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SUMMARY: Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there.
WARNINGS: Pure fluff! Dean is down bad for reader, cursing, dramatic hockey boys, suggestiveness but no actual smut, probably some inaccurate Pilates descriptions (sorry)!
A/N: Once again this is PURELY self indulgent! Inspiration struck by watching a Quinn interview between Mika and Stephen talking about how he โaccidentallyโ bailed on their Pilates class! Hope yโall enjoy!! Divider by @sc3ptre <3
โฉ main masterlist
โฉ dean di laurentis masterlist
Dean was naturally curious. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Dean was nosy. There was a difference. Curiosity was casually wondering about something. Nosiness was noticing a pattern and becoming mildly obsessed with figuring it out. And for the last three weeks, he'd been trying to figure out where the hell you kept disappearing to every morning at six o'clock.
Every. Single. Morning.
Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.
Where the hell were you going?
Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, youโd already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.
Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And you always, always, had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.
"It looks like liquid grass."
"It's tea, Dean."
"It's toxic waste, babydoll."
A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgmental stare while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.
"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."
"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.
"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.
And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was going to find out.
Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.
โBabydoll?โ He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "At a ix a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.
"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. His gaze narrowed further, there it was again: that smug little smile.
The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.
"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.
You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.โHe practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.
However, instead of speaking, you reached over and patted his cheek, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes, Dean?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.
Almost.
Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.
The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. โIf youโre so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers.
The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But it was no use, you were already awake.
"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.
With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.
Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.
Barely.
Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.
You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.
"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.
He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.
Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.
Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.
You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.
His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.
"It's really not."
"You hesitated."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did."
You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.
Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.
Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.
"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.
"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.
The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.
Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.
Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.
Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.
Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.
There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.
The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.
However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.
The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.
When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.
Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.
Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.
As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.
Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it!" Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.
"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.
"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.
The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.
You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.
The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.
As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.
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series summary: Y/n never expected a crowded hockey party to lead her straight to Garrett Graham: cocky, charming, and impossible to figure out. What starts as teasing banter and late-night conversations quickly turns into something deeper, as a psychology student finds herself drawn to the one person she canโt quite analyse.
SUMMARY: Beau's death leaves Dean shattered beyond recognition. Haunted by grief and slowly unraveling, the boys turn to the only person who might still be able to reach him before he loses himself completely.
WARNINGS: Established long-distance relationship, A LOT of angst, hurt/comfort but still a good amount of fluff, talks of grief, found family dynamics.
A/N: I'm a sucker for hurt/comfort which is how this small blurb came to be! Originally reading the books I was a John Logan girl (I still am) however this blonde golden retriever completely took over my heart in the show! Hope y'all enjoy and definitely have the tissues on hand! Divider by @sc3ptre ๐ญ
โฉ main masterlist
โฉ dean di laurentis masterlist
Beau Maxwell was dead. The words didn't feel real, no matter how many times you heard them, no matter how many times you repeated them in your head until they lost all meaning. Beau Maxwell was gone. Dead. Twenty-three years old, and somehow the world had decided that was the end of his story. It didn't make sense. He was supposed to have decades ahead of him. A future. A career. A life.
From the moment you'd met him, you'd known football wasn't just something Beau played, it was who he was. He lived and breathed the game. Every practice, every workout, every sacrifice had been leading him toward the NFL. He was talented enough, driven enough, stubborn enough to make it happen. Everyone who knew him could see it. He was supposed to be under stadium lights, throwing touchdown passes in front of thousands of screaming fans.
He was supposed to be chasing championships, signing contracts, and living the dream he'd spent his entire life working toward. Instead, all that potential had been lowered into the ground alongside him. And no matter how desperately you wished otherwise, no amount of grief, denial, or bargaining could change the brutal truth. The funeral was beautiful in the way funerals always seemed to be, filled with flowers and stories that somehow made the loss feel even heavier.
