Single blues | dean di laurentis
Summary: where the girls take you to a costume party and things change a little bit for you.
Warning: off campus au (kind of), puck bunnies, shy reader, dumb, toxic and lame ex, dean being a gentleman (in his own way), drunk reader, one bed trope, a little angst, teasing and fluff.
pt.2
Beau Maxwell's house is packed to the rafters: strobes of red and blue light cut through a thick haze of sweat, cheap beer, and expensive cologne. The bass from the speakers is vibrating so hard it rattles the red Solo cups stacked on the kitchen counters. You're dressed like Christina Aguilera in her 2002 Dirrty era, you're really trying something new and that reason alone is probably why the girls dragged you to Beau's costume party.
Allie was walking next to you, dressed in a flawless, glittery 2000s J-Lo tracksuit, yelling over the music. “I told you! Beau promised this would be the party of the semester, and he actually delivered!”
Beau came to her side in full Top Gun flight suit as Goose, wrapping an arm around Allie's waist. “Babe you need to have some faith in me, the Maxwell brand never misses.”
Hannah was wearing fluffy bunny ears and a white bodysuit, nudging you with her elbow. “Look at you, sweetie! Miss Malone’s waitress of the month is absolutely rocking the 'Dirrty' era. I knew we just needed to get you out of your oversized sweaters.”
You're tugging anxiously at the edge of your cropped halter top, your face is flushing with embarrassment.
“Hannah, I feel like half my body is exposed. If a customer from Malone's sees me like this, I’m going to have to fake my own death and move to Canada.”
Brianna was laughing, her halo tilted slightly as she laughs. “Oh, please honey. You look stunning! Besides, look around. Logan is literally just wearing bird wings and no shirt.”
Logan's flapping a giant pair of feathered wings behind Brianna, he's grinning. “Hey, it takes a lot of confidence to pull off the avian look, okay? G, back me up.”
Meanwhile Garrett was wearing a magician's cape, clearly matching with Hannah. He's holding a Solo cup like a prop. “Can't hear you, Birdman. I'm currently preparing to make this keg disappear.”
You try to laugh and blend into the background, taking a hefty sip of your drink to calm your nerves just a little. As your eyes wander through the crowded living room, your heart drops, because, standing by the punch bowl is a shockingly familiar face...
You choked slightly on your drink. “Oh my god. No! No, no, no.”
Hannah frowned, she followed your gaze. “What? What is it- oh.” she paused. “You have got to be kidding me, is that...?”
You just nodded, panicking. “Yes! It’s him. My ex, Stuart. Why is he here? He hates hockey and its players, he hates american football players, he hates big crowds, and his idea of a wild and crazy night is watching documentaries on tax law! We broke up, like... two months ago and I am not dealing with his boring lectures and energy tonight.”
Allie grabbed another drink from a passing tray and handed it to you. “Babe, drink this okay? You are a popstar tonight! You work hard, you look hot, and you are going to vibe. Just... Forget about him and his boring ass.” you accepted the drink and downed it in one gulp. “Damn, that was easy.”
The drinks have fully kicked in, the initial shyness has melted away into a warm, buzzing confidence. You’re standing near the edge of the makeshift dance floor, fully lost in the rhythm, your hips swaying to the heavy beat, feeling so good and free. You feel alive, your head is fuzzy because of the drinks, the stress of school and Malone’s are completely forgotten.
Through the crowd, a guy in a full, fuzzy yellow and black bumblebee suit bumps into you. “Oh, whoa! Sorry about that, Xtina. Didn't mean to buzz into your personal space.” Tucker said smiling warmly.
You giggled, waving your cup. “Tucker! Oh my god, hi! You're a bee! That's amazing!”
He grinned. “Garrett picked it out, don't ask him about it. You're having fun?”
You nodded vigorously, your vision is a little swimmy. “The best! I am just... living life!”
Tucker chuckles and moves toward the kitchen, and as you turn back to the dance floor, your eyes lock onto the center of the room in where Dean Di Laurentis is standing there. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses inside, dog tags resting over a suit against a completely bare, perfectly toned chest. He looks like Maverick if Maverick spent twenty hours a week on the ice. Naturally, there is a literal flock of puck bunnies surrounding him, hanging onto his every word.
Dean's eyes scan the room, cutting through his circle of admirers, and stop dead on you. His jaw slackens slightly as he takes in the outfit.
You started shouting way too loudly, waving both arms in the air with zero chill, because when you're drunk you feel invincible. “DEAN!! HI!!! DEAN, OVER HERE!!!”
