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[pucksandpower]

yours, still

Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!Reader

Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found

Warnings: 18+ content

The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.

Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way. 

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”

Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”

“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”

“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.

“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.

And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?

“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”

“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”

“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully. 

“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way. 

“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building. 

Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with. 

That’s when he sees you.

Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale. 

Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners. 

But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face. 

He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.

You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school. 

That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London. 

The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?

But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.

“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”

“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes. 

“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment. 

Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. 

Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.

It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air. 

Dean drops his coffee. 

The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.

“Y/N?” Dean breathes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen. 

“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.

Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.

“Y/N!” 

You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus. 

Then, your eyes land on him. 

Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back. 

You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.

“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”

Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.

For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation. 

The entire courtyard seems to stop. 

“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”

“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”

“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”

Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief. 

When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”

You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”

Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor. 

“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”

“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”

“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”

“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up. 

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer. 

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”

Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”

Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”

“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”

“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”

“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”

Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed. 

Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing. 

“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”

You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you. 

“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”

The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid. 

“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”

“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”

You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest. 

“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours. 

“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”

Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment. 

“Where are you living?” Dean asks.

“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”

Dean makes a split-second decision. 

“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively. 

You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”

“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”

“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”

Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”

“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue. 

Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”

You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”

“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”

You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch. 

“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis. 

He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains. 

Dean shoots him a dark look. 

“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”

Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”

As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis. 

You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours. 

Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

***

The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands. 

“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”

You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”

“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”

“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”

“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

“I took pity on you,” you reply primly. 

Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”

“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans. 

“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”

You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”

“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”

You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”

“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”

Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”

“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”

His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected. 

You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor. 

When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor. 

Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase. 

“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags. 

“Is this everything?” Dean asks. 

You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”

“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. 

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it. 

Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house. 

As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact. 

Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.

The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters. 

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”

“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”

“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”

“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly. 

You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more. 

“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home. 

Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater. 

“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside. 

“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”

“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs. 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”

He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his. 

At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door. 

“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”

You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes. 

You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 

“Look at me,” he commands gently. 

You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes. 

“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”

His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”

He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”

For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls. 

When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself. 

You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision. 

“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”

He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn. 

“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively. 

Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room. 

“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”

“I love pepperoni,” you say softly. 

“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house. 

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart. 

You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes. 

But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound. 

For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid. 

By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM. 

You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style. 

When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen. 

You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate. 

Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled. 

Then he spots you. 

The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife. 

The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you. 

“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust. 

“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”

“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”

“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”

Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”

You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”

Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”

You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”

“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you. 

“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”

The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. 

You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows. 

“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”

“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”

Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”

“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”

“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza. 

“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”

“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”

The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks. 

As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study. 

Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean. 

You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements. 

“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”

“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. 

“Y/N. Come here.”

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”

You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here. 

“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”

Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”

Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”

“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”

You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”

“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely. 

“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”

You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”

“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”

You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away. 

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender. 

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. 

The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames. 

Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours. 

BANG.

The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass. 

You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily. 

Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder. 

“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained. 

Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”

Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside. 

Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”

He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”

As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened. 

You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus. 

Welcome to Briar University.

***

It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon. 

There is simply no other logical explanation. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”

Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”

“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”

“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.

“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists. 

Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”

They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room. 

You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean. 

And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious. 

“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”

“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”

“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”

In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus. 

“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”

“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”

As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle. 

You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking. 

Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you. 

You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”

“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder. 

“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”

Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks. 

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”

The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you. 

When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory. 

“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out. 

You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”

You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust. 

But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored. 

“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. 

“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”

The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room. 

“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was. 

“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”

You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.

Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party. 

The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are. 

You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”

“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”

“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you. 

“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”

The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering. 

Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean. 

“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”

She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them. 

You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this. 

But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid. 

“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth. 

“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”

“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”

He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it. 

“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”

Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd. 

You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”

“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” 

The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers. 

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand. 

“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”

You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”

Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you. 

Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest. 

“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious. 

Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”

As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London. 

You feel entirely safe.

The next evening is the first official home game of the season. 

The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air. 

You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate. 

The door swings open, and Dean steps out. 

He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you. 

He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”

Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly. 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. 

You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”

“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”

“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”

“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”

The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. 

But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.

You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears. 

Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”

He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly. 

Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent. 

“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”

When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”

The puck drops, and the game begins. 

It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards. 

But Dean is a revelation. 

He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless. 

Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway. 

Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove. 

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts. 

You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air. 

On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench. 

But he doesn’t stop at the bench. 

He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you. 

He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you. 

The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.

Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors. 

You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait. 

The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud. 

When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder. 

He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else. 

“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly. 

The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles. 

“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker. 

“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you. 

The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks. 

Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey. 

“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”

You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship. 

“Dean,” you whisper. 

You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt. 

Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away. 

You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway. 

You press your lips to his. 

It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud. 

It lasts only three seconds. 

When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction. 

When you finally open them, you gasp. 

Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated. 

He looks like he has died and gone to heaven. 

His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back. 

“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips. 

He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. 

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning. 

“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade. 

You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender. 

“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”

You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely. 

You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.

***

The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind. 

It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.

It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind. 

You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.

A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.

“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”

“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”

A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands. 

“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”

“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”

At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”

You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder. 

You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy. 

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”

“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward. 

Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest. 

“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm. 

Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms. 

You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle. 

“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”

The transformation is instantaneous. 

The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”

Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy. 

The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers. 

“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”

“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”

Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date. 

You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying. 

The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering. 

In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to. 

But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness. 

You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed. 

He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light. 

“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core. 

You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses. 

“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently. 

You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time. 

He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee. 

You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …” 

He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly. 

“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders. 

You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now. 

Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders. 

The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze. 

Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach. 

Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower. 

He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind. 

“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”

He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you. 

He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat. 

He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. 

“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty. 

“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”

That is all it takes. 

Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you. 

You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate. 

Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”

And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck. 

He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot. 

You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”

The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout. 

He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze. 

Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth. 

“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”

“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep. 

The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos. 

Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome. 

You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical. 

You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter. 

As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you. 

“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out. 

Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide. 

Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away. 

But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips. 

Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment. 

But Dean knows the truth. 

He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark. 

The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”

Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”

You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further. 

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips. 

“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”

You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

***

The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow. 

You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”

“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”

“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”

“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”

Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad. 

“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion. 

“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”

Dean’s words cut off abruptly. 

You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat. 

Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism. 

“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock. 

Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile. 

“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement. 

You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”

“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”

You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector. 

“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious. 

Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding. 

“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly. 

You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”

Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat. 

“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”

Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”

“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”

“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”

A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob. 

Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable. 

“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”

“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University. 

“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”

The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic. 

Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely. 

The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there. 

Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar. 

Leave him.

Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest. 

He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours? 

It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover. 

Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science. 

You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap. 

Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do. 

You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes. 

Then, you turn your head to look at Dean. 

He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted. 

A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest. 

You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl. 

And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning. 

You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father. 

“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady. 

Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression. 

Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”

“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”

“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline. 

You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away. 

You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”

Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him. 

A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face. 

“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”

It isn’t a request. 

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain. 

Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back. 

As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension. 

He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart. 

Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you. 

“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”

“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”

“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”

Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth. 

“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”

Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”

It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket. 

“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly. 

“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”

You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you. 

But your father doesn’t look angry. 

Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect. 

“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”

Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”

“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”

Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest. 

“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”

Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”

You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”

“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”

Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”

Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”

“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”

Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”

“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”

The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening. 

Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words. 

Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father. 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”

“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”

Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace. 

He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today. 

He finally realized he was worthy of her.

***

Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions. 

But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore. 

When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness. 

Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook. 

Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill. 

The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth. 

But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past. 

“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”

You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning. 

“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”

“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. 

“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”

You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way. 

“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open. 

The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back. 

Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds. 

“Y/N? Is that you?”

The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub. 

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins. 

You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward. 

Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being. 

“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”

Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”

His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”

“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”

A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air. 

The grip is visibly bone-crushing. 

Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right. 

Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage. 

“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step. 

Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline. 

“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”

Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”

“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”

Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. 

Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”

Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard. 

“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”

Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face. 

You stare at Dean, absolutely floored. 

Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle. 

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover. 

He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”

“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”

Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours. 

It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing. 

When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet. 

Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory. 

“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans. 

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust. 

The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur. 

You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core. 

The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters. 

Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door. 

You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood. 

“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”

“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire. 

You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy. 

“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”

“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to. 

You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his. 

Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed. 

You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes. 

Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey. 

“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”

Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt. 

In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head. 

Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums. 

He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth. 

You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind. 

“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”

You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat. 

Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover. 

He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal. 

He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw. 

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly. 

You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze. 

“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow. 

He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust. 

You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you. 

Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room. 

“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”

Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. 

You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love. 

“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”

“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”

Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours. 

The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer. 

For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people. 

Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own. 

You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow. 

Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth. 

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist. 

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”

“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”

“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”

Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”

Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich. 

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face. 

“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room. 

“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer. 

As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home. 

You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.

[sleep-i-ness]

absolutely incredible!