Every person who stepped up to the podium painted a picture of the same Beau Maxwell you knew. The guy who could make an entire room laugh without even trying. The teammate who never hesitated to lift someone up when they were struggling. The son who called his parents more often than most college guys ever would. The boy who should have had so much more time. Standing between Hannah and Garrett, your fingers were laced tightly with Hannah's as though she was the only thing keeping you upright.
Garrett stood on your other side, a silent presence, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. And through it all, your eyes kept drifting toward the doors. Waiting. Hoping. Dean had promised he'd meet you there, but the second the words left his mouth, you'd known it was a lie. Not because he'd meant to lie, but because Dean wasn't Dean anymore. Still, every time the stadium doors creaked open, your heart jumped. Maybe he'd finally come. Maybe he'd walk in looking exhausted and miserable, but he'd be there.
But he never did.
The empty space beside you felt like its own kind of funeral. Beau was gone, and you hated to even think that Dean was disappearing right behind him. Days after the funeral, you hadn't pushed Dean to talk. You hadn't demanded explanations for the unanswered texts or the phone calls that lasted less than five minutes before he suddenly had somewhere else to be. You hadn't commented on the fact that half the time you couldn't tell if he was drunk, high, or some awful combination of both.
Because grief looked different on everyone. And Dean was grieving harder than anyone. So you stayed. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. You held his hand whenever he let you. Wrapped yourself around him during the rare nights you spent together and listened to the uneven rhythm of his breathing as he slept. Sometimes he would wake up gasping. Sometimes he would whisper Beau's name. Sometimes he would simply stare at the ceiling for hours.
You never asked questions. You just stayed. Because you loved him. Because losing Beau had been devastating enough. You refused to lose Dean too. Even from two hours away, you tried. God, you tried. Calls before class. Texts between lectures. Late-night FaceTimes while you studied for finals. Anything to maintain some kind of connection. Anything to remind him he wasn't alone. At first, he'd answer. Then less often. Then only occasionally. The excuses started piling up:
"Sorry, babydoll. Busy."
"Practice ran late."
"I'm exhausted."
"I'll call tomorrow."
Only tomorrow rarely came.
Every unanswered text felt like another thread snapping between you. You could feel him slipping away. Slowly. Painfully. Which was why when Garrett's name flashed across your phone at six-thirty that morning, your stomach had immediately dropped. Garrett never called. Not unless something was wrong. The second you answered, you heard it in his voice. The exhaustion. The worry. The fear. And suddenly you were standing in your apartment, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Dean needs you." Three words. That was all it took. You didn't even let Garrett finish explaining. Within fifteen minutes, you were throwing clothes into a bag and grabbing your keys. Finals be damned. Everything else could wait. Dean couldn't. The drive felt endless. You gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed harder on the gas. By the time the familiar off-campus house came into view, your heart was pounding so violently it hurt.
You barely remembered parking. The car ended up crooked across part of the driveway and half the curb. Normally, Logan would've had a field day. Normally, he'd come outside shaking his head with a smug smirk threatening to have your license revoked. Today, you didn't care, you simply shoved the car door open and climbed out. Before you could even raise your fist to knock, the front door swung open and suddenly Logan was right there.
For a split second, neither of you said anything. Then his arms wrapped around you, almost as if he was holding on for dear life. You didn't hesitate to throw your arms around him just as tightly. The hug stole the air from your lungs, not because of the force of it, but because Logan wasn't a hugger. Your eyes burned immediately. Because suddenly you weren't just seeing Logan's grief. You were seeing everything. The empty seat at team dinners. The missing voice in group conversations.
Beau.
Logan's grip tightened briefly as if he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone. You reached out automatically and squeezed his forearm. The gesture felt small, meaningless, even. But Logan offered a faint nod anyway, a silent thank you. Then another pair of arms wrapped around you. Tucker. His embrace was gentler. Almost as if he was trying to offer comfort instead of searching for it.