Dean blinks at you, a slow, utterly wicked smirk spreading across his face, he doesn't hesitate. He murmurs something to the girls around him, leaving them mid-sentence, and struts directly through the crowd toward you.
He stopped a few inches away, taking off his aviators to reveal burning blue eyes. “Well, hello there, sweetheart. I didn't know Briar’s sweetest girl had a wild side... What's all this?”
You giggled, doing a little uncoordinated but enthusiastic dance step, your hips bumping into his thigh. “I'm a popstar, Dean! Do you like it? Allie and Hannah made me do it, but I think I love it!”
His voice dropped an octave, a low chuckle escaping his throat. “Like it? Honey, I'm trying very hard to remember my manners right now. You look incredible.”
Before you can think, you step closer into his space, completely unbothered by your usual shyness. Dean’s smirk softens into something warmer, he steps in, his large, warm hands finding their way to your hips. The contact sends a jolt straight down your spine, but it’s not uncomfortable or awkward like when your ex tried to do that, it feels grounding.
Dean's guiding your rhythm smoothly, pulling you a fraction closer. “Well... Let's see those moves then, popstar. Don't let me stop you.”
You dance with him, your head spinning from the alcohol and his sheer proximity. And every time your body brushes against his bare chest, your heart does a flip, he keeps his hands firmly on your waist, navigating you away from any rowdy partygoers, his eyes never leaving yours.
Hours after that the music has died down to a low murmur, the house is a wasteland of crushed cans and deflated balloons. You are leaning heavily against Dean, your chin resting on his shoulder and your legs feel like absolute jelly.
You're slurring slightly, looking around the empty couch area. “Wait... where did Hannah go? Brianna? And Allie? Did they leave me? Am I abandoned?”
Dean rubs his thumb in soothing circles against your hip. “Relax, babe. Hannah went upstairs with Garrett about an hour ago. Allie and Brianna did the same with Beau and Logan. They're all crashed out in the boys' rooms.”
You're pouting, your eyes are heavy. “Oh... So I'm lone... lonely. The lonely popstar.”
Dean smiled softly to you. “You're not lonely, you're with me. And you are officially cut off, sweetheart. Let's get you off your feet, okay?”
You try to take a step forward, but your heel catches on a stray solo cup, you stumble, but you don't hit the floor. Dean catches you effortlessly, scooping you up into his arms before you can even gasp by his action. One arm is securely behind your back, the other one is under your knees.
“Whoa... You're strong, like a hockey player.” you say while wrapping your arms around his neck.
He laughed softly as he carries you up the stairs. “Funny how that works. Just hold on, I've got you.”
Dean's room is surprisingly neat for a college guy, smelling of cedar, books and clean laundry. Dean gently deposits you onto his large mattress, you immediately flop backward, sighing contentedly against the pillows.
Dean's standing over the bed, unlooping his dog tags. “Alright, popstar. Since there's only one bed, you can have the left side of the bed, I'll take the right. Just get comfortable."
You're trying to sit up, tugging frantically at the back of your halter top. “Dean... Maverick... we have a problem. A big, sticky, terrible problem.”
He arch an eyebrow. “Yeah? What's that?” he says amused.
Your fingers are fumbling uselessly against the fabric, your vision blurring with frustration. “I'm trapped! The fabric... it's like cheap faux-leather or something, and I sweat, and now it's stuck to my skin. And my hands aren't working! They're like little clubs, I can't unclip the back. I'm going to have to live in this costume forever.”
He walks over to the edge of the bed, kneeling down so he's at the same eye level as you. “Hey, take a breath. Breathe... You're not living in the costume.”
You look at him with big, innocent, tipsy eyes, your lower lip is slightly trembling. “Can you help me? Please? I can't get it off.”
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his gaze drops to your lips, then to the intricate, tangled straps at the back of your neck. The playful playboy facade completely drops, replaced by a tense, hyper-focused intensity.
His voice is thick, deadly serious but incredibly gentle. “Okay, turn around. Sit up for me, please.”
You clumsily turn your back to him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. You feel his large, cool hands brush your hair over one shoulder, his knuckles graze your bare skin, sending a wave of goosebumps across your arms.
His fingers are working meticulously at the stubborn clasp. “Jesus, you weren't kidding. Whoever designed this outfit did not think about the exit strategy.”
“Don't rip it, please. It's Hannah's.” you whispered while staring at the wall.
