✨ may ✨

𝐮𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐟𝐮𝐥, 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

[shortnspidey]

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈'𝐦 𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫 💋

SHE/HER ✧ TWENTY-TWO ✧ BUSY PSYCH STUDENT

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[creativepromptsforwriting]

I don't need AI to write. I can create fake scenarios in my head perfectly fine myself.

[pucksandpower]

controlled burn (part one)

Dean Di Laurentis x Rozanov!Reader

Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care

Warning: 18+ content

Read part two here

The 2000s hits blasting from the speakers are so loud they rattle the floorboards, but Dean is undeniably bored.

He leans against the doorframe of the living room, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his fingers. The party is packed, a sweaty sea of grinding bodies, spilled beer, and bad decisions, but it’s the exact same crowd as last weekend. And the weekend before that. Dean is a guy who thrives on variety, and lately, the scenery is getting repetitive. Money is no object, and usually, neither are women. He rarely spends a night alone. But tonight? Nothing is catching his eye.

“You look miserable,” Garrett remarks, bumping Dean’s shoulder as he passes by with a fresh keg of beer.

“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”

Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”

“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”

“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”

Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.

A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.

“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.

You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.

“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”

Dean is instantly fascinated.

“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.

You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”

You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.

“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”

“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.

You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.

“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”

Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”

“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.

Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.

Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.

Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.

“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”

You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.

“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”

A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”

You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”

Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.

“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”

You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”

“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”

“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”

Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”

“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”

“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”

“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.

Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”

“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.

You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”

Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”

“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”

“I did not,” you agree.

Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”

“No.”

Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”

“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.

“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”

You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”

“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.

“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.

Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”

“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”

Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”

You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.

“You are very confident,” you note.

“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”

“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”

Dean’s grin widens. “An off-campus freshman. Interesting. Who’s funding that? Rich daddy?”

A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.

“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”

Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”

“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.

You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

“Remove your hand,” you say softly.

Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.

“Do not touch me again,” you say.

“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.

“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”

You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.

“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”

“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.

“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.

With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.

Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”

***

Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”

“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.

“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”

“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.

“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.

“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”

“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.

“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.

Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.

Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.

But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.

He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.

***

The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.

You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.

Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”

“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”

“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”

And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.

You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.

“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”

“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.

“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”

Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”

“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.

“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”

You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! Moscow!”

You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.

“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”

Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.

You pause, looking up at him slowly.

Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.

“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”

Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”

“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”

Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.

“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”

You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”

“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”

Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”

“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”

Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”

“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”

“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”

Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.

“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.

“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”

“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”

“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”

“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.

Silence falls between you.

Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.

He is completely silent.

For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.

Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.

He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.

And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.

He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.

“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.

“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”

“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”

“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”

You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.

“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.

“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.

“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”

“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”

You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.

“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”

“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.

The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.

“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”

You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”

You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.

“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.

And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.

“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“But I think I might.”

***

Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.

He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.

Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.

“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.

“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.

“Yeah?”

“I need to run drills.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”

Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”

Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.

“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.

Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.

You are one of the people pretending to study.

You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.

It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.

Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.

Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.

He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.

“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.

“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”

“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”

“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”

You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.

And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.

His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.

He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.

“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”

Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.

“It’s seventy-two,” Garrett replies, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Scorching,” Dean insists. “Absolutely boiling.”

You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.

He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.

The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.

You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”

“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.

Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.

“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.

A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.

“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.

Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.

“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”

“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”

Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”

“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”

“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”

“I was not watching you.”

“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”

You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.

“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”

“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.

“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”

“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.

Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.

You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.

“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.

Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.

Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.

“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.

Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.

His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.

“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”

You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.

“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.

Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”

You ignore him.

“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”

“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”

“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”

“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”

“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”

“You are remarkably self-aware today.”

“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.

“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.

“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”

“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”

“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”

“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”

You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.

You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.

Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.

“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.

“It was a phone call.”

“In Russian.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”

“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”

“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”

“Do it again,” he demands softly.

You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.

“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”

You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.

Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.

The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.

You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.

“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.

Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”

“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”

“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”

“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.

He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.

“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.

A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.

“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.

“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.

“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”

Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”

“It has not even begun,” you correct him.

Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.

“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.

It isn’t a question. It is a demand.

“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I have plans.”

“Saturday.”

“I study on Saturdays.”

“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”

You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.

Dean just stands there, waiting.

“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You do not know where I live.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”

“Do not call me that,” you call after him.

“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.

You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.

“It’s Y/N.”

Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.

“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”

You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.

Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.

But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.

You are giving him hell.

And you are enjoying every single second of it.

***

The date is, annoyingly, perfect.

You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.

Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.

He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.

“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.

“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.

“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”

“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”

Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.

“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”

“Barely.”

“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.

“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”

The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.

“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.

“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”

“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”

The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.

The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.

Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.

Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”

“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.

“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”

“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”

Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.