Yet somehow that made your chest hurt even more, because Tucker had always been the softest of them. The caretaker. The one who made sure everyone else was okay. The one who remembered birthdays and brought food when people were sick and somehow always knew when someone needed support. And now even he looked worn down. "You drove straight here?" He asked quietly. You nodded against his shoulder. No further explanation was needed.
Tucker pulled back enough to study your face and his expression softened immediately. "Have you slept?" A watery laugh escaped you. "Have any of us?" Something painful flickered across his features. Because that was the truth. None of them had. Not since Beau. The house suddenly felt eerily quiet. Gone were the sounds that used to define this place. No music blasting from someone's room. No shouting from video games. No laughter echoing down the hallway.
The grief still hit like a freight train. Being childhood best friends with Garrett Graham and dating Dean Di Laurentis meant the boys had always come as a package deal. From the outside, people saw hockey stars. College athletes. Campus womanizers. But to you, they were family. They'd woven themselves into your life years ago. And somewhere along the way, they simply stopped being Garrett's friends and became your brothers too.
Which meant Beau hadn't just been Dean's best friend. He'd been yours too. Your gaze shifted toward Garrett, who was standing at the foot of the stairs just beyond the doorway. His face looked drawn, shoulders slumped. And suddenly you understood just how bad things had become. Because Garrett was always the strong one. The person everyone leaned on when life fell apart. Yet in this moment, he looked completely helpless.
"Where is he?" You asked quietly, voice shaking despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. No one answered immediately. Logan looked away. Tucker rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Garrett's jaw tightened. And just like that, your heart dropped. Because you knew those looks. You knew what silence like that meant. Without saying a word, Garrett stepped forward and reached for you. The second his hand touched your arm, whatever fragile composure you'd been clinging to began to crack.
You went willingly. Almost desperately. Allowing him to pull you against his chest. Almost as if he already knew you were about to hear something you weren't prepared for. "He hasn't left his room in almost three days, Y/N." Three entire days. Three days alone. Three days trapped inside his own head. Three days with no one there except his grief. The air left your lungs, as your hands tightened around Garrett's hoodie, bracing for what was next. "He won't answer us, and he barely opens the door."
You'd known he wasn't okay. But this? This was so much worse. A shaky breath escaped you. "Has he..." You swallowed hard and tried again. "Has he talked to anyone?" The silence that followed was devastating. Not because they refused to answer. Because they didn't have one. And suddenly you understood why Garrett called. Dean hadn't just shut himself away. He'd shut them all out. The people who loved him most. The people who would've done anything for him.
A fresh wave of heartbreak crashed through you. Because Dean had never been good at asking for help. Even on his best days. And right now? Right now he was carrying the kind of grief that crushed people. The kind that hollowed them out from the inside. The kind that convinced them isolation was easier than letting anyone witness their pain. And if something didn't change soon, you weren't sure there would be enough of him left to find.
Pulling yourself away from Garrett, you quickly swiped at your eyes. The tears weren't helping. The panic wasn't helping. Dean needed you. That was all that mattered. Lifting your head, your gaze immediately found the closed door at the end of the hallway upstairs. Even from here it felt like a barrier. Like a physical representation of every wall Dean had spent the last several weeks building between himself and the rest of the world. Behind that door was the boy you loved, or at least what was left of him.
"Let me try," The words barely made it past the lump in your throat. "Let me help him get out of his head." For just a second, nobody spoke. The house was silent enough that you could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Could hear someone's uneven breathing. Could hear your own heart hammering against your ribs. Garrett looked upstairs then back at you. The concern in his eyes nearly broke you. Because Garrett knew.
He knew exactly how much this was hurting you too. How every ignored call had chipped away at you. How every unanswered text left you staring at your phone wondering if Dean was okay. How you'd spent weeks pretending you weren't scared. Terrified that one day Dean would pull away so much that there'd be nothing left to hold onto. Before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your forehead. The gesture was so familiar, it nearly made you cry all over again.