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

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

Warnings: 18+ content

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

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

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Tucker asks.

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

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

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

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

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

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

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

Dean stops walking completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

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

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

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[sleep-i-ness]

dean as the foremost defender of the female orgasm is my favourite characterisation this was hilarious and adorable all in one

[alierecss]

right where you left me | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.

word count: 11.5k

warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.

Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.

You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

He pulled you a little closer. You let him.

[sleep-i-ness]

absolute gorgeous I loved this

[downbadwellread]

𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 - requested

✧ ───────── ✦ ───────── ✧

pairing · Beau Maxwell × Reader

fandom · Off Campus

warnings · explicit 18+ · mutual pining · costume party · the host picks you · slow burn finally breaking · first time together · unhurried in the best way

word count · ~1.8k

format · one shot - request for @chrismattnick & @venusromanticist

✧ ───────── ✦ ───────── ✧

The Maxwell-Di Laurentis party has a theme every year, and every year it somehow gets progressively worse. This year it is twofers. Come as your second favourite duo, the invitation said, ‘after us, obviously’, in Dean’s handwriting, so the house on the Cape is packed with Bonnies who have lost their Clydes and a Thing One with no Thing Two and at least three separate sets of salt and pepper shakers. Somewhere in the middle of all of it are Dean and Beau as Maverick and Goose, because they are their own first favourite duo and they intend for the whole party to know it.

My counterpart bailed on me earlier with the flu, which leaves me at the edges of the party as one unmatched half of a costume nobody can place, watching Beau get pulled in ten directions at once. It is his party, half of it anyway, and everyone in this house wants thirty seconds with him. He gives all of them his time, the aviators shoved up into his hair, the flight suit stripped to the waist with the sleeves knotted there so his chest is bare to the whole room, dog tags against his skin, a hand on every shoulder he passes.

That’s the thing about Beau. He is good at everything, easily, warm with the whole world, and it has never once looked like an effort for him. I have spent an embarrassing amount of this semester trying not to be one more person who is under his spell, unsuccessfully, which becomes more and more obvious each time I am around him.

Beau Maxwell is a trap. You cannot let yourself want the guy that everyone wants, the one who is kind to all, because you will never be able to tell if you get something the rest of them don’t.

So I am trying to keep my distance from across the room when he looks up, finds me over the top of somebody’s head, and smiles like he’s been waiting for me.

He makes his way over to me, occasionally stopping to say hey, lets Dean shout something at him, takes a beer out of a guy’s hand and gives it straight back, and the entire time his eyes keep coming back to me, like his route was always going to end at me.

“You came,” he says when he reaches me. He looks even hotter up close, and the dog tags are a nice touch.

“It’s your party. Seemed rude not to.”

“It’s half my party. My other half ditched me for a girl in a JLo costume ten minutes ago.” He tips his head toward the noise, then looks at my half of what was meant to be a duo costume, and his mouth tilts. “You’re down a partner.”

“Roommate got the flu.”

“Tragic.” He does not sound like he finds it tragic in the slightest. “Lucky for you, I’ve got an opening.”

“You’ve already got a Maverick.”

“Dean’s a free agent the second a girl walks past.” Beau’s hand finds my waist, light and sure, no question in it at all. “Come upstairs.”

It isn’t a line or a move. It is the certainty of someone who has made a decision, and is used to getting his way.

“It’s your party,” I say.

“Trust me, I’m aware.” His thumb moves once against my side. “Come upstairs, sweetheart.”

He takes my hand and leads me up through the middle of all of it, nodding at the people who call his name and stopping for not a single one of them, and the gap between how badly that room wants him and how little of it he is giving anyone makes my head spin.

He takes me up to a room on the second floor, some half-dark guest room with a big window and a bed that I’m sure is not his, and shuts the door on the whole roaring party. It drops away muffled by the door. He turns and looks at me, he seems cool, calm and collected.

I am the opposite. I go for him fast, up on my toes, he lets me kiss him, his hand coming up to cradle my jaw, but he slows it almost at once, gentles it, kisses me back like we have the entire night and the house below us is not full of people who will come looking for him.

“Slow down,” he says against my mouth, smiling. “Why are you rushing?”

“You have a hundred people downstairs.”

“They’ll live.” He walks me backward until I feel the bed against the back of my legs. “I’ve wanted to do this a while. I’m not going to do it fast.”

He kisses me again, slower, and this time I let him set the pace, it is maddening how unhurried he is. He gets the rest of the way out of his costume, and drops it on the floor. He takes my costume off me piece by piece with no urgency at all, his hands are all over me, every time I try to speed it up he pulls back just enough to make me stop.

“Beau.”

“Easy.” He says it as he nips at my collarbone. “No rush. We’ve got all night.”

He lays me flat on my back and kisses his way down, until he settles his shoulders between my thighs and gets his mouth on me properly. He drags his tongue through me, slow and deep, then seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, holding me down with a forearm across my hips when I try to grind up into it. He is in no more of a hurry here than anywhere else tonight, and he does not let up, licking and sucking until I cannot keep quiet, until I have a hand fisted in his hair and I am begging for him.

“There she is,” he says, lifting his head to look at me, his chin shiny and his eyes warm and entirely unbothered, like he could happily do this all night. He pushes two fingers into me and curls them up against the spot that arches my back off the bed, his thumb finding my clit, his eyes never leaving mine. “Good. Take your time, pretty girl. I’m not going anywhere.”

I come on his fingers with his mouth back on my clit, clenching around them while he works me through it, his other hand flat and heavy on my stomach pinning me down, and he licks me as I come down, not stopping until I am twitching and pushing his head away, too sensitive.

Finally, he kisses his way back up me, and reaches for his jeans. I hear the foil, feel him roll the condom on, his mouth kissing my neck the whole time. When he settles over me he keeps his weight on one forearm and rubs himself against my clit before slowly pushing his cock in, inch by inch until I feel impossibly full, it takes my breath away.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost a laugh. “Knew it’d be like this.”

“You did not.”

“Sweetheart.” He draws back and pushes in again, slow and deep. “I’ve thought about this more than I’m ever going to admit.”

He sets a pace that is going to ruin me, slow but deep, pulling nearly all the way out and thrusting back in to the hilt so I feel every inch of him, and he keeps it there no matter how I move under him, no matter that I am pulling at his shoulders trying to get him to go faster. He just smiles down at me and keeps at it, his way.

“Beau, please.”

“I’m sorry.” He kisses me. “I’m enjoying myself, I like teasing you.”

Somewhere below us a voice carries up the stairs, calling his name. Dean, probably, hunting for his Goose. Beau does not even flinch. His hips keep their unhurried rhythm and his mouth finds my jaw and he ignores his entire party like it is the easiest thing he has ever done.

“They want you,” I manage.

“I’m busy.” He pushes in again and grinds against me, holding there, so deep I feel him everywhere. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

That undoes me, more than his hands or his mouth. That he could be anywhere in that house tonight, with anyone, and he chose me, like he knew a long time ago how tonight would end and has just been waiting for me to catch up.

“Pay attention to me,” he says, feeling me start to come apart underneath him again, his forehead dropping to mine. And now, finally, his pace breaks, the calm of him cracking right down the middle, his hips snapping faster, deeper, his thumb working my clit between us. “Yeah. There you go, sweetheart. Come for me.”

I come for the second time, going tight around him, and he loses his rhythm and follows me over, fucking me through it in short hard thrusts before he buries himself deep and spills, shuddering, his face in my neck, and for a few seconds the guy who is always smooth has lost his composure. Shaking on top of me. I did that to him.

After, he does not move off me. He stays exactly where he is, breathing into my neck, his weight warm and heavy on me, and when he finally lifts his head he is grinning, looking so pleased with himself and with me.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says.

“Hi.”

“That was a while coming.” He kisses me, slow, like he has all the time in the world to start over. “Months. You were killing me, you know that.”

“You’re a flirt with everyone. I couldn’t tell if I was just another one.”

“Sweetheart.” He pulls back and looks at me, this is the first time I’ve ever seen Beau look so serious. “I am not like this with everyone.”

Below us the party goes on without its host, and Beau Maxwell, who is known to be the life of the party, stays right where he is and lets it go on without him.

✧ ───────── ✦ ───────── ✧

[sleep-i-ness]

yayayayayay I love this

[great33st]

‵、¸ 𝙡𝒐𝙫𝒆, 𝙙𝒆𝙖𝒏 ⊹ dean di laurentis

⌗ pairing — dean di laurentis x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — At Briar University, she is the campus diva and the keeper of secret alibis for her friend Allie and the untamable Dean Di Laurentis—the guy she secretly loves.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed.

⌗ LOVE, DEAN PT. II | ⌗ MAIN MASTERLIST

The silence at Briar University was always an illusion. If you paid close enough attention, behind the constant hum of the campus, you could hear the crunch of ice under blades, the dull thud of a hockey puck hitting the boards, and the booming laughter echoing from the off-campus house. To most people, that house was the epicenter of the wildest, most uncontrolled parties of the semester. To me, it was simply my living room.

—If you don’t drink this right now, I swear I’ll tell Coach Jensen you’ve been skating on a swollen ankle all week,—I threatened, crossing my arms as I leaned against the kitchen counter.