He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.

You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.

The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.

“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.

A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.

He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.

The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.

“My turn,” you say smoothly.

Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.

Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”

Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.

You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.

Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.

“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.

“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”

“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.

Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”

You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.

Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”

“I know,” you say confidently.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.

You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.

Dean’s patience completely snaps.

“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.

Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.

“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”

“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.

“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.

You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.

Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.

He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.

When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.

He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.

Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”

He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.

“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.

“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”

“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.

“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”

“Dean-”

“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.

“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.

“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.

“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”

“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.

“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”

“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”

The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.

Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.

Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.

You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.

“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.

Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”

You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.

“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.

Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.

“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.

Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.

It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.

The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”

“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”

“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”

“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”

Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”

“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”

Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.

On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.

“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”

“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”

The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.

Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.

He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.

It’s you.

You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.

“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”

“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.

The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.

“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”

The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.

“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”

The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.

In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.

Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.

Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.

Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.

“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”

“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.

“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”

“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”

“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”

“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”

“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”

“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”

“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”

Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.

He is so incredibly fucked.

***

Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.

The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.

“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”

“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”

“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”

You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.

“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”

“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”

Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.

“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”

“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.

“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”

You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.

“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”

“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”

“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”

“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”

“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”

“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.

“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”

You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.

You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.

Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”

“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”

Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.

“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”

Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.

You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.

Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.

“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.

“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”

Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.

And then, slowly, the tension breaks.

Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.

“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.

“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.

Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”

“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”

“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.

“Za zdarovye.”

You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.

But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.

You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.

It’s a text from Dean.

Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.

Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.

Dean: Holy shit.

Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.

Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?

Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.

You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.

You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.

You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.

You: I am having dinner with him now.

You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.

You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.

Across town, Dean receives the text.

He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.

“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”

Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.

“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”

“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.

Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.

But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.

Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.

He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.

“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.

The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”

Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”

Read part two here

[shortnspidey]

This was an absolute masterpiece 🙂‍↕️

[tomhollandnet]

mtvuk: From meeting on Spider-Man: Homecoming, to engaged for Spider-Man: Brand New Day 🥹💞 Tomdaya have our hearts

[shortnspidey]

Literally crying… I love them both so much and wish them nothing but happiness 🥹🫶🏻

[shortnspidey]

I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA!

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 2K

SUMMARY: Dean is completely wrecked after his first ever Pilates class which means a cold drink sounds heavenly. Or the one time Dean’s girlfriend forces him to try matcha after his first Pilates class.

WARNINGS: Nothing but tooth-rotting fluff!! 🍵✨

A/N: Where are all my fellow matcha lovers?! 🙋🏻‍♀️ SO many of you were asking for a part two to Pilates Princess, so here it is! It's short, sweet, and oh so wholesome! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ dean di laurentis masterlist

“No. Absolutely not. This is where I draw the line.” Dean was already shaking his head, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk as you tugged him toward Café Vittoria, the little café you, Hannah, and Grace had accidentally stumbled across a few months ago. "Dean, baby, we just sweat like pigs for the last hour and a half. I deserve a reward for that." You flashed him an exaggerated pout over your shoulder, lower lip jutting out just enough to make his resolve crack.

Damn you.

The worst part? You knew exactly what you were doing. Dean released a dramatic sigh, allowing himself to be pulled along despite his protests. Not that he was putting up much of a fight, he'd willingly follow you almost anywhere. "Babydoll, that doesn't mean we have to drink toxic waste." Nevertheless, when you reached the shop, he groaned under his breath and stepped ahead of you, grabbing the door handle before you could. You beamed up at him, making his chest warmed despite himself.

Then he stepped inside, and immediately regretted every life choice that had brought him to this moment. Pink. Pink was the only thing that came to mind. Pink walls. Pink chairs. Pink flowers. Pink neon signs glowing against the far wall. Even the display cases looked aggressively pink. Dean stopped dead in the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the café in horror. He was surrounded by pink. Fuck the Pilates class. Dean had never felt more out of place than he did right now.

His hockey teammates would have a field day with this. God, if Garrett, Tucker, and Logan saw him now, he'd never hear the end of it. Garrett would take pictures. Logan would make those annoying kissy faces. Tucker would somehow find a way to bring it up during every team dinner for the next six months. "Dean?" Your amused voice broke through his internal panic. He looked down to find you trying and failing to hide a smile.

"Try to look less traumatized."

"Babydoll, I am traumatized."

"You're being dramatic."

Dean gestured wildly at the explosion of pink surrounding them. "This place looks like Barbie threw up in here." A snort escaped you before you could stop it. "Hi!" You smiled, approaching the barista before Dean could make a run for it, not even needing to glance at the menu. "Could I please order two iced vanilla matcha lattes with sea salt cold foam?" The barista typed the order into the register while Dean stood there looking personally victimized by every word that had just left your mouth.