"You call if you need us.โ You nodded, completely unable to trust your voice. His hand slid down your arm before settling around your wrist. Without a word, he guided you toward the staircase. The first few steps felt impossible. Your legs suddenly heavy, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Garrett stayed beside you until you reached the landing, until you were close enough to continue on your own. Only then did he finally let go. You hated how well he knew you.
How he'd recognized immediately that your knees felt weak. How he'd quietly supported your weight without calling attention to it. How after all these years, Garrett could still read you better than anyone. Except maybe Dean. The thought nearly stopped you in your tracks. Except lately... Dean hadn't been reading you at all. Lately, it felt like he barely saw you. A fresh ache settled deep in your chest, still, you forced yourself forward. One step. Then another. The hallway stretched endlessly before you. Every foot closer to his room made your pulse race harder.
Until finally you stood in front of the door. Dean's door. The same door you'd knocked on a thousand times before. The same room where you'd spent countless nights laughing until sunrise. Studying. Making love. Living. Now it felt foreign. Unreachable. Like the person on the other side existed in an entirely different world. For a long moment, you simply stared at it. Listening. Waiting. But there was nothing. No music. No movement. Just eerie silence.
Your throat tightened painfully, then slowly, carefully, almost hesitantly, you reached for the doorknob. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open. As you walked in, the smell hit you first. Stale alcohol and weed. The unmistakable scent of a room that hadn't been properly aired out in days. The curtains were drawn shut, leaving the room bathed in a dim gray gloom despite the afternoon sunlight outside.
Empty liquor bottles littered the floor. Some tipped over. Some still standing. A few clustered beneath the desk like silent evidence of just how many nights Dean had spent trying to drink himself numb. A half-smoked joint rested in an overflowing ashtray on his bedside table. Food wrappers were scattered everywhere. Fast-food bags. Candy wrappers. Empty containers. The remnants of meals that looked more abandoned than eaten.
Energy drink cans covered nearly every available surface. Some crushed. Some half-full. Some forgotten entirely. Your stomach twisted. Because none of this looked like Dean. This room belonged to someone else. Someone drowning. Someone who had stopped caring altogether. You quietly shut the door behind you, setting your bag beside the desk chair, as you shrugged off your jacket and toed off your boots before finally lifting your gaze to the bed.
Dean was there, curled onto his side and still wearing the same clothes you'd seen him in three days ago when Garrett had sent a picture of the guys watching a game together. The same gray sweatshirt. The same sweatpants. His blonde hair was messy and overgrown. His face pale and unshaven. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted sleep fixed, but the kind that came from carrying too much pain for far too long.
Slowly, you made your way across the room, carefully stepping around discarded bottles and crumpled wrappers until you reached the side of the bed. For a moment, you simply stood there, looking at him. Really looking at him. Dean was sprawled face down across the mattress, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. His blonde hair was an unruly mess, sticking up in every direction as if he'd spent hours dragging frustrated hands through it.
Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, reaching out without thinking. Your fingers pushed back a stray blonde curl that had fallen across his forehead. The gesture completely instinctive. For a second, nothing happened. Then, Dean shifted. His brows furrowed slightly, a soft sound escaping him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes opened. Emerald green met yours. Bloodshot. Heavy. Disoriented. For a moment he simply stared. Blinking once. Twice. Three times.
As though his exhausted brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing. As though you'd become another dream. Another hallucination brought on by too much alcohol and too little sleep. Something in your chest cracked, because you'd never seen Dean look so lost. "Babydoll?" He rasped, eyes moving over your face slowly, drinking you in like he was afraid you'd disappear if he looked away. You offered him the smallest smile you could manage, one that felt heartbreakingly fragile.