Garrett Graham let out a dramatic groan, letting his head fall back against the living room sofa. He had an ice pack pressed to his left shoulder, his brow furrowed from the pain of their last practice.

—You’re a dictator,—he muttered, though he still reached out to take the glass filled with the protein-and-painkiller smoothie I had made for him. —A beautiful dictator, but ruthless.—

—I’m the only reason you still have a functioning shoulder, Graham,—I reminded him, walking over to sit on the arm of the couch. —So less complaining and more drinking. Tucker, did you finish reading the case for criminal law?—

From the far end of the room, John Tucker looked up from his notes, sporting noticeable dark circles under his eyes. He stared at me as if I were a ghost from the past, but forced one of his slow, Southern smiles.

—If by ‘finish’ you mean the letters have started dancing across the page and I’m seeing double, then yeah, I finished,—he sighed, slamming the heavy textbook shut. —I need coffee. Or a miracle. Or for Logan to stop making noise with that damn console.—

—Hey!—John Logan’s voice protested from the floor, where he sat cross-legged with his eyes glued to the TV screen, his fingers moving at an inhuman speed over the PlayStation controller. —I’m one game away from breaking the league record in FIFA. Don’t ruin my focus. Besides, she makes better coffee than you, Tuck. Give her a break.—

I smiled, feeling that familiar warmth that only they knew how to give me. For the past couple of years, I had become a permanent fixture in their lives. I wasn’t just some girl hanging out at the house; I was their confidante, their anchor, the one who patched up their scrapes after a violent game, the one who helped Logan memorize tactical plays on makeshift whiteboards, and the one who spent countless late nights brewing strong coffee in this very kitchen so Tucker wouldn't fail his exams.

There was a mutual devotion between us. They were loud, protective, competitive giants on the ice, but the moment they walked through that door and I was sitting in the living room, they let their guard down completely. We were a chosen family.

The front door flew open, shattering the afternoon quiet. Allie Hayes walked in carrying a couple of bags from the campus café, closely followed by Hannah Wells. The atmosphere instantly shifted to something much livelier.

—We brought donuts!—Hannah announced enthusiastically, dropping her backpack on the floor and walking straight over to Garrett to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. —Though I think Logan will eat them all if nobody stops him.—

—That is slander!—Logan yelled without tearing his eyes away from the screen.

Allie walked into the kitchen, flashing me a knowing smile as she passed. —Do you have a second?—she mouthed silently, casting a quick glance toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

I nodded slightly as I got up from the sofa. Garrett grabbed my wrist before I could walk away, looking at me with those serious eyes that seemed to see right through anyone.

—Everything good?—he asked in a low voice, setting down the now-empty glass.

—Yeah, perfect. Just going to help Allie unpack some things in the kitchen,—I lied effortlessly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before he let go.

Garrett had an incredible protective instinct when it came to me. Sometimes I felt like he suspected something was off in my head, but he was too respectful to push if I wasn't ready to talk. And the truth was, I wasn't. I couldn't be.

Once in the kitchen, Allie had already shut the door leading to the back hallway, ensuring our privacy. She leaned against the counter, letting out a long sigh that fluttered her bangs.

—I need you to cover for me later today,—she blurted out, dropping her voice to a bare whisper. —Hannah thinks we’re staying at the library late to review our final literature essay, but... Dean wants me to go to his room after karaoke at Malone’s.—

My heart skipped an imperceptible beat in my chest—a sharp little pang I was getting used to, but that didn't make it hurt any less. I forced my best smile, putting on that confident diva façade I always used as a shield.

—Again, Allie?—I teased in a light tone, crossing my arms. —You’re going to end up owing me a whole month of free dinners at the dining hall. What am I supposed to tell Hannah if she asks why your car is still parked on campus?—

—Tell her I left you the keys because you had to pick up something heavy,—Allie begged, clasping her hands together in a plea. —You’re the only person I trust with this. If the guys find out about me and Dean... God, Garrett would kill Dean, or Dean would kill Garrett, or the whole house would explode. You know how territorial they are about the team.—

—I know,—I replied softly. —Don't worry. I've got you covered. No one will find out anything from me.—

—You’re the best friend in the world,—Allie said, giving me a quick, heartfelt hug.

As I wrapped my arms around her, my eyes inevitably drifted to the kitchen window facing the backyard. I didn't hate Allie. I didn't feel envious of her, nor resentful. Allie was wonderful, funny, and one of my best friends at Briar. But the bitter taste that settled in my throat every time I had to weave a lie so she could run into Dean Di Laurentis’s arms was a silent torture.

Because nobody knew that long before Allie and Dean started their complicated game of hide-and-seek, my eyes were already drifting toward the blonde, arrogant hockey player.

Flashback: Three Months Ago

The early morning air in the off-campus house was freezing. It was four o’clock on a winter Tuesday morning, and I couldn't sleep due to midterm anxiety. I had come down to the dark kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt of Tucker’s and a pair of shorts, looking for a glass of warm milk.

I didn't turn on the lights so I wouldn't wake anyone. I sat on the counter, my feet dangling, watching the reflection of the moon on the hardwood floor. Suddenly, the back door of the kitchen opened with a soft click.

I tensed instantly, ready to grab the heavy ceramic mug as a weapon, but the silhouette that walked in was unmistakable. The messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders, and that posture dripping with an almost offensive confidence. Dean.

He stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing my presence in the dim light. His blue eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, a slow, smirk spread across his face.

—Well... what is a goddess like you doing awake at this hour in my kitchen?—Dean whispered, taking a step forward. His voice had that raspy, sleepy edge mixed with an innate sensuality that sent a shiver down my spine.

—I could ask you the same thing, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice steady and locking into my diva attitude, refusing to show how much his proximity was wrecking my heart rate. —Did you just get back from breaking some heart over at the girls' dorms?—

Dean let out a low chuckle, stopping right in front of me. He was so close I could smell his cologne—a mix of mint, leather, and that clean, distinct scent that was entirely his. He leaned against the counter, inches from my legs, trapping me between his arms without actually touching me.

—Actually, no,—he admitted, looking straight into my eyes. There was a strange intensity in his gaze that night, something that went beyond the superficial flirting he usually flashed at everyone. —I was studying the plays for the next game. My head won't turn off. What about you? Studying too?—

—Trying to,—I whispered. The space between us seemed to have vanished into thin air. My eyes flicked down to his lips for a split second, and I swore he noticed the movement because his smirk softened, turning a little deeper.

—You know... you spend a lot of time taking care of the other guys,—Dean murmured, reaching out a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. His fingers grazed the skin of my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. —Garrett, Logan, Tuck... Sometimes I wonder when it’s going to be my turn to have you look after me.—

The air grew thick. The sexual tension in that dark kitchen was so real you could practically cut it with a knife. I was on the verge of losing control, a second away from leaning forward to find out what Dean Di Laurentis’s promises tasted like. But before either of us could make a move, the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs snapped us out of it.

Dean stepped back with feline agility, winking at me before grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

—See you at breakfast, gorgeous,—he murmured, disappearing down the back hallway before Logan even reached the stairs.

That night, lying in my bed, I realized two things: that Dean Di Laurentis was the most dangerous man on campus for my sanity, and that I was already hopelessly lost for him.

End of Flashback

—Earth to the campus diva?—Allie’s voice snapped me back to reality, waving a hand in front of my face. —You froze up staring out the window. Are you sure you’re okay with this? If it’s too much trouble, I can figure out something else to tell Hannah...—

—Oh, please!—I exclaimed, shaking my head and recovering my usual mask with a dramatic wave of my hand. —Since when has saving your skin ever been a problem for me? Besides, Hannah is easy to convince if I tell her you were super stressed out. You just focus on your... ‘study session’ with Dean.—

Allie smiled, relieved, and opened the kitchen door to head back into the living room with the others. I stood alone for a second, taking a deep breath. Right at that moment, I heard Dean’s laughter from upstairs. He was coming down the steps.

I walked out of the kitchen just in time to see him enter the living room. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, his hair perfectly pushed back, and that smug look that drove every girl at Briar crazy. His eyes scanned the room; they passed Logan, Tucker, and grazed Allie in a way that was almost imperceptible to the rest, but they stopped for a full second on me. A spark of recognition flashed in his gaze—the shadow of that secret we shared in the dark hours of the night before everything got complicated.

—Hey, Di Laurentis!—Logan shouted, finally setting down his controller. —Are you going to Malone’s tonight or are you staying behind to admire your own reflection in the bathroom mirror again?—

—Logan, please. My reflection deserves at least two hours of daily admiration,—Dean fired back arrogantly, earning a collective groan from the group. —But yeah, I’m going to Malone’s. I need to watch you try to flirt with Grace and fail miserably for the twentieth time this week.—

—Tonight is the night!—Logan defended himself, pointing a finger at him. —In fact, I already have a mastermind plan for tonight.—

I turned my head toward Logan, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

—What kind of mastermind plan, John?—I asked, using his first name to warn him that I didn't like his tone.

Logan smirked in that way that signaled imminent danger.