Before you could even reach for your wallet, a warm hand settled against your waist. Dean gently nudged you aside, stepping between you and the card reader. A second later, his card tapped against the machine. You grinned. "Thanks, baby." Rising onto your tiptoes, you looped your arms around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his lips. Dean immediately kissed you back, eagerly. Very eagerly.

One hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer as though he'd forgotten you were standing in a crowded coffee shop at eight in the morning. A surprised laugh escaped you against his mouth. Someone near the pickup counter cleared their throat. Another customer giggled. Only neither of you paid attention. Dean definitely didn't. The man had always been physically affectionate, but ever since you'd started dating, he'd somehow become worse.

The kiss lingered a second longer than necessary. Then another. Then another. When you finally pulled away, Dean chased after you slightly before seeming to remember where he was. A smug smile tugged at his mouth. "You know," He drawled, thumb brushing along your hip. "If that's my reward for buying overpriced grass-flavored milk, maybe this place isn't so bad." You gasped, purposely hitting his sore bicep.

"It does not taste like grass."

"Your taste buds are broken."

"My taste buds are normal. Yours have been corrupted by social media."

"Oh, please. You're just mad because you survived one Pilates class and discovered muscles you didn't know existed."

Dean groaned dramatically at the memory of what he had just endured. Every muscle in his body protested the memory. His abs hurt. His thighs hurt. Hell, his ribs somehow hurt. Hockey practices were brutal. Weight training was brutal. But Pilates? Pilates was a different kind of evil. "I don't want to talk about it." Your laughter filled the café, and Dean simply watched the way your eyes crinkled at the corners, the way your smile stretched across your face, and felt his annoyance dissolve almost instantly.

In less than ten minutes, the barista was setting your drinks on the pick-up counter. The second your name was called, Dean pushed himself out of his chair. "I'll get them." You didn't bother arguing. Mostly because watching Dean walk away in a pair of gym shorts was one of your favorite hobbies. Pilates might have nearly killed him, but the black fitted shirt stretched deliciously across his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the man somehow looking unfairly attractive even while limping slightly from muscle fatigue.

Dean returned moments later carrying both drinks, his expression growing more suspicious with every step. The matcha glowed an alarming shade of green, ice cubes floated near the top while creamy swirls of vanilla and sea salt cold foam marbled through the drink. The cup itself sat inside a pastel pink sleeve, complete with a matching pink straw that looked almost comically cheerful against the vibrant green liquid. Balanced on top of the napkins was a bright pink one printed with the words:

I LOVE YOU SO MATCHA!

Dean stared at it, eye twitching in annoyance.

"It's mocking me."

"It is not."

"The napkin literally has a matcha pun on it."

"Which is adorable."

Dean dropped into the chair across from you and held his drink at arm's length, like it was explosive. His nose wrinkled as he inspected the bright green concoction. "You cannot tell me this isn't radioactive grass-flavored milk." The deadpan delivery nearly broke you. "Shut up and mix it." Dean narrowed his eyes. "You sound exactly like someone trying to poison me." Good, god was this man incredibly stubborn.

"First, you lured me to do Pilates, then, you forced me into a pink café, and now you're demanding I consume suspicious green liquid." Rolling your eyes, you reached across the table and nudged his knee with yours. "Mix the drink." With all the enthusiasm of a man preparing for execution, Dean jammed the straw into the cup. The sea salt cold foam slowly disappeared into the matcha, ribbons of pale cream swirling through green until the drink turned a softer shade of jade.

"Don't be a baby, just try it, Dean." You challenged watching as Dean stared at the cup, almost as if contemplating everything that had led up to this moment. Finally, he lifted it toward his mouth and took a cautious sip. You leaned forward expectantly. His brows lifted, then furrowed. The betrayal on his face was immediate. "Admit it, you like it." He did. The problem was that Dean knew you knew that he did. Which meant he would rather throw himself into oncoming traffic than admit you had been right.

A dramatic grimace crossed his face as he took another sip, as though each swallow physically pained him. "Fine, if you hate it so much then throw it away and order a coffee." You took a sip of your own drink, humming happily as the sweet vanilla and creamy sea salt foam mixed with the earthy matcha. The cold drink was heaven after ninety minutes of being folded into positions no human body should ever be forced into. "Babydoll, this was like eight dollars." You smirked around your straw, eyes twinkling in recognition.

Dean immediately caught the look, his own narrowing suspiciously. The pink cup never left his hand, in fact, he'd already taken three more sips. Your gaze dropped pointedly to the cup, then back to him. A flush crept into his cheeks, clearly being caught red handed. "Don't." A laugh bubbled out of you despite your best efforts to hold it back. "You've drank half of it already." He shook his head, only to look down and see that the liquid level had indeed dropped significantly. Dean groaned and slumped back in his chair.