"Hi, sweetheart." The second the words left your mouth, something inside him seemed to snap. A visible crack in whatever wall he'd been holding together. Suddenly, Dean was moving, all six-foot-two of him. One second he was lying across the bed. The next he was wrapped around you. Arms circling your waist so tightly it almost hurt. As if he loosened his grip for even a second, you'd vanish. A strangled sound escaped him as he buried his face against your neck.
His hand immediately slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, seeking bare skin. Seeking reassurance. Seeking some kind of proof that you were real. That you were actually here. Your eyes burned instantly, because Dean had always been affectionate. Always touchy. But this wasn't affection. This was desperation. The kind born from weeks of drowning alone.
He was warm. A little sweaty. His sweatshirt smelled faintly of stale alcohol and weed. There was no doubt he'd been drinking recently. No doubt he'd spent the last several days trying to numb himself into oblivion. Yet none of that mattered as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him just as tightly. One hand sliding into his hair, the familiar softness nearly undid you. God, you'd missed him.
Dean's shoulders trembled beneath your hands. Only slightly. But enough. Enough to tell you how hard he was fighting to keep himself together. "I'm so sorry." The whisper was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. His voice cracked against your shoulder, fingers tightening around your hips. Like he was expecting you to push him away. Like he genuinely believed he deserved it. Fresh tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them back before they could fall. You needed to be strong for him right now.
"Don't you dare apologize." Your voice came out firmer than you felt. Immediately, you cupped his face and gently encouraged him to look at you. It took a second, but eventually he did. You rested your forehead against his, close enough to feel his shaky breathing. Close enough to remind him he wasn't alone. "I'm not mad." Your thumb brushed across his scruffy cheek softly. "I'm just worried about you, baby. We all are." Dean swallowed hard, but he didn't respond.
The silence said everything. Because deep down, he knew. He knew he'd been shutting everyone out. Knew he'd been disappearing. Knew he was hurting people who only wanted to help. The guilt was written all over his face. You exhaled slowly, brushing another blonde curl away from his forehead. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get in the shower, we're changing these sheets, getting you real food, and then you're sleeping off this hangover."
Your gaze deliberately swept across the disaster surrounding you. The bottles. The wrappers. The overflowing ashtray. The evidence of just how badly he'd been struggling. "Bossy." He scoffed, but there it was, a tiny smirk. Barely there. The smallest upward twitch of his lips. But it was enough. Enough to make relief bloom painfully in your chest. Good, he was still in there somewhere. You rolled your eyes dramatically. "I prefer the term effective."
That earned you a quiet huff of amusement. Not quite a laugh, but closer than he'd been in weeks. You immediately pointed a finger at him. "Don't make me bring Hannah into this." Dean's eyes widened ever so slightly. The reaction was so automatic that despite everything, a laugh escaped you. Because it was honestly so ridiculous. This man was six-foot-two. A Division I hockey player. Built like he could bench-press a small car.
Yet somehow he remained absolutely terrified of your five-foot-nothing best friend. "You fight dirty." Dean grimaced, squeezing your hips on emphasis. "When it comes to you, damn right I do." A ghost of a smile lingered on his face. For the first time since you'd walked into the room, the suffocating heaviness seemed to ease ever so slightly. Not gone. Never gone. But somehow lighter. Manageable. Dean studied you quietly for a moment. His arms still wrapped around your waist, forehead still resting against yours.
As though now that you were here, he wasn't quite ready to let go. Then something flickered across his face, a familiar look. One that instantly made you suspicious. "What?" You asked, eyes narrowed. "Counter offer." Your brows shot upward, eyes rolling before you could stop them. Of course. Because even in the middle of an emotional breakdown, Dean Di Laurentis somehow still found the energy to negotiate. "Should I be worried?" He shrugged nonchalantly which made your snort.
For a brief second, the smirk returned. A little stronger this time, a little more Dean. The sight made your chest ache, because you hadn't realized how desperately you'd missed that expression until now. Dean shifted slightly, finally lifting his head from yours. "You shower with me." Your mouth opened, ready to retaliate as he held up a finger. "No funny business." You barked out a laugh, because you highly doubted he could keep his hands to himself, but nevertheless urged him to continue with a squeeze to his bicep.