—You’ll see, gorgeous. You’ll see. Just make sure to bring your best attitude tonight.—

I looked at Garrett, searching for backup, but he just shrugged with an amused smile.

—Don't look at me. When Logan gets an idea in his head, it’s better to just let him crash and burn on his own,—Garrett said, getting off the couch and stretching his arms. —Anyway, I’m gonna go shower. If we’re going to Malone’s, I suggest we move fast before the line wraps around the block.—

The group began to scatter around the house to get ready. Allie and Hannah went upstairs to change, Tucker went to put his books away, and Dean lingered by the kitchen island for a moment, checking his phone.

I stood right in the middle of the living room, feeling the weight of the night that lay ahead. Malone’s was going to be packed. The music would be loud. The drinks would be flowing. And I would have to spend the whole night watching Dean from across the room, knowing that when the bar closed and the lights went down, my phone would vibrate with a text from Allie, asking me to lie for them just one more time.

What I didn't know at that moment, as I caught Dean’s eye from across the room, was that Logan’s —mastermind plan—was about to completely change the rules of the game tonight, throwing me right into the center of a stage where I would no longer be able to hide behind my lies.

The green neon sign of Malone’s blinked rhythmically against the dark night sky, reflecting in the puddles on the main avenue's sidewalk. Inside, the atmosphere was a perfectly choreographed chaos—a dense mass of college hormones, alcohol, and music turned up to a volume that vibrated right in your chest. The smell of spilled beer, old wood, and expensive perfume mingled in the air. It was a classic Briar karaoke night, which meant the bar was packed to the brim and the campus hierarchy was clearly on display.

We had our usual table: the large, worn leather booth near the pool tables. The hockey guys claimed it every weekend as if it were their private property, and no one in their right mind dared to dispute the space with the star team. Hannah and Garrett were submerged in their own bubble in a corner of the couch; he was whispering something in her ear with his typical Southern drawl, and she was laughing, hiding her face in his neck. Allie, on the other hand, was playing with the straw of her drink, but her eyes discreetly drifted toward the bar every time the crowd parted.

I was sitting right in the middle, flanked by Tucker and Logan. I was wearing a black spaghetti-strap top with a subtle but killer neckline, tight pants, and knee-high boots. My short hair fell with a rebellious, chic vibe that framed my features perfectly. Holding a glass of vodka cranberry in my hand, I crossed my legs with a sophisticated slowness. I enjoyed the attention; I knew several eyes in the bar were locked on our table—and specifically on me—but my internal radar was locked onto a single target.

Dean Di Laurentis was sitting directly opposite me. He had taken off his leather jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. He hadn't said a single word since we sat down, but he didn't need to. His intense, lazy blue eyes scanned my look from head to toe with a slowness that bordered on insolence. When his gaze met mine again, he flashed that crooked smirk—the one that screamed he knew exactly the effect he had on women. I felt the familiar electric jolt shoot down my spine, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze in a silent, diva-like challenge. Two can play this game, Di Laurentis.

—It’s a done deal.—Logan’s voice shattered the staring contest instantly. He slid back into the booth with a smug grin that set off all my alarms, dropping down beside me with an unbearable air of triumph.

I turned to him slowly, narrowing my eyes and resting my chin on my hand.

—What exactly did you do, Logan?—I asked in a dangerously soft tone. —And it better not involve my car, my credit card, or my mental health.—

—I put you on the karaoke list. You’re singing tonight, babe,—he dropped casually, taking a long sip of his drink as if he were the king of the world.

I froze. A lock of hair fell perfectly over my face as I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and pure indignation.

—You did what, John Logan?—I repeated, reaching out to give his forearm a sharp slap.

—Ow! Hey, relax,—he protested, rubbing the spot but keeping his teasing grin. —You need to express your feelings, seriously. You’ve seemed tense lately, like you’ve got a secret or some knot locked up inside that you won't let out. Look at me and Grace. Sometimes you just have to dive in, be honest, put your heart on the line, and let things flow...—

The name Grace floated above the table like a helium balloon about to burst. My self-defense instinct reacted before my brain could even process it. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to be exposed under Malone’s spotlights when my head was an absolute mess because of the guy sitting across from me—the very same guy who was now sleeping with one of my best friends.

—Just like you did with Grace? Because I recall that ending in a monumental disaster of biblical proportions, with you crying on my kitchen floor,—I fired back, quick, cold, and sharp as a razor blade.

Tucker let out a muffled —uhhh—from his corner, his eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand, while Hannah let out a nervous chuckle. The noise at the table seemed to grind to a complete halt. Logan visibly tensed, the smile vanishing from his face as a flash of guilt and pain crossed his eyes.

The comment was a low blow. A direct hit to his pride and his healing process. I knew it the second the words left my mouth, and remorse instantly punched me in the stomach.

—I’m sorry...—I apologized immediately, dropping the entire diva façade for a second. I placed my hand on his arm, softening my voice. —That wasn't right, Logan. Seriously, I was being an idiot, I’m sorry. It’s just... I don't want to sing tonight. I’m not in the mood to have the whole bar staring at me.—

—Hey, look at me,—Garrett intervened. The team captain leaned across the table toward me, resting his heavy arms on the worn wood and capturing my full attention with that trademark confidence of his that worked like an anchor in any storm. —You’re my favorite, and you know it.—

I caught a quick glimpse of Dean out of the corner of my eye. He had leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold with his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes hadn't drifted from me a single millimeter; he was analyzing the tension between Logan and me with a steadiness that burned my skin.

—Whatever is going on in your head right now... with Dean, with your exams, with whatever... set it aside for three minutes,—Garrett continued, his voice low, firm, and grounding. —You’re incredible, babe. Get up there and remind all these idiots why you’re the queen of Briar. Go crush it. Next round is on me.—

Tucker nodded enthusiastically, taking a swig of his beer.

—He’s right. Go show 'em how it's done,—Tuck added with his eternal optimism.

Allie looked at me from the other side, offering a bright, encouraging smile. It hurt. It hurt because she genuinely cared about me, and she didn't have the slightest clue that the real reason my heart was hammering wasn't stage fright, but the secret that involved her and the guy sitting next to her.

The bar's emcee took the microphone on the small stage at the back, shattering my thoughts with the echo of the feedback.

—Alright, Briar! Next up on the list... we have our house diva! A huge round of applause for her!—

I stood up in one swift movement, exhaling all the breath I’d been holding. I adjusted the straps of my black top with a slow, deliberate gesture, straightening my spine. Shyness and doubt evaporated in a blink, replaced by that armor of confidence and sensuality that I wore like a pro. I walked toward the stage as the murmurs from the tables began to quiet down to make way for me. The hockey team started cheering loudly; Logan whistled sharply through his fingers, proving the low blow was already forgiven, and Garrett banged his fists on the table.

As I climbed the three wooden steps, the main spotlight hit me full in the face, warming my skin. I grabbed the mic with one hand, adjusted the stand, and looked out at the crowd. Half of Briar was watching me. Guys from rival fraternities lowered their pool cues to look toward the stage; a group of sophomores at the bar elbowed each other, pointing in my direction. I was the center of attention, and I loved it.

When the sophisticated, heavy-bass pop chords of Sabrina Carpenter's —Sugar Talkin’—started thumping through the speakers, a slow, feline smile spread across my lips. The rhythm of the song was perfect: danceable, flirtatious, a little shameless. Just like me.

I looked for one specific gaze.

Dean.

He had stood up from the table. He was no longer sitting. Now he was leaning against the wooden bar counter a few yards from the stage, swirling a glass of whiskey between his long fingers. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were completely locked on me, gleaming under the blue and green flashes of the neon lights.

I started to sing, and my voice flowed clean, with a velvety, suggestive tone that caused the general hum of the bar to drop into a near-complete hush.

—I know we're technically just friends... / But I'm textin' you at 2 AM...—

I sang the first lines staring straight at the hockey table, but the moment I hit the word friends, my eyes snapped directly to Dean. I saw him tense imperceptibly against the bar. I walked from one end of the small stage to the other, swaying my hips with a slowness that knew exactly what kind of reaction it provoked. My high boots resonated against the wood.

Reaching the chorus, I stepped close to the edge of the stage, holding the microphone with both hands, leaning forward slightly. The black top exposed the line of my collarbones under the red glow of the spotlight.

—Sweet talk, sugar talkin’... / You got me walkin' on a wire...—My voice sounded playful, teasing, yet laced with an underlying emotion that very few in that room understood.

I turned my face toward a group of football players in the front row and flashed them a stunning smile, winking. Two of them gasped and straightened up in their seats, completely hypnotized by the performance. But I wasn't looking at them. I turned my gaze back to the bar.

Dean had set his whiskey glass down on the counter. Both of his hands were now gripping the edge of the wood, leaning forward. The playful, arrogant smirk he always wore had completely vanished; his jaw was tightly clenched and his blue eyes were dark, fixed on my lips with an intensity so physical I could practically feel it brushing against me. I watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard. He was jealous. Not in a logical way, because he wasn't mine, but with that primal, territorial instinct that hockey guys just couldn't hide. It pissed him off that the whole bar was desiring me in that exact moment, and it drove him crazy knowing I was doing it on purpose just to provoke him.

