean’s balls.
“Shit — yes, just like that,” Dean praised, fingers tightening gently in both your hair and Allie’s. “Keep teasing her, baby. Make her nice and wet for us.”
Dean looked down at both of you with dark, hungry eyes, his voice rough with lust.“Kiss each other around my cock,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “I want to feel those pretty lips on me while you make out.”
You and Allie didn’t hesitate. You both leaned in, lips meeting sloppily right over the thick head of his dick. The kiss was wet, messy, and filthy hot tongues sliding against each other and over his sensitive skin, tasting precum and each other at the same time. Spit dripped down his shaft as you kissed greedily, moaning into each other’s mouths.
You kept your fingers moving between Allie’s thighs, rubbing her swollen clit in tight little circles. Allie whimpered and moaned into the kiss, her hips rocking desperately against your hand.“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Dean groaned, threading his fingers through both your hairs. “Look at you two… sloppy fucking kisses on my cock. You’re both so perfect.”
He watched for a moment longer, then looked at Allie with a wicked smirk.“Touch her pussy, baby,” he told Allie, voice thick. “I want you to feel how wet our jealous little brat is right now.”
Her hand slid down your stomach and into your pants, fingers finding your soaked pussy instantly. Two fingers rubbed over your slick folds before circling your clit, matching the rhythm you were using on her.
You moaned loudly around Dean’s cock, the sound vibrating against him. Allie whimpered into your mouth as you kept stroking her clit, both of you trembling and moaning while you kissed messily over his throbbing dick.
Dean groaned deeply, watching the filthy scene with heavy-lidded eyes.“Don’t forget what you’re doing, girls,” he rasped, voice thick with pleasure. “Keep those pretty mouths on my cock.”
He pushed both your heads down gently but firmly, guiding you back to his shaft. You and Allie obeyed immediately, licking and kissing along his length with even sloppier, wetter enthusiasm while your hands kept working each other’s pussies. The room filled with the sounds of wet kisses, soft moans, and heavy breathing. You curled your fingers inside Allie, searching for that perfect spot, and when you found it she let out a broken moan against your mouth. You rubbed it relentlessly, fast and firm, while your thumb kept working her clit.
Allie came hard.Her whole body tensed, thighs shaking as she cried out, pussy clenching around your fingers. She looked absolutely beautiful when she came — flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure. You couldn’t resist. You pulled your fingers out and immediately kissed her deeply, hungry and passionate, tasting her moans.
Your other hand wrapped around Dean’s thick cock, stroking him fast and tight while you made out with Allie.
Dean watched the whole thing with dark, burning eyes.“Fuck, that’s it,” he praised, voice rough. “Look at you making your girl cum so pretty. Such a good little slut for us.” He groaned as your hand twisted around his cock. “Both of you… my greedy, filthy girls. One cumming on your fingers while the other jerks me off like she needs my load. So fucking perfect.”
He caressed your hair and Allie’s, breathing hard as pleasure built.
Dean’s breathing grew ragged, his hips thrusting into your hand as you kept stroking him while kissing Allie.“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned.
You and Allie pulled back just enough. Dean gripped his cock and pumped it a few times before he came with a deep, guttural moan. Thick ropes of cum landed across both of your chests warm, messy streaks painting your tits and Allie’s. You both moaned softly at the filthy sight.
Dean took a moment to catch his breath, then smiled that lazy, satisfied smirk. He bent down, scooped you up easily with one arm and Allie with the other, carrying you both toward your bed like you weighed nothing.
He laid you down gently on the sheets, then dropped between you, pulling both of you close against his chest. His fingers lazily smeared his cum over your breasts, marking you both.
“You know…” he said, voice still husky, “I might not mind if this becomes a regular thing. This was way too fucking hot to be a one-time deal.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple, then Allie’s. “But since I’m trying not to be a manwhore anymore… how about we make it official? A throuple. You two are stuck with me now.”
Allie giggled softly, cuddling into his side while her hand reached over to intertwine with yours.
You looked at both of them flushed, satisfied, and wrapped around you and for the first time that day, the jealousy was completely gone.
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baratheonpilled
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