Dean pointed vaguely toward the disaster surrounding the room. "Then you make G and Logan clean all this up." This time, a real laugh escaped you, because somehow, even half-dead with grief, Dean was still Dean. Still delegating all responsibility to literally anyone else. "You do realize it's your mess, right?" He shrugged again. "Not relevant." You shook your head, yet the smile still remained on your lips. This man was so unbelievable. Dean continued as if you hadn't interrupted. "Tucker cooks." You immediately nodded, at least that you could agree with.
"That's already happening." You knew Tucker absolutely had food cooking downstairs. Probably enough food to feed an entire hockey team. Comfort food. "And..." Dean's grip on your waist tightened slightly snapping you out of your thoughts. "You sleep in my bed tonight." Suddenly this wasn't about negotiations anymore. This wasn't about showers or clean sheets or Tucker's cooking. This was Dean asking you not to leave. Dean admitting he couldn't do another night alone. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, almost wary.
As if he was afraid you'd say no. As if after weeks of shutting you out, he wasn't entirely sure he deserved to ask. "And we don't leave it until at least noon tomorrow." For the first time since arriving, you saw it clearly. Dean wasn't asking for a day in bed, he was asking for permission to stop pretending he was okay. To fall apart. To rest. To let someone hold him together for a little while. Your hand lifted, cupping his cheek, the stubble scratched softly against your palm.
"You drive a pretty hard bargain, Di Laurentis." You whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment before brushing one against the corner of his mouth. "Deal." The word left you in a whisper and before you could blink, his mouth sealed over yours. It wasn't hungry. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't fueled by lust. It was something far more devastating. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, as though Dean was afraid you'd disappear if he moved too quickly.
Years of knowing him allowed you to understand every unspoken thing he couldn't bring himself to say:
I'm sorry.
I love you.
Please don't leave.
Every emotion he'd buried beneath alcohol, grief, and isolation seemed to pour into that single kiss. Your heart ached, because this was Dean. Your Dean. The boy who had spent weeks pulling away. The boy who had convinced himself he needed to carry this pain alone. The boy who looked exhausted down to his very soul. Which is why you kissed him back instantly, without hesitation.
You'd missed him too much to care about the faint taste of beer lingering on his tongue. Too much to care about the tangled sheets beneath you. Too much to care about anything except the fact that he was finally here. Present. Not hiding behind silence. Not shutting you out. Just Dean. When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far.
His forehead settled against yours once more and your fingers remained tangled in his hair. For several moments, the room was completely silent. The kind of silence that didn't feel lonely. The kind that came when words weren't necessary. Dean's eyes closed. You felt his shoulders finally sag. Not from defeat but from relief. As though he'd been carrying something impossibly heavy for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like to set it down. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.
Your thumb brushed softly across his cheek as you pressed one final chaste kiss on his lips, before pulling him back into your arms. Because there was no fixing this. Beau was gone. That reality wasn't changing. The hole he'd left behind would always exist. It would simply become easier to carry. One day. Eventually. The grief was still there. It probably always would be. But for the first time, it wasn't consuming everything else. For the first time in weeks, you could see something beyond the pain.
Trust.
Hope.
The smallest flicker of healing. Not because the hurt had disappeared. But because Dean wasn't facing it alone anymore. Outside the bedroom, life continued. You could hear faint movement downstairs. The distant sound of Tucker in the kitchen. Logan's voice carrying briefly through the hallway. The quiet comfort of family waiting below. Ready to help whenever Dean was ready, but for now, none of that mattered. For now, it was just the two of you.
Curled together on a messy bed in a room that smelled faintly of stale beer and grief. Holding each other through the wreckage. You knew this wasn't the end of the pain. Tomorrow wouldn't magically be easier. Neither would next week. Or next month. There would be setbacks. Bad days. Moments where grief hit so hard it stole the breath from his lungs. Moments where all of you would miss Beau so fiercely it felt unbearable. Healing wasn't linear. Loss didn't work that way.