He chuckled softly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “I won't rip it, sweetheart. Trust me, just hold still for a second...”
He carefully detangles the sticky fabric from the clasp, his touch light and deliberate. With a soft click, the tension in the top gives way. He holds the fabric against your front gently, making sure it doesn't just drop, completely respecting your boundaries and privacy.
Dean steps back, and he grabbed one of his giant, soft Briar Hockey t-shirts with his number "66" and surname on the back from his dresser.
“There, the clasp is undone. I’m turning around now. Put this on, slip the costume out from underneath it, and slide under the covers, yeah?” he turns his back to you, facing the door.
You clutched the soft, oversized shirt to your chest, your heart's pounding for a completely different reason now. “Dean?”
He looks at you from over his shoulder, a soft smirk returning to his lips. “Yeah, popstar?”
You smile softly, your eyelids are drooping. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “Anytime, sweetheart. Now get changed before I lose my mind.”
The rustle of fabric fills the quiet room as you quickly slip into Dean’s massive Briar Hockey t-shirt. It swallows you whole, the hem falling all the way down to your mid-thigh, smelling intensely of his signature cologne: sandalwood and success. You slide under the crisp, cool sheets, pulling the duvet right up to your chin.
You spoke again softly, your voice muffled by the blanket. “Okay... I’m decent. You can turn around.”
Dean turns around, a slow, appreciative smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sees you practically drowning in his clothes under the duvet. Without a word, he reaches down and effortlessly unbuttons the suit, kicking them off along with his aviators and dog tags. He's left in just a pair of dark gray Calvin Klein boxers. He climbs into the other side of the mattress, the bed dips significantly under his weight.
He's prop-ping his head up with one hand, looking over at you in the dark. “Are you comfortable, popstar?”
You nodded shyly, burying half your face in the pillow. “Yeah, the shirt is really soft.”
He lowers himself onto his pillow, his voice dropping into a sleepy, raspy rumble. “Keep it if you want. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll see you in the morning.”
***
The bright morning sunlight streams through the window blinds, cutting across the room as stripes. As consciousness slowly returns to you, the fog of the alcohol has cleared, leaving behind a mild headache and a very sudden, overwhelming awareness of your surroundings.
You can barely move, there is a heavy, solid weight draped securely over your waist, pinning you to the mattress.
You blink your eyes open and realize you are tucked firmly against a wall of absolute muscle, Dean is acting as the perfect big spoon, his chest is pressed flush against your back, his breathing deep and even against your shoulder. Because he’s only in boxers, you can feel the direct, radiating heat of his bare skin right through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His strong arm is wrapped completely around your middle, pulling you back so there is zero space between you.
Your heart starts hammering against your ribs, you try to gently shift forward to create some breathing room, but the moment you move, the grip around your waist tightens.
Dean groan softly, his voice incredibly deep and raspy from sleep, burying his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “Stop moving... 'S too early.”
You're completely freezing by his voice, your face flushing a bright, fiery crimson. “Dean... Dean, wake up.”
His thumb lazily brushing against your hip through the shirt, entirely unfazed. “Mmm, no. Bed is warm, you're warm. Stay still.”
You squeak slightly, overwhelmed by the sheer intimacy of the position. “Dean, please. You're... you're holding me really tight. And you don't have a shirt on.”
That seems to wake him up a little, you feel him chuckle against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. Slowly, he lifts his head from your neck, though he doesn't untangle his legs from yours.
You blinked sleepily, a lazy, incredibly charming morning smirk spreading across his face. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. And for the record, I didn't have a shirt on last night either. You didn't seem to mind it when you were dancing with me.”
You hide your face in your hands. “I was tipsy! I didn't know what I was doing. And I... I usually don't do this. Wake up like this, with anyone.”
Dean’s smirk softens slightly at your clear embarrassment. He carefully rolls onto his back, finally releasing his grip on your waist, though he stays close enough that your shoulders are still touching. He props himself up on an elbow, looking down at your flustered, messy-haired state with an expression that is surprisingly tender.
"Hey, look at me." you slowly lower your hands, your big, innocent eyes meeting his burning blue ones. He reached out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You don't have to panic, okay? Nothing happened. Well, besides you screaming my name in front of the entire hockey team and demanding I help you out of a sexy, sticky popstar outfit.”
You groan, pulling the duvet over the lower half of your face. “Please tell me you're making that up.”
He laughed out loud, the sound rich and clear in the quiet room. “I wish I was, but honestly? It was the highlight of my night, by a mile. Your ex-boyfriend looked like he was going to cry when I carried you up those stairs... It was funny.”