I spun around on stage, turning my back to him for a second to move with the beat, letting my silhouette cut through the light before whipping back around for the final line of the song, pointing my index finger directly at him as I sang in a suggestive whisper:

—...you know exactly what I want.—

I held eye contact until the last note of the bass faded into the air. For a second, the bar remained in absolute silence, trapped in the electric atmosphere I had just created.

And then, Malone’s erupted.

The cheers were deafening. The football players in the front row applauded wildly, several guys shouted my name, and my hockey boys threw a monumental fit, slamming their beer mugs against the wood. I walked down the stage steps with my heart hammering a thousand miles an hour in my chest, feeling pure adrenaline rushing through my veins like liquid fire. The diva mask was intact, shiny, and triumphant.

I made my way back to the bar area, dodging a couple of compliments from strangers, and stopped in front of Garrett and Logan, who already had their glasses raised to greet me.

—Told you so. A total rock star,—Garrett boasted, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders with genuine pride, giving me an affectionate squeeze.

—You were incredible, seriously. I take back what I said about you being ruthless... well, no, you’re still ruthless, but you sing like an angel,—Logan admitted, clinking his glass against mine with a wide, sincere smile.

—Thanks, boys. Just doing my part to elevate the standards around here,—I replied, slipping back into my sophisticated, flirtatious tone, taking a long sip of my vodka to cool my throat.

I smiled, feeling—for a brief, glorious second—like I was on top of the world, completely unburdened. I turned slightly, searching for Dean.

He was walking purposefully in my direction. He had left the bar behind and was cutting through the crowd of students with long, firm strides. His gaze was intense, direct, without a trace of his usual laziness. He had that same fierce determination he used on the ice when he had the puck and his eyes on the goal. The space between us shrank with every second; the tension was so thick, so charged with sexual static, that I swore Logan and Garrett would notice the shift in the air. He was going to say something to me. I was certain he was going to call me out on the song, the dancing, the looks I gave the other guys...

Bzzz.

The phone vibrated violently in the back pocket of my pants, cutting the music in my head.

I broke eye contact with Dean just as he was barely three steps away from me. With my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, I pulled out the phone and unlocked the screen. Allie Hayes’s name illuminated the glass.

Allie: Cover for me with Hannah, please. I'm leaving with Dean. See you at the photo booth in 10. Don't forget about the car thing if she asks.

The high of the music, the applause of the crowd, Garrett’s pride, and the fire of the adrenaline plummeted in a freefall, crashing face-first into Malone's concrete floor.

I lifted my eyes from the phone slowly. Dean had stopped dead in his tracks two steps away from me. He had glanced over my shoulder toward the bar's side exit, where Allie had just quietly slipped out toward the back parking lot. He looked back into my eyes. It was a quick look, barely two seconds, but it was agonizing—it was loaded with silent frustration, a flicker of an apology, and a shared secret that made my stomach turn.

Without saying a single word, Dean spun on his heel with that feline agility of his and walked toward the back hallway that connected to the emergency exit, vanishing from everyone's sight in a heartbeat.

I squeezed the phone against the palm of my hand until my knuckles turned completely white, swallowing hard to try and dissolve the bitter, dry knot tightening in my throat. The flirtatious stage diva had to evaporate in a second, forcing me to lock the pieces of the unbreakable perfect, loyal friend mask back into place.

—Everything good?—Logan asked, furrowing his brow and tilting his head as he noticed the drastic, sudden change in my face.

—Yeah...—I forced my best smile—the one I’d been practicing for three months—slipping my phone into my pocket with a quick motion. —Everything's perfect. Just Allie, she left her room keys in my bag and asked me to bring them to her because she’s feeling a little tired and heading back early. I'm gonna hit the restroom and find her, guys. Be right back.—

I turned around before Garrett could ask one of his analytical questions, walking toward the dark hallway at the back. I knew exactly what was coming next. I knew that out there, in the dim light of the photo booth or the back seat of a car, I would have to smile, act normal, listen to Allie’s sighs, and be the perfect shield for the secret that, piece by piece, was breaking my heart in absolute silence.

I slipped my phone into my back pocket, my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour. The music at Malone’s was still thumping in my ears, but now it sounded muffled, distant, as if I were underwater. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, forcing my facial muscles to maintain that sophisticated, carefree smile everyone expected from me.

—Seriously, babe, that song was out of this world,—Logan insisted, giving Garrett an open elbow nudge. —Did you see the look on those football idiots' faces? They were practically drooling.—

—Anyone with eyes would be drooling, Logan. Don't be basic,—Garrett replied with a half-smirk, though his light eyes settled on me with that analytical steadiness that always put me on guard. —But your expression shifted real fast. Are you sure Allie just wanted her keys? You went pale.—

—It’s just the adrenaline crash, Gray,—I lied with a naturalness that was starting to scare me, giving his chin a playful tap. —Being up on stage takes a lot of diva energy, you know? I need to touch up my lipstick and get some air. Don't move, I’ll be back in five.—

I turned around, ready to head down the hallway leading to the restrooms and the back exit, where the bar’s old vintage photo booth was located. But I hadn't even taken three steps before a figure stepped right into my path.

It was Cami, one of the girls from the campus events committee, notorious for having the fastest and most dangerous tongue in all of Briar. She held a red solo cup in her hand, sporting a malicious grin and wide eyes that gleamed with the spark of someone who had just struck absolute gold.

—Well, well... the star of the night,—Cami said, blocking my way with a fake familiarity. —You sing incredible, seriously. But I think the real show wasn’t on the stage.—

I tensed, but kept my chin high, crossing my arms with a bored expression.

—Oh, really? I didn’t know Malone’s had a double feature tonight. What are you talking about, Cami?—

Cami leaned in closer, dropping her voice so the booming music wouldn't drown her out, but with the clear intention of watching my reaction.

—I’m talking about your friend, Allie Hayes. And Dean Di Laurentis. I just saw them walk into the back hallway together. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think they went into the men’s room to compare literature notes. Dean looked around twice before slipping into the photo booth with her.—

My stomach wrenched with a violence that nearly stole my breath, but my face didn’t give in. Not a single millimeter. I let out a clean, loud, perfectly practiced laugh, earning a bewildered look from her.

—Seriously, Cami? Is that the best you’ve got today?—I asked, looking at her with a mock pity that I had mastered to perfection. —Dean is doing her a favor by passing along the contact info for a tutor for next week’s exam. Allie was incredibly stressed out, and he offered because, even if he plays the bad boy, he’s a softie. They went in there to talk without the noise from the football troglodytes blowing their eardrums out.—

Cami narrowed her eyes, not entirely convinced.

—In the photo booth? That’s a pretty cramped space to talk about tutoring.—

—It’s the only spot with a curtain that blocks out the neon lights, sweetheart. Basic marketing: if you want focus, you look for privacy.—I took a step forward, subtly invading her personal space with that intimidating diva stare that could break anyone. —So I suggest you stop inventing fanfictions in your head before Garrett overhears you and decides you’re no longer welcome at the off-campus house parties. It would be such a shame for you to miss the one next Saturday, don't you think?—

The color drained a bit from Cami’s cheeks. She knew perfectly well the power the hockey team—and I, by extension—wielded over Briar’s social scene. She swallowed hard and forced a smile.

—I was just saying... it looked weird. But if you say so...—

—I do say so,—I declared with a radiant, fake smile. —Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.—

I brushed past her, subtly bumping my shoulder against hers. The moment my back was turned, the smile vanished from my face. Real panic settled into my chest. If Cami had seen them, anyone could have. I had to get them out of there before someone else investigated, or before Garrett decided to go find Dean to order another round.

I walked briskly down the dark hallway. The noise of the bar began to fade, replaced by the hum of the pipes and the smell of damp air. Turning the corner that led to the emergency exit, I saw it: the old wooden structure of the photo booth, its lights flickering, and the heavy red velvet curtain completely drawn shut. From inside, nothing could be heard over the bar's music, but the tension in the air was practically solid.

I stepped up and, without hesitation, ripped the curtain open.

—Time’s up, guys. We have a problem,—I snapped in a firm voice, crossing my arms.

The space inside was tiny. Allie was sitting on Dean’s lap, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly unraveled. Dean’s hands were locked around her waist, but at the sound of my voice, his head snapped up. His blue eyes were blazing, unfocused from the adrenaline of the moment, but the instant they locked onto me, a mix of surprise and that annoying frustration rushed back onto his face.

—What’s wrong?—Allie asked, jumping down with a face full of panic, frantically adjusting her sweater. —Is Hannah coming? Garrett?—

—Worse,—I replied, staring straight at Dean for a split second before turning back to her. —Cami saw you two walk in. I tried to stall her with the tutor excuse and threatened to blackball her from the parties, but she’s starving for gossip. If you guys don’t leave separately this damn second, the whole bar is going to find out.—

Allie gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth, turning pale.

—Oh my God... no, no, no. If Garrett finds out...—She looked at Dean in desperation.

Dean stood up from the small bench inside the booth, filling the cramped space with his height. He adjusted his white t-shirt with an infuriating calmness, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed that he wasn't nearly as relaxed as he wanted to appear.