But as Dean buried his face against your neck once more and finally allowed himself to rest, you realized something important. He'd opened the door. Not the bedroom door, but the one he'd locked inside himself. The one he'd spent weeks barricading shut. And that was enough. A beginning. A first step. You tightened your arms around him, pressing a gentle kiss into his hair. No matter how long it took. No matter how difficult the road ahead became.
You'd be there. Through every sleepless night. Every breakdown, no matter how ugly. Every memory. Every step forward. And every step backward. Because that's what love was. Not fixing someone. Not saving them. Simply staying. And as Dean's breathing gradually evened out against your chest, drifting into the first real sleep he'd likely had in weeks, you held him a little tighter. And most importantly, stayed.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
โSeriously, just find yourself a rebound. I volunteer as tribute."
โฉ SERIES:
โณ coming soon โฆ
โฉ ONE-SHOTS:
Hold On
โณ Beau's death leaves Dean shattered beyond recognition. Haunted by grief and slowly unraveling, the boys turn to the only person who might still be able to reach him before he loses himself completely.
Pilates Princess
โณ Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there.
did you see what mika's fiance said about her in a podcast recently?
i hate real men
YES!! And when I tell you I gasped!! If I man ever referred to me as โthat bitchโ I wouldโve left the room so fast! ๐ค She deserves SO much better!!
Every. Time. I open this app and read something so gut wrenching and beautiful I get my hopes up for men in this generation and then log back into Hinge and reality sinks back in ๐คฆ๐ปโโ๏ธ
i just read your peter parker bnd story and i LOVED it so much! i've also been OBSESSED with daredevil born again & with the announcement of the punisher series coming too... my brain started spiraling!
if you want, ONLY if you want... i would love to see frank castle x stark!reader be protective of spiderman because she remembers her father having a soft spot for him just going INSANE when she hears/sees on news that frank runs him over and them just having some serious TENSION ๐ฅ
literally love your work sm!!! โจ
SHOOT TO THRILL
Frank Castle X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 0.9K
WARNINGS: Brand New Day trailer spoilers, cursing, LOTS of tension, enemies to lovers vibe, reader is SUPER protective of Spider-Man (even though she has no clue who he is), typical Marvel level violence, slight angst, mentions of Tony ๐ฅบ
A/N: Ask and you shall receive ๐โโ๏ธ I didn't have time for a full blown fic, so I hope you enjoy this short drabble! If y'all want in the future we can come back to this later and possibly make it a series or make a longer part! Hope it lived up to your expectations, thank you so much for all the love! ๐ซถ๐ป
โฉ main masterlist
โฉ frank castle masterlist
"Frank! You have exactly five seconds to get your sorry ass out here!" Your voice ricocheted off the cracked tile and dusty shelves, loud enough to rattle the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Beside you, Spider-Man shifted. His breathing was uneven, one hand clamped tight over his side where you knew dried blood had caked up and bruises had blossomed angrily. Even through the mask, you could feel how hard he was trying to play it off.
โW-We can just leave,โ He tried again, softer this time, like if he said it gently enough you might actually listen. โItโs not, Iโve had worse, Iโm fineโโ The look you cut him was sharp enough to draw blood. He shut up instantly. "You're clearly not fine." You snapped, your jaw locked so tight it ached. He swallowed, shoulders hunching just slightly as he reluctantly nodded. โSo maybe donโt try to defend the asshole who hit you with a van.โ
โThatโsโwhen you say it like thatโโ Your laugh which was humorless and brittle cut off his rambling. โHow else would I say it? Should I thank him? Maybe send him a fruit basket?โ Spider-Man's head dipped, the mask hiding his expression but not the guilt bleeding through his posture. โHe didnโt just run you over, he aimed.โ The words came out colder than you expected, slicing through the room.