You peek out from over the blanket, your eyebrows knitting together.
“You saw him?” you asked.
His jaw tightened just a fraction, his playboy swagger returning full force. “Yeah, I saw him. Total buzzkill. You're way too vibrant for a guy who looks like he calculates taxes for fun, sweetheart. You deserve someone who actually knows how to have a good time.”
He leans in just a little closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto your eyes.
“Now, how about we go downstairs, get some coffee into that system of yours, and after that you can tell me all about why Briar’s sweetest waitress has been hiding from me all semester?”
***
You are practically hiding behind Dean as you walk down the stairs. You’re clutching the hem of his oversized Briar Hockey t-shirt, which still smells heavily of him, and your bare feet pad softly against the wooden steps. Your hair is a messy, sleep-tousled cloud, and your cheeks are still burning from the bedroom conversation.
Dean, on the other hand, is the picture of effortless confidence. He’s thrown on a pair of grey sweatpants, but he’s still shirtless, his broad shoulders and tattooed chest completely on display. He glances back at you over his shoulder, a devastating smirk on his face.
He's whispering, leaning back toward you. “Relax, sweetheart. You look adorable and if anyone opens their mouth to tease you, I’ll just tell them I’m cutting off their supply of my premium hair products.”
You tugged his arm, frantically whispering back. “Dean, they're going to think we... you know! And I work with Allie and Hannah! I'll never hear the end of it at Malone's!”
Dean winked. “Let them think whatever they want, it keeps life interesting.”
As you round the corner into the massive, sunlit kitchen, the sheer volume of the room hits you. The smell of sizzling bacon, fresh coffee, and maple syrup is overwhelming. The kitchen is a war zone of morning-after chaos: Tucker is standing at the stove, looking like the only responsible adult in the house, he’s wearing a ridiculous pink apron over a plain t-shirt, methodically flipping a mountain of golden-brown pancakes on a massive griddle.
The rest of the crew is gathered around the long kitchen island. Garrett is slumped in a barstool, still wearing his magician's top hat sideways, looking completely hungover, Hannah is next to him, sipping coffee, her bunny ears now resting around Garrett’s neck. Logan is face-down on the counter, his giant bird wings draped over the back of his stool like a deflated prop, while Brianna gently rubs his back like a soft caress. Beau and Allie are literally sharing a stool, Beau still in his flight suit trousers, looking entirely too energetic at 9am.
The moment Dean’s heavy footsteps echo on the tile, all heads turn.
A dead silence falls over the kitchen and then, the realization hits them.
Garrett lifted his head and a massive evil grin is spreading across his face. “Well, well, well... Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, look who Di Laurentis managed to avoid scaring away.”
Allie's eyes widening as she spots you, specifically targeting the giant hockey jersey swallowing your frame. “Oh my god. Is that... number 66? The sacred jersey?”
Hannah choked on her coffee, standing up immediately. “Wait, you're wearing his shirt! Xtina, you survived the night!”
You instantly shrink behind Dean’s broad back, your face turning a shade of red that rivals a tomato. You try to look down at your bare toes, wishing the kitchen floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
You were mumbling behind Dean. “It’s just a shirt... my costume was sticky...”
Logan muffled his voice into the counter. “Sure, sure. A sticky situation, classic Di Laurentis play.”
Brianna smacked Logan’s arm. “Shut up, Logan, your wings are dipping into the butter. Let her breathe, she’s sweet.”
Beau pointed a spatula at Dean. “I gotta hand it to you, Maverick. You left the party early, missed the epic beer pong finals, and we all thought you just went to sleep like an old man.”
Dean stepped forward smoothly, wrapping a casual, protective arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “Alright, alright, clear your ears out, you hyenas. First of all, I was being a perfect gentleman. Our favorite Malone's waitress here had a little too much to drink, and I wasn't about to let her drive or deal with her buzzkill of an ex-boyfriend.”
The mention of your ex makes Hannah and Allie instantly switch gears.
Hannah snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right! That boring guy was hovering around the punch bowl like a dark cloud, did he bother you sweetie?”
You peeked out from behind Dean, feeling a little braver. “No... Dean carried me upstairs before he could even come over.”
Suddenly, Tucker banged his spatula against the rim of a pan, his voice cut through the noise.
“Alright, y'all need to shut your traps and leave the poor girl alone. Can't you see that y/n's about to faint from embarrassment? Go sit down at the table before I starve the lot of you.”