"This is a setup."

"It really isn't."

"You manipulated me."

"All I did was order you a drink."

"You weaponized my love for you."

Unfortunately for him, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth gave him away completely.

"You like it!"

"I tolerate it."

"You love it."

"Okay, babydoll, let's not get carried away."

Once again, his words betrayed him, seeing as the cup was nearly empty now. Dean seemed to realize this at the exact moment you did. A look of genuine horror crossed his face. "You drank the entire thing!" Dean looked personally offended by the evidence. "This is ridiculous. I just was conducting research." You nearly choked on your drink at his absurd statement. "Needed to confirm it was terrible." He shrugged, as you leaned closer from across the table, smirk widening. "And?"

Dean glanced at the empty cup, jaw ticking. You could practically see him debating whether preserving his pride was worth lying directly to your face. He sighed dramatically, making your eyes light up knowing exactly what he was about to say. "It was... okay." Dean immediately regretted those words seeing as you were seconds away from launching yourself across the table. "Okay is basically amazing coming from you." Dean rolled his eyes but wrapped an arm around your waist when you slid onto his side of the booth anyway.

The movement was instinctive, automatic, like breathing. You settled against him, resting your head on his shoulder while he draped an arm across your lap. Outside, the morning sun filtered through the café windows, casting warm golden light across the pink walls and crowded tables. Around you, conversations buzzed, espresso machines hissed, and pop music drifted softly through the speakers. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you simply sat there together.

Dean pressed a kiss against your temple before breaking the comfortable silence. "You know," He murmured, fingers tracing lazy circles against your thigh. "If anyone from the team finds out about this, I'm denying everything." A laugh escaped you, taking another hefty sip of what was left of your drink before squeezing his forearm. "The Pilates class or the matcha?" Dean let out a playful scoff before pressing another loving kiss to your forehead, trying to hide his smile.

"Both, babydoll, obviously."

"You literally drank the whole thing."

"Fake news."

"The evidence is right there."

"The evidence is circumstantial."

Dean's green eyes sparkled with amusement as you rolled your eyes. Despite the complaining, despite the dramatics, espite the ten-minute hate campaign against matcha. He looked happier than he had all morning, and judging by the way his arm tightened around your waist when you snuggled closer, he knew you knew it too. "So does that mean you'll come next weekend too?" You asked sweetly, making Dean immediately grow suspicious. "What's next weekend?"

You smiled innocently, lashes fluttering innocently. "A hot yoga class Hannah mentioned." The groan that left him was loud enough for the entire café to hear which in turn made you laugh so hard tears gathered in your eyes. Dean buried his face in your shoulder, muttering something along the lines of "kill me now". Yet, despite all his complaints, you were already willing to bet he'd be right beside you when next weekend rolled around, probably carrying another eight-dollar matcha, too.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

[hwabite]

I actually need them to play twins in a movie

[shortnspidey]

No bc you cannot convince me that they aren’t related!! 🤭

[shortnspidey]

PILATES PRINCESS

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 4K

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 “accidentally” bailed on their Pilates class! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3

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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, you’d 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.

“Babydoll?” 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.”He 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. “If you’re 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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[harryssattelitestomper]

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 can’t quite analyse.

⤷ CHAPTERS — next update:

one. ┊two.┊three. ┊four.┊

[shortnspidey]

As a psych major I loved every bit of this series!! So so good! 💕

[shortnspidey]

HOLD ON

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 4.6K

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 @dividers-are-us 😭

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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.” 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!

[shortnspidey]

DEAN DI LAURENTIS

“Seriously, just find yourself a rebound. I volunteer as tribute."

➩ SERIES:

↳ coming soon …

➩ ONE-SHOTS:

Hold On

↳ 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

↳ 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.

I Love You So Matcha!

↳ Dean is completely wrecked after his first ever Pilates class which means a cold drink sounds heavenly. Or the one time Dean’s girlfriend forces him to try matcha after his first Pilates class.

[shortnspidey]

dean dilaurentis = johnny storm

I’ve been in such a writing slump, but rest assured Mr. Di Laurentis will have some stories written about him for sure! 🤭

[shortnspidey]

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 “that bitch” I would’ve left the room so fast! 😤 She deserves SO much better!!

[shortnspidey]

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 🤦🏻‍♀️

[shortnspidey]

You CANNOT convince me that Ilya Rozanov and Dean Di Laurentis wouldn’t be the best of friends 🤭

[itsprime-time]

I can't get enough

What a treat

[shortnspidey]

My hot take…

The off campus series as a standalone was AMAZING! But horrible as a book to show adaptation 😩

[templeofvesta]

God, please let this kind of love find me. 🥹🙏🏾

[shortnspidey]