—Relax, Hayes. It’s fine,—Dean said, his voice carrying that raspy edge that completely wrecked my insides. —Go out through the back emergency door and head toward the parking lot. I’ll walk out through the main hallway in a minute, like I’m going to find Logan. No one’s going to suspect anything if they don’t see us together.—

Allie nodded frantically, looking at me with a devotion that made me feel like the worst person on earth.

—You’re my savior, seriously. I owe you my life. I’ll see you at the house,—she whispered, giving my arm a quick squeeze before pushing the metal bar of the emergency exit and disappearing into the cold Massachusetts night.

The door shut with a dull thud, leaving me completely alone with Dean in the narrow hallway.

The silence that settled between us was dense, heavy, loaded with everything we hadn't said to each other since that night in the kitchen three months ago. Dean took a step forward, stepping out of the photo booth. He stopped mere inches away from me, forcing me to tilt my head up just to hold his gaze. I could smell him—the whiskey, the mint, and that physical warmth that threw my nerves into overdrive.

—So... saving our skin again,—Dean murmured, dropping his voice to that dangerous whisper that sent shivers down my spine. There was a strange intensity in his eyes, a spark of reproach. —You sing beautiful, by the way. Though I could’ve sworn that look at the end wasn’t meant for the idiots on the football team.—

I shoved my hands into my pockets so he wouldn't notice my fingers trembling. I locked into my untouchable diva posture, even though I was breaking into a million pieces on the inside.

—Just doing my job, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice cool and flirtatious. —I protect my friends. And about the song... don't flatter yourself. I sing for anyone who cares to listen.—

Dean let out a low chuckle, a short sound that vibrated right in my chest. He took half a step closer, effectively trapping me between his body and the wooden wall of the photo booth without actually touching me, recreating the kitchen scene almost perfectly.

—You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous, babe,—he whispered, tilting his head slightly toward mine. His eyes dropped to my lips for a second that felt eternal. —You were teasing me up there. You know it, and I know it. Why play games like that if you’re just going to run and hide behind the guys afterward?—

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it. The proximity, the scent, the frustration of spending months as a spectator to his story with Allie... everything pooled in my throat. I was a millimeter away from losing it, away from grabbing his shirt and screaming that I hated him for being so indifferent and so damn necessary all at once.

But the rules of the game were the rules of the game. And I was a diva, not a homewrecker.

—I play because I can, Dean,—I answered, locking my eyes with his with all the strength I could muster. —But you already have a game in progress. And I suggest you play it well, because next time, I might not be around to clean up your mess.—

I ducked right under his arm before he could react, letting the scent of my perfume wash over him one last time. I walked with a firm, steady stride back toward the glowing neon lights of the bar, feeling his blue eyes piercing my back like two daggers of ice.

I quickened my pace down the hallway, forcing my Vans to hit the floor with the firm, determined rhythm of a girl who has everything completely under control. But the second I crossed the threshold of the side door and the freezing Massachusetts night air hit me full in the face, the diva armor crumbled entirely.

I leaned against the brick wall of Malone’s back alley, away from the lights, away from the eyes, and finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding for three whole months. My hands shook uncontrollably inside my pockets. The echo of the bar’s applause was still buzzing in my ears, but now it felt like a cruel mockery. What was the point of having an entire bar looking at me, desiring me, if the only pair of eyes I actually wanted didn't belong to me?

I stared into the darkness of the parking lot. In the distance, the silhouette of Dean’s car flipped on its headlights, cutting through the shadows for a split second before slowly rolling toward the back exit. I knew exactly who was sitting in the passenger seat. I knew Allie was fixing her hair, smiling in relief because, once again, her best friend had saved the day.

And there, in the solitude of the alley, I realized I was utterly exhausted. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of waging an invisible war inside my own head—a battle that had been lost since the very first day.

No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that whatever they had was just a temporary arrangement, a college distraction, deep down I knew better. I knew how to read the looks. I knew how to spot the tension. That friends-with-benefits relationship between Dean and Allie had real foundations; it was strong, heavy, and grew a little more every single time they locked themselves in a room. It wasn’t a stupid game. It was happening for real.

I closed my eyes, feeling the night chill seep into my bones, but the ache in my chest was so much worse. Allie was my friend. One of the few people at Briar who had offered me genuine loyalty, who looked at me with pure affection and trusted me with her most precious secret. I couldn't do that to her. I wasn't that kind of girl. I couldn't allow myself to cross the line and covet the guy she was sleeping with—the guy who made her smile in that very specific way. Friendship had sacred rules, and I wasn't going to be the villain in my best friend’s story.

But the bitterest truth—the one that burned in my throat and made it hard to swallow—was something else. It was the silent humiliation of waiting. Waiting in the shadows of the kitchen at four in the morning, waiting for a sidelong glance in a bar booth, waiting for some miracle where Dean Di Laurentis would open his eyes and choose me.

How stupid. What a pathetic, goddamn fantasy.

Dean wasn't going to choose me. He had his life, his game, and he had Allie. At the end of the day, when the neon lights faded and the music stopped, nobody cared about what happened behind my untouchable diva façade. My practiced smiles, my flawless lies, my sleepless nights taking care of everyone... all of it was just the stage setting for someone else's romance. On the grand chessboard of Briar University, my feelings didn't matter. They were just the price I had to pay to keep a lie afloat—the very lie that was breaking my heart in absolute silence.

The crunch of slow footsteps on the alley gravel shattered the silence of my dark corner. The sound forced my spine to snap straight instantly, swallowing the knot in my throat and blinking rapidly to erase any trace of vulnerability. The diva mask locked back onto my face out of pure survival instinct, ready to repel whoever had dared to follow me.

—Are you okay? Do you want to leave?—The voice coming from behind me was soft, low, but carried a slightly raspy, drawn-out tone, with a cadence that didn't belong to the North, but rather to a much warmer, more sophisticated coast.

I turned around slowly, resting my hip against the brick wall. The dim light from Malone’s green neon sign silhouetted him, and the air escaped my lungs—but this time, for a completely different reason.

It wasn't one of the hockey guys. It wasn't anyone from Briar.

Physically, he looked like he had stepped right out of a high-society catalog but had decided to rebel against it. He was tall, with a lean yet wiry build, wearing a light linen button-down shirt left slightly open at the collar, which contrasted ridiculously with the Massachusetts cold. His hair was light brown, almost dark blonde, faded very low on the sides but with enough texture on top for a few stray locks to fall over his forehead with an aristocratic carelessness. He possessed sharp features, a highly defined jawline, and clear, pale blue eyes that often conveyed a dangerous, almost erratic intensity. Yet, at this exact moment, as he looked at me, the internal storm he always seemed to carry had completely dissipated. His gaze was clean, strangely protective.

An involuntary smile—the first real smile of my entire night—curved my lips as I remembered how I had met him. It happened a few months ago, during those vacation weeks when I needed to escape from everything and ended up in a small coastal paradise—a place of endless beaches, wooden piers, and golden sunsets where nobody knew my name. He didn't belong there either; he was just passing through, dealing with his own family demons, and our worlds—both so broken and so perfectly camouflaged under designer clothes—collided one afternoon by the sea.

—What are you doing here?—I whispered, letting my shoulders drop, allowing myself to let my guard down just a single inch. —Don't tell me you drove for hours just for Briar karaoke night.—

He took a step forward, closing the distance between us. There was something about the way he moved, a latent tension in his shoulders that screamed he could lose control at any moment, but when he stopped right in front of me, his gestures became incredibly tender, almost delicate, as if he were afraid of breaking me.

He reached out a hand and, with a gentleness no one at this university would believe a guy of his stature capable of, used the back of his fingers to trace the outline of my cheek, brushing my short hair away from my face. His skin was warm, a direct reminder of the summer I missed so terribly.

—I heard you singing from the entrance,—he murmured, staring intently into my eyes, reading the exhaustion and the pain I was trying to hide from the rest of the world. —You were incredible, babe. An absolute queen. But your eyes aren't saying the same thing as your voice. Let’s get out of here. You don’t have to keep taking care of people who don’t know how to take care of you.—

The weight of his words hit me right in the center of my chest. He didn't know anything about Allie’s mess, or Dean, or the Briar alibis, but he knew me. He knew the girl behind the persona. And for the first time all night, I felt like someone was looking into my dark corner, not to ask me for a lie, but to offer me a way out.

[sleep-i-ness]

u write beautifully and I am so excited for this!

[pucksandpower]

guardian angel

Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader

Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives

Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.

Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.

Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.

Then you’re moving.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

For all of it.

[sleep-i-ness]

I love this so much thank you for saving beau

[darkkdamsel00]

FORBIDDEN LINE

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Tucker!Sister!Reader

Summary: Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister

The bass from the off-campus house party thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. You stood in the crowded kitchen, nursing a lukewarm beer and trying not to look as out of place as you felt. Visiting your brother for the weekend had seemed like a good idea at the time, until Tucker had dragged you to this hockey house party and immediately disappeared with his girlfriend.

“Stay where I can see you,” he’d warned before vanishing. Classic big-brother nonsense.

You were twenty-one, a senior at a different school two hours away, and perfectly capable of handling yourself. Still, the Briar University hockey crowd was… a lot. Loud, cocky, and ridiculously attractive. Especially the guy currently leaning against the counter across from you, watching you with lazy, amused interest.