Tucker turns around, holding a massive platter loaded with a tower of pancakes, a mountain of crispy bacon, and a bowl of perfectly scrambled eggs. He walks over to you, his expression warm and completely understanding.
Tucker handed you a massive ceramic mug filled with steaming black coffee. “Here you go, sweetheart. Drink this. Don't mind these idiots; they've got the collective brain cells of a single hockey puck this morning.”
You take the mug gratefully, the warmth instantly soothing your hands. “Thank you, Tucker. You're a lifesaver!”
Dean guide you over to the two empty stools at the far end of the island, safely away from Garrett’s reaching hands. “Sit here, babe. Tucker, slide those pancakes over before Garrett tries to perform a magic trick and make them disappear into his mouth.”
You slide onto the stool, pulling the oversized shirt tightly around your knees. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh brushing against yours. The proximity is dizzying, but as everyone digs into the food, the tension in the room shifts from teasing to comfortable, chaotic breakfast banter.
Garrett shoved a whole piece of bacon into his mouth. “Seriously though, Tucker, these are amazing. Marry me.”
“You can't afford my dowry, Graham.”
Dean reaches over, loading a plate with two massive pancakes, several strips of bacon, and a neat pile of eggs. He places it directly in front of you, along with a fork.
“Eat up, popstar. You need the fuel... Then, if you're feeling up for it, I can drive you back to your dorm to get a change of clothes or you can just stay here and keep wearing my stuff... Personally, I think it’s a massive upgrade.” his voice dropped into that low, sweet murmur he meant only for you.
You look up from your coffee, meeting his intense blue eyes. The playboy charm is there, but beneath it, you can tell he’s genuinely watching to see if you’re okay. You take a bite of a pancake, a small, shy smile finally breaking across your face.
“I think I’d like that coffee first.” you smile softly.
He grinned, leaning his elbow on the counter, entirely captivated. “Deal.”
***
Dean’s sleek, expensive car pulls up right to the curb outside your freshman dorm. The campus is relatively quiet, with only a few hungover students blinking at the daylight, wrapped in sweatpants.
You open the passenger door, immediately wincing as your feet slide around inside Dean's massive Briar Hockey slides. You have to walk with a ridiculous, wide-stanced shuffle just to keep them from flying off your feet. You’re clutching your crumpled "Dirrty" costume and silver heels to your chest like a shield, still swallowed alive by his number 66 jersey.
Dean round the front of the car, effortlessly grabbing the bundle of clothes and shoes from your arms. “Give me those before you trip and face-plant into the concrete, popstar. You’re like a hazard to yourself right now.”
You flushed, shuffling alongside him as he guides you toward the heavy glass doors of the dorm. “I told you I look ridiculous, people are staring! The girl at the front desk is looking at me like I just robbed a sporting goods store.”
He flashed a dazzling, blinding smile at the sleepy desk attendant as he holds the door open for you. “Let them look, they’re just jealous you’ve got the best chauffeur on campus. What floor, sweetheart?”
“Third floor. And please, keep your voice down. My RA is incredibly strict about morning-after guests.”
Dean just winked, stepping into the elevator with you and pressing the button. “Relax, I’m an expert at stealth operations. Your secret is safe with me.”
You fumble with your room key, your clumsy, tired fingers dropping it once before Dean gently takes it from you and unlocks the door.
The room is dark, the blinds pulled tightly shut. Your roommate is clearly gone for the weekend, leaving the space completely quiet. The room is a perfect reflection of you: a little messy, with stacks of heavy English literature textbooks on the desk, a string of unlit fairy lights draped over the headboard, and a pile of soft, oversized blankets neatly folded at the foot of your unmade bed.
Dean steps inside, tossing your silver heels and costume onto your desk chair. He looks around the cozy space, his eyes lingering on a stack of highlighters and sticky notes.
He have a soft, amused smile tugging at his lips. “So this is where the magic happens. Lots of heavy reading, huh? You really are a little nerd under that popstar exterior.”
You dropped instantly onto the edge of your mattress, kicking off his giant slides with a sigh of absolute relief. “I have a mid-term on Tuesday, Dean. Some of us actually have to study, we can't all just coast on raw athletic talent and... and perfect hair.”
He let out a low, rich chuckle, walking over to the side of your bed. “Hey, maintaining this mane takes serious dedication. Don't minimize my hard work.”