โI saw the footage,โ You continued, voice quieter now, but not necessarily calm. โHe had a clean line. No civilians. No crossfire. Just you.โ Spider-Man didnโt answer. Because he couldnโt. Because he knew you were right. You exhaled slowly through your nose, forcing your hands not to shake as your gaze zeroed in on his side almost as if you focused hard enough you could take the damage and pain away.
โHe used toโฆโ You hesitated, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. โMy dad used to watch you. On the news. Heโd pretend he wasnโt, butโโ A quiet huff of breath, almost a laugh escaped you. โHe had this look every time you showed up. Likeโฆ like maybe the world wasnโt completely screwed.โ You didnโt look at him when you said it. You couldnโt. โHe liked you, trusted you.โ As you finished, your voice rougher now no matter how hard you tried to push past your emotions.
โWhich means I like you and trust you. Which means that anyone who hurts you answers to me.โ The last word barely left your mouth before a low, deliberate clap echoed from behind you. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. There, stepping out from the shadowed hallway like heโd been there the whole time, because he probably had, was Frank. Bruised. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Shirt darkened in patches.
โFive seconds,โ He drawled, voice rough as gravel.โYouโre gettin' slow, princess.โ You straightened, instantly placing yourself between them without thinking. โDidnโt think Iโd see you anytime soon,โ He added, eyes dragging over you before flicking past your shoulder. They landed on Spider-Man, something unreadable sparking in his eyes for half a second before it vanished. โโSpecially with a lilโ bodyguard.โ
God, how you wanted to strangle him with your bare hands.
โYou ran him over.โ
โHe was in the way.โ
The casualness of it, like he was talking about a pothole instead of a person, made your vision sharpen at the edges.
โHeโs a kid.โ
โHeโs a problem.โ
โHeโs off limits.โ
Frank tilted his head slightly, studying you. Not dismissing you. Not brushing you off.
Assessing.
โAnd youโre what?โ He asked, voice dipping lower. โHis bodyguard?โ Spider-Man made a small, confused noise behind you that you ignored completely as you stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see every cut on Frankโs face. The faint twitch in his jaw. The way his breathing changed, just slightly, like your proximity alone mattered more than he wanted it to.
Your hand shot out before you could second guess it, fisting the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet your eyes. You leaned in just enough to invade his space, just enough that anyone else wouldโve called it reckless. โTry it again,โ You seethed, voice barely above a whisper. โTouch him again, Frank, I dare you.โ
The tension snapped tight, thick enough to choke on. Not just anger. Not just violence, but something sharper. The kind of tension that didnโt belong in a fight but showed up anyway. Frankโs gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up so fast you thought you'd imagined it. โYouโd like that, wouldnโt you?โ He rasped, voice rougher now, something almost amused threading through it.
Your breath hitched, just enough to betray you. The infuriating smirk on his face was enough for you to let go of his shirt, pushing him back as hard as you could. โYouโre fucking unbelievable.โ You scoffed, turning your back on him before he could see the flicker of something else crossing your face. โCโmon,โ You muttered, sliding an arm around Spider-Man to steady him. โWeโre done here.โ
โAlways a pleasure, Stark,โ Frank called after you, the rough edge of his voice softened by something you refused to think too hard about. โNext time, give me a heads up. Iโll have some champagne and caviar out waitinโ for you.โ You didnโt dare give him the satisfaction of looking back. โKiss my ass, asshole!โ You shouted over your shoulder, lifting your middle finger without slowing down.
โI could do a hellโva lot more than that, sweetheart.โ Behind you, Frankโs laugh was low and infuriatingly smug. You could practically see the stupid grin on his face, feeling the weight of his gaze dragging over your back, lingering just a second too long where your jeans hugged the curve of your hips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didnโt care if you knew it too. Slow. Intentional. Entirely unapologetic.
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