Dean Di Laurentis.

You’d seen his face on Tucker’s Instagram enough times to recognize him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, golden-brown hair that looked like it had been styled by someone’s fingers, and a smirk that should probably be illegal in several states. He was exactly the type of guy your brother had spent years warning you about.

And he was staring.

You looked away first, pretending to be fascinated by the fridge magnets. A moment later, a warm, deep voice cut through the noise right beside you.

“You’re Tucker’s little sister.”

You turned. Dean was even taller up close, and the way his green eyes dragged slowly down your body before returning to your face made heat bloom low in your stomach.

“Little is relative,” you replied, lifting your chin. “I’m twenty-one. And you’re Dean Di Laurentis. The one who apparently never met a puck bunny he didn’t like.”

His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Tucker talks about me. Interesting.”

“He talks about how you’re a walking STD commercial.”

Dean laughed, low and genuine. The sound did unfair things to your pulse. “Harsh. Accurate, maybe, but harsh.” He tilted his head. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Trouble?”

You told him your name. He repeated it like he was tasting it, and you hated how much you liked the way it sounded in his mouth.

For the next hour, he didn’t leave your side. He was charming without trying too hard—funny, quick-witted, and surprisingly attentive. He kept your cup full, deflected drunk teammates who tried to hit on you, and somehow made you feel like the only person in the room.

When someone bumped into you hard enough that beer sloshed over your hand, Dean’s palm settled at the small of your back to steady you. The touch burned through your thin top.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “Just crowded.”

His thumb brushed once, almost absently, against your spine before he pulled away. But the ghost of the touch lingered.

Tucker appeared sometime after midnight, looking flushed and happy. His eyes narrowed the second he saw you standing close to Dean.

“Di Laurentis,” he said flatly. “Why are you breathing on my sister?”

Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Just keeping her company, man. She’s cool.”

“She’s off-limits,” Tucker said, pointing a finger. “Don’t even think about it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m right here.”

Tucker ignored you, glaring at his teammate. “I mean it, Dean. Not her.”

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he gave a lazy nod. “Message received, Tucker.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur of music and stolen glances. Every time you looked up, Dean was watching you. And every time your brother turned his back, Dean found an excuse to touch you, brushing your arm, leaning in to speak against your ear and his lips grazing the shell so lightly it could have been accidental.

It wasn’t.

By the time Tucker walked you back to his apartment, your skin was buzzing and your thoughts were dangerous.

The next morning, you woke up on Tucker’s couch to the smell of coffee and the sound of male voices arguing in the kitchen.

“…she’s my sister, dude.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean’s voice, calm and amused. “We talked. She’s funny. Sue me.”

“You looked at her like you wanted to eat her alive.”

A pause. Then Dean, quieter: “She’s beautiful. Hard not to look.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stayed very still on the couch, pretending to still be asleep.

Tucker groaned. “She’s not one of your hookups. She’s family. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

“I hear you,” Dean said. There was something heavier in his tone now. “Loud and clear.”

You heard the front door open and close. A few minutes later, Tucker stuck his head into the living room.

“You awake?”

“Barely,” you lied, sitting up and stretching.

He studied you. “Dean’s an idiot. Don’t let him flirt with you. He doesn’t do serious.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Inside, something twisted.

That afternoon, you went to the hockey arena to watch practice. Tucker had given you a guest pass, mostly so he could keep an eye on you. You sat in the stands, chin in your hand, watching the players fly across the ice.

Dean was impossible to miss. Fast, aggressive, graceful. Every time he slammed someone into the boards, your breath caught. When practice ended, most of the team headed for the locker room, but Dean skated over to the boards near where you sat, helmet off, hair damp with sweat.

He looked up at you and grinned. “Enjoying the view?”

“It’s alright,” you called down, trying to sound unaffected.

He laughed. “Liar. You were staring.”

“So were you last night.”

His expression shifted, something hotter and more intense. “Yeah. I was.”

Tucker shouted something from the tunnel. Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Meet me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “There’s a bar off campus. The Dime. Ten o’clock. Tell Tucker you’re meeting an old friend from high school or something.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re really trying to get me to lie to my brother?”

“I’m trying to spend time with you without him threatening to castrate me every five seconds.” His green eyes locked on yours. “Say yes.”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t.

“Yes,” you whispered.

His smile was slow and victorious. “Good girl.”

You told Tucker you were grabbing coffee with a girl you’d met at last night’s party. He bought it, mostly because he was exhausted from practice.

The Dime was dim, warm, and surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. Dean was already there, tucked into a back booth wearing a black Henley that clung to his shoulders and chest. He stood when you approached, eyes dragging over your jeans and soft sweater like he wanted to peel them off.

“You came,” he said, voice rough.

“I did.”

He bought you a drink. Then another. Conversation flowed easy, about your classes, his hockey season and the ridiculous rules Tucker lived by. Hours disappeared. At some point his knee pressed against yours under the table and stayed there.

When the bar started closing, he walked you outside. The night air was cold, but Dean radiated heat.

“I should get back,” you said, even as you turned toward him.

“Yeah.” He stepped closer. “You should.”

Neither of you moved.

His hand came up, cupped your jaw. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Dean kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, one hand sliding into your hair while the other gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. You tasted beer and mint and pure want. When his tongue stroked yours, you moaned softly into his mouth and felt him shudder.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You kissed him harder.

He pressed you back against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, one thick thigh sliding between yours. The friction made you gasp. His mouth moved to your neck, sucking lightly, then harder, like he wanted to leave a mark.

“Dean…” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. “Not here. Not like this. Come back to my place.”

You knew what he was asking. You knew what it meant.

You said yes anyway.

His off-campus house was dark and quiet when you slipped inside. His roommates were all out. The second the door closed, Dean had you against it, kissing you like he’d die if he stopped.

Clothes came off in a trail down the hallway, your sweater, his Henley, your jeans and his sweats. By the time you reached his bedroom you were both in underwear. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, laying you on his bed.

Dean took his time.

He kissed down your body, slow and deliberate. Mouth on your collarbone, your breasts—tongue circling your nipples until you arched and whimpered. Lower, across your stomach, until he settled between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

You did. The sight of his golden head between your legs, green eyes dark with lust, nearly undid you.

He licked a long, slow stripe up your center, then focused on your clit with devastating precision. Two thick fingers slid inside you, curling just right. You came hard, gripping his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

He didn’t stop until you were trembling.

Then he crawled up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was heavy and hot against your thigh.

“You sure?” he rasped.

“Yes. Please.”

He rolled on a condom with shaking hands. When he pushed inside you, slow and deep, the stretch was perfect. Both of you groaned. He stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he whispered.

Then he started moving.

It wasn’t gentle. It was years of tension and one weekend of forbidden want unleashed. Dean fucked you like he needed it, deep and steady strokes that hit every perfect spot. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back.

He whispered filthy praise against your ear. So tight. So wet for me. Good girl, taking my cock so well. Every word pushed you higher.

You came again, clenching around him. He followed right after, groaning your name like it hurt.

Afterward, he pulled you against his chest, stroking your hair. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

“I’m not supposed to want this,” he said finally, voice quiet in the dark. “Tucker’s my brother on the team. My friend.”

You traced a pattern on his abs. “I know.”

“But I do want it.” He tilted your chin up. “I want you. Not just tonight.”

Your heart squeezed. “This is complicated, Dean.”

“I know.” He kissed you softly. “But I’m not ready to let you go.”

The weekend blurred into stolen moments.

You snuck out again the next night. Dean took you to his bed and worshipped you for hours—on your back, on your knees, riding him slow while he watched you with reverent eyes. He was insatiable and generous, making you come until you were hoarse.

On Sunday morning, before you had to drive back to your own campus, he kissed you against his car in the driveway, slow and deep and aching.

“I’ll text you,” he promised. “We’ll figure this out.”

Tucker came outside just as you pulled away. He waved, oblivious.

You waved back, lips still tingling, heart in your throat.

The secret lasted six weeks.

Texting turned into late-night calls. Dean drove to your campus twice, fucking you in your tiny dorm bed while your roommate was away. You drove to Briar once, letting him bend you over his desk in his room while music played loud enough to cover your moans.

Every time was better than the last. Every time you fell a little harder.

Until the night it all shattered.

Tucker showed up at Dean’s unannounced. Walked in on the two of you in the kitchen. Dean’s hands under your shirt, your back against the counter, kissing like the world was ending.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker said, voice low and furious.

Dean stepped in front of you protectively. “Tuck—”

“No.” Your brother’s eyes were blazing. “I told you she was off-limits. I trusted you.”

You stepped around Dean. “This isn’t just him. I wanted this too. I still want this.”

Tucker looked at you like you’d betrayed him. “He doesn’t do relationships. He’s going to break your heart and I’m going to have to watch.”

Dean’s voice was steady. “I’m in love with her.”

The words landed like a bomb.

You turned to stare at him. He was looking at you, not Tucker. Green eyes serious, jaw set.

“I’m in love with her,” he repeated, softer. “Have been since the night at the party when you told me not to look at her. I tried not to. I couldn’t.”