He stops right in front of you, in the dim light of the dorm room, the playful banter suddenly softens. The reality of the situation settles in: you're sitting on your bed in his clothes, and he's standing over you, looking at you like you're the only person in the world.
You look up at him, your voice small, fighting off a massive yawn. “I’m so tired, my brain feels like mush.”
His expression softening completely, stepping closer and pulling back the heavy comforter for you. “Then get under the covers. Stop talking and just crawl in.”
You don't argue, you slide beneath the sheets, curling onto your side and pulling the blanket up to your chin. Your head sinks into your fluffy pillow, and you let out a long, contented breath.
Dean stands there for a moment, watching you settle. Then, he reaches down, picking up his thick black hoodie that he had slung over his shoulder, and gently drapes it over the top of your comforter, adding an extra layer of warmth.
After a moment you peeked out from under the blanket, watching him. “Are you going back to the house?”
Dean sit down on the very edge of your mattress, his weight is slightly shifting the bed. “In a minute, I want to make sure you actually pass out first. Can't have you wandering back to Malone’s in your sleep.”
He reaches out, his large, warm hand gently smoothing over the top of your messy hair. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender, so completely un-playboy like, that your breath hitches in your throat. You lean into his touch just a fraction, your innocent, sleepy eyes locked onto his.
He whispered, his thumb lightly grazing your forehead. “You're safe here, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”
You closed your eyes, and a soft smile forming on your lips. “Don't take your shirt back while I'm sleeping.”
Dean let out a quiet, raspy laugh, his hand lingering on your hair for just a few seconds longer before he slowly stands up. “It looks better on you anyway. Sleep tight, popstar. I'll text you later to make sure you're alive.”
After a while, maybe an hour, you hear his quiet, heavy footsteps move across the linoleum floor. The door clicks shut with a soft, secure sound, leaving you wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and the absolute certainty that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
***
The Tuesday morning air is sharp and brisk, rustling the leaves along the cobblestone pathways of the main quad. Students are bustling past in every direction, clutching travel mugs of coffee and rushing toward their morning lectures. It's been a couple of weeks after the party and you and Dean are taking things slow, he's funny, loyal and so sweet when he wants to, he's been such a support helping you study for midterms while you're taking work breaks at Malone's.
You are walking alone, hugged tightly by your favorite, heavily oversized knit sweater that swallows your hands. In your arms, you are hauling a precarious tower of heavy English literature anthologies, a messy binder bursting with loose-leaf notes, and three different colors of highlighters tucked into your pocket. Your mind is completely occupied with thoughts of your upcoming midterm, mixed with a lingering, warm flutter in your chest from a text Dean had sent you just an hour earlier.
You take a deep breath, focusing on the pavement, completely minding your own business and then, you lift your eyes. About twenty yards ahead, walking straight down the center of the path toward you, is Stuart. He is dressed exactly the way he always is: a stiff, perfectly pressed pastel polo shirt, ironed khaki trousers, and a leather briefcase. He looks entirely out of place among the casual college crowd: rigid, clinical, and completely unbothered by anyone else.
Your stomach instantly drops into a cold, heavy pit. Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
“No, no, no. Please, god, no. Not today, not here.” you talk to yourself, almost panicking.
You look frantically to your left, then to your right. To your left is a wide-open lawn with absolutely nowhere to hide, to your right is the Science building, but the doors are too far away. You try to abruptly pivot on your heel, pretending you forgot something in the opposite direction, but your clumsy foot catches on the edge of the cobblestone. You stumble slightly, your heavy textbooks shifting dangerously in your arms.
Stuart voice cut through the morning air, cold and sharp. “Oh. I thought that was you. Don't bother turning around, I already saw you.”
You freeze, your shoulders tensing up until they practically touch your ears. Slowly, you turn back around, clutching your books to your chest like a literal shield. Stuart closes the distance, stopping right in front of you, completely blocking the path. He looks down his nose at you, his eyes scanning your oversized clothes and messy hair with an immediate expression of deep disapproval.
He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve lived on this campus for three years and I barely ever ran into you. Now, suddenly, I can't seem to escape you. First at that rowdy, classless hockey party, and now out here.”
You spoke, your voice's barely a whisper, your natural shyness locking your throat up. “Stuart... hi. I’m actually really late for my literature lecture, I just need to get through—”
He cut you off instantly, raising a hand. “You're always rushing, always disorganized. Look at you, you’re practically dropping your notes on the ground. Some things never change, do they? You’re still the same messy girl I spent two years trying to fix.”
The word fix stings like a slap to the face, you take a half-step back, your knuckles turning white as you grip your binder tighter.
Stuart let out a heavy, self-righteous sigh, shaking his head. “You know, I’ve been waiting for an apology from you for two months... Two whole months since you ruthlessly blindsided me and walked away from everything we built. And instead of showing any remorse, what do I see? I see you at a hockey house, dressed in a vulgar, completely inappropriate outfit, acting like a child.”
You're feeling tears of frustration burning behind your eyes, trying to find your voice. “It wasn't a vulgar outfit, it was a costume party... and I didn't blindside you, Stuart. We were unhappy. I was unhappy for months, and I told you that—” he cuts you again.
He's scoffing loudly, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, please. Don't rewrite history to make yourself feel better. You were unhappy? Try to think about someone other than yourself for once in your life. I gave you absolute stability, I had our entire five-year plan mapped out, I tolerated your messy schedule, your constant shifts at Malone's, your total inability to keep your life together... and how did you repay me? You threw it all in my face because you claimed I was 'boring'.”
Stuart steps a fraction closer, his shadow completely falling over you, making you feel incredibly small and trapped on the busy walkway.
His voice dropping into a venomous, hushed tone. “You humiliated me. Do you have any idea what it felt like for me to stand at that party and watch you get carried up the stairs by some brainless, arrogant jock? Dean di Laurentis? Seriously? You left a man with a future, a man who actually cared about your intellect, to become a temporary plaything for a guy who changes girls faster than he changes his hockey stick.”
Your voice is trembling, a tear finally slipping down your cheek. “Dean was just helping me... he didn't do anything wrong! He was nice to me. He treated me better than—”
He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Nice to you? Wake up! You are so incredibly innocent and naive it’s pathetic. A guy like that sees a shy, sweet girl like you and thinks you’re an easy target. He doesn't respect you, he’s using you to look good, or maybe just to pass the time until a prettier puck bunny comes along. And you’re just blindly falling for it because you don't know any better.”
He looks at you with a mixture of pity and disgust that makes your stomach turn. “I was the victim in this breakup. I spent weeks staring at my spreadsheets, wondering how I failed to guide you properly. But now I see the truth. You’re just immature, you couldn't handle a real, adult relationship with expectations and maturity, so you ran away to a boy who plays games for a living. You ruined the best thing that ever happened to you, and when he’s done with you, don't you dare come crying back to me expecting me to clean up your mess again.”
You stand there, completely frozen, the heavy books in your arms feeling like lead weights. The insults press down on your chest so hard you can barely breathe. You want to scream at him, you want to tell him how miserable he made you feel, how he always made you feel small and stupid, but the old, sweet, non-confrontational version of you is completely paralyzed by the cruelty of his words.
Stuart looks at your tear-stained face, entirely satisfied with the damage he’s caused, and straightens his ironed polo shirt.
“Go on to your little class then. Try not to drop your notes on the way.” he spoke and he steps around you, his leather briefcase brushing against your arm as he struts away down the path, leaving you standing entirely alone in the middle of the crowded quad, trembling and completely shattered.
The world around you feels dizzying and loud. Your hands are shaking so violently that as you try to readjust the heavy burden in your arms, the top-heavy English literature anthologies slide sideways. Your binder flips open, and a cascade of loose-leaf notes, highlighted outlines, and three different colored highlighters spill across the cold, hard cobblestones.
You drop to your knees, your oversized knit sweater pooling around you on the ground. Blurry-eyed, you frantically start grabbing at the papers, but your vision is so swimming with tears that you can barely tell the outline sheets apart. You reach for a pink highlighter that has rolled into a crack in the pavement, your fingers fumbling clumsily. You feel completely exposed, small, and utterly broken by every single word Stuart just hurled at you.
"I spent two years trying to fix you."
"You’re so incredibly innocent and naive it’s pathetic."
"A temporary plaything."
You let out a small, ragged sob, pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead, trying desperately to stop crying in the middle of the busiest walkway on campus.
A heavy, dark leather backpack drops onto the cobblestones with a loud, solid thud right next to your scattered notes.
Before you can even look up, a pair of large, familiar hands: strong, broad, and calloused from a hockey stick, begin gathering your loose sheets with lightning-fast, effortless efficiency.
“Hey. I’ve got 'em. Don't move, sweetheart, I’ve got the papers.” Dean says, his voice's a low, smooth recognizable rumble.
You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, you lift your tear-stained face. Dean is kneeling on the pavement right in front of you, he’s fresh out of the Social Sciences building from his Political Science seminar, wearing a dark fitted jacket that accentuates his broad shoulders, his hair perfectly pushed back. He’s holding a stack of your literature notes in one hand, but the moment his burning blue eyes lock onto your face, his entire posture changes.
The easy, playboy smile he usually wears completely vanishes. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek, he takes in your red-rimmed eyes, the tear tracking down your cheek, and the way your shoulders are trembling.
His voice's dropping into a deadly serious, raspy register, tossing the papers onto his lap and reaching out for you. “Hey, what's wrong? Why are you crying?”
You're instantly looking down, trying to wipe your face with the sleeve of your oversized sweater, your shyness taking over. “Dean... hi. It's nothing, I'm just—I'm just clumsy. I dropped my midterm notes and I got stressed out, I'm fine—”
He's grasping your wrists gently but firmly, stopping you from hiding your face. “Don't lie to me, you don't cry like this over a couple of dropped papers. Who did this?”
He looks up, his sharp eyes scanning the crowded quad. In the distance, about fifty yards away, Stuart’s rigid, pastel-polo wearing frame is still visible, walking toward the upper campus. Dean’s eyes narrow into slits as he connects the dots.
His grip on your wrists softening into a gentle, reassuring hold, his voice laced with an icy fury. “Was that him? The spreadsheet guy? The ex?”
You don't say anything, but a small, fresh sob escapes your lips, and you look away. And that’s all the confirmation he needs.
Dean doesn't hesitate and, instead of going towards Stuart, he just gathers the rest of your papers in one swift motion, shoves them safely inside his leather backpack, and zips it up. Then, he stands up and reaches down, wrapping his hands under your arms and lifting you effortlessly to your feet.
Instead of letting you go, he guides you away from the center of the path, pushing you gently against the brick wall of the nearby library, completely shielding you from the view of the rest of the campus with his massive frame.
Dean placed his hands on the wall on either side of your head, leaning down so he’s inches from your face, his eyes blazing. “What did he say to you?”
You shaked your head, tears spilling over again. “It doesn't matter, Dean. He's right. I'm just... I'm messy, and I'm disorganized, and I'm too naive. He said I threw away stability for... for a temporary plaything. He said you're just using me because I'm an easy target.”
Dean lets out a harsh, dark breath, his forehead almost touching yours. The sheer gravity of his anger is palpable, but none of it is directed at you.
“Look at me... Just look right at me.”
You slowly lift your eyes to his, the blue of his eyes is incredibly intense, completely stripped of any playboy facade.
His voice's fierce, thick with genuine emotion. “Listen to me very carefully, because I am only going to say this once. That guy is a miserable, insecure little coward who couldn't handle the fact that he had a girl who is a thousand times brighter, sweeter, and more beautiful than he will ever deserve. He didn't try to 'fix' you, sweetheart, he tried to break you so you wouldn't realize you were completely out of his league.”
Your heart thumps violently against your ribs, his words cutting right through the cold venom Stuart had left behind.
Dean reached up, his warm thumb gently wiping the tears from your cheek, his touch incredibly tender. “And as for me? A temporary plaything? An easy target? I have spent the last couple of weeks doing nothing but thinking about you. I haven't looked at another girl, I haven't wanted to. I walked you to the library because I wanted to be near you. I left you my jersey because I wanted you wrapped in my stuff. You are not an easy target, you are the best thing that has happened to me all semester, and I am not letting some boring, dynamic-less idiot make you feel small for even a second.”
You stare up at him, your lips parting slightly, your breath is trembling. The sincerity in his voice is undeniable. The arrogant, untouchable Dean di Laurentis is standing in the middle of the campus quad, entirely unbothered by who sees him, comforting a messy, crying girl with everything he has.
You whispered, a small, fragile smile finally fighting its way through your tears. “You really mean that?”
The corner of his mouth finally tugging up into a soft, devastatingly handsome smirk, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. “I don't lie about things that matter, popstar. Now, screw your literature lecture. We're cutting class.”
He drops his hands, reaching down to grab his leather backpack full of your notes, and firmly links his fingers through yours, pulling you into his side.
“We're going to my car, I'm taking you back to the house, and I'm going to make Tucker cook you whatever you want while I sit next to you and read you those stupid literature definitions until you know them by heart. Sound like a plan?”
You squeeze his hand back, the warmth of his fingers completely melting the last of Stuart’s chill. “Yeah, that sounds like a perfect plan.”
[to be continued...]
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