Tucker ran a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

You reached for Dean’s hand. He laced your fingers together immediately.

Your brother watched the gesture. Something in his expression shifted, anger giving way to reluctant acceptance.

“You hurt her,” he said to Dean, voice rough, “and I don’t care how good you are on the ice. I will end you.”

Dean nodded. “If I hurt her, I’ll let you.”

Tucker looked at you. You gave him a small, hopeful smile.

He sighed. “I need a fucking beer.”

Six months later, you were official.

Dean still kissed you like he was starving every single time. Tucker still grumbled about it, but he’d stopped threatening violence. The team had taken to calling you “Di Laurentis’s girl” with varying degrees of teasing and respect.

One night after a big win, Dean pulled you onto the dance floor at the victory party. Arms around your waist, forehead against yours, swaying even though the music was fast.

“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.

You smiled, heart full. “I love you too.”

He kissed you slow and deep, right there in front of everyone—including your brother.

Some lines were worth crossing.

[sleep-i-ness]

I love love love a sibling!reader x dean and this is perfect

[alierecss]

What, like it's hard? | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You've been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.

notes: hii i'm back!! i really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. this came to mind because i'm obsessed with legally blonde the musical thanks to the show, and then obviously i had to rewatch the movie immediately. i read the dean book years ago so i genuinely didn't remember the plot, so for all intents and purposes let's just agree that he went to law school and moved on. also first time writing smut, so i think it's kind of mid, but i did my best 😭 also the legal cases i mention might not be entirely accurate since i am not a lawyer, but i do feel very comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think 🤍

warnings: swearing, kind of academic rivals to lovers, library shenanigans, one very unhappy night librarian, legally blonde references (many), dean is a menace, reader is a menace back, sexual tension with footnotes, and SMUT (making out, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv, light dirty talk, "good girl", dean calls you baby and honey a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 11.8k

For the past four years, you had spent countless moments thinking about these final months of college.

Truthfully, college had always felt like a dream, a dream that for a long time had seemed impossible and far away, so when the acceptance letter arrived all those years ago, you had been ecstatic in the disbelieving way of someone who had wanted something so long they had stopped being sure they deserved it. What nobody told you was that dreams came with deadlines, sleepless nights, and enough stress to make your eye twitch on a random afternoon for no particular reason.

The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.

Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.

Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.

Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.

Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.

What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?

Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.

The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.

At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.

Right now it felt catastrophic.

You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.

The thought alone made you grimace.

So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.

Praying.

"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."

A few students groaned.

You sat a little straighter.

Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.

Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.

More importantly, you liked being good at things.

Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.

Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.

The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.

"Dean DiLaurentis."

Silence.

Jesus H. Christ.

Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.

Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.

Dean turned around.

Then he smiled.

That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:

He winked.

He actually winked.

You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.

You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.

Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.

This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?

You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.

Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.

The math simply wasn't mathing.

Unless.

Oh.

Oh, god.

He was sleeping with the TA.

That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —

Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.

Three months earlier, it had started.

Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.

You almost always said the thing you were thinking.

Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.

You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.

"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."

Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.

"I'd push back on that a little."

You turned.

Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.

"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.

"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."

"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."

"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."

"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."

The last sentence landed differently than the rest.

Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.

Whitaker moved on.

You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.

That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.

The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.

You were already packing your bag when you heard him.

"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."

"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.

"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."

"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."

"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."

Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.

You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.

"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."

"I have a session at two."

"After three, then."

You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."

"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.

You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.

Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.

"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.

Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.

He handed it back.

You looked down.

Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)

You stared at it for a long moment.

"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."

He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.

"Wednesday, then."

"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.

You did not watch him go.

You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.

This was the conclusion you had reached.

You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.

"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"

Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.

"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."

"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."

"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."

"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."

"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."

Elisa put down the spatula.

"Shut up."

"I'm not going to —"

"No way. You hate him."

"I don't hate him."

"Despise, then."

"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."

"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."

"Goodbye, Elisa."

"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"

You closed the door.

session one

He was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.

He was sitting in your chair.

He had a coffee on each side of the table.

Two coffees.

You stopped.

"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."

You were a black coffee person.

You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.

"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."

You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.

"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.

"It's foundational."

"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."

He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"

"Section three. After we've established the framework."

Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."

You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.

You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.

At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.

You looked back at your screen.

Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.

You didn't move either.

You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.

His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.

An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.

"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.

"I don't need a break."

"You've reread that page four times."

You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.

You closed the case study.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.

"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."

Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."

"Daphne."

A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."

Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"

"That would be the one."

He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"

"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"

"I just said I couldn't."

"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."

Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.

"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."

You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."

"Garrett."

"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"

"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."

"A wrong one."

"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."

You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.

"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."

"So she didn't give a great review."

"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."

Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.

"That's funny," he said.

"I know."

He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.

You didn't say anything about it.

Neither did he.

Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.

You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.

You looked at the citation.

"You're right," you said. "Good catch."

He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.

You both looked back at the page.

Neither of you moved away.

It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:

"You always sit in the same seat."

You glanced up. "What?"

He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."

The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.

"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.

"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."

I know.

Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.

You looked at him for a moment.

He did not look back up.

"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."

You both looked at your screens.

Neither of you said anything else about it.

You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.

In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.

His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.

You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.

session two

The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.

It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.

You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.

What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.

You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."

"We just had a break."

"That was an hour ago."

You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.

You put your pen down.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.

"So," he said. "Harvard Law."

"What about it."

"That's the goal?"

"That's the goal," you confirmed.

He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"

You turned to look at him.

He was already smiling.

"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."

"Is it?"

"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."

"I don't remember that."

"Dean."

"It's a great film."

You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"

"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."

You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.

"God," you said.

He laughed. "What?"

"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."

"Does it."

"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."

Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."

You laughed and put your head down on the table.

His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work," he agreed.

But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.

Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.

God help you.

You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.

It started, as these things often did, over something small.

Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.

"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."

"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."

"You've said that. You haven't explained it."

"I sent you three paragraphs —"

"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."

You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —

"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."

"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."

The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.

Dean went very still. "What does that mean."

It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.

"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."

Silence.

Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.

"Say what you mean," he said quietly.

And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —

"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."

The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.

Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.

"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."

You opened your mouth.

"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."

He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.

You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.

Not about the source.

About him.

"Dean —"

"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."

You looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.

Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.

Neither did he.

session three

The third session was on a Tuesday.

You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.

You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.

Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.

You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.

Dean was already there.

Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said back.

You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.

He did not comment on the seating arrangement.

That was somehow worse than if he had.

You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.

The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.

Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."

"I know," you said. "I'm looking."

"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."

"I haven't checked yet."

"It's good."

"Okay."

Silence.

You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.

An hour passed like that.

You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."

You looked up.

He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."

Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.

"It was sitting there," you admitted.

"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."

"Dean —"

"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."

"It's already a little weird," you said.

"I know."

Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.

"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."

You said nothing.

"It does," he said. "Okay."

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work."

You heard her before you saw her.

The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.

The heels stopped at your table.

"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."

"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."

"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."

"I can't right now, we're working."

We. You noted the word and kept reading.

"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."

"I know it's not. I just can't right now."

You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.

"Dean —"

"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"

A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.

"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.

The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.

"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."

"It's literally five minutes —"

"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."

The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.

Then she left.

The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.

From across the table, nothing.

You turned a page.

More nothing.

You looked up.

Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.

"What," you said.

"Nothing."

"Say whatever you're going to say."

"I'm not going to say anything."

"Dean."

"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."

"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."

"Completely understandable."

"I would have done the same for anyone."

"Of course."

"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."

"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.

You looked back at your notes.

I would have done the same for anyone.

You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.

That one had convinced neither of you.

You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.

"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.

You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."

You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.

The doors opened.

"Wednesday," you said.

"Wednesday," he confirmed.

You walked out into the night and did not look back.

You were going to need a very good cake.

session four

It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.

It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.

Things had been a little strange since the fight.

The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.

You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.

You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.

"So," you started.

Dean looked up from his laptop.

"I would like to apologize."

He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."

"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."

You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.

"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."

Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."

"I brought us a snack."

"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."

"We've been here three hours."

"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.

"Good?" you asked.

"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."

"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.

Dean didn't say anything.

But he didn't look away.

You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.

You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.

He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.

You looked at your screen.

His knee stayed where it was.

Fine, you thought. Fine.

You did not move away.

Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.

You looked down at his hand on yours.

You looked up at him.

He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.

You turned your hand over under his.

Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.

Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.

You didn't move.

His eyes met yours — a question, patient and certain — and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.

You had kissed people before.

This was categorically different.

It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan — soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath — and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.

The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.

You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.

You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.

Dean — you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean —

Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.

A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.

Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.

You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.

"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."

Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.

You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.

Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:

"So."

"Don't."

"I was just going to —"

"I know what you were going to say."

A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."

You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.

"The cake was really good," he said.

"Shut up, Dean."

He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.

You were both smiling though.

session five

The fifth session was on a Wednesday.

You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.

Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.

You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.

The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.

You worked.

The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.

You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.

You were not examining that.

"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.

"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."

He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.

"It's good," he said.

"I know."

Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.

"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."

"Doing what."

"You know what."

"Dean —"

"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."

You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.

"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."

The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.

"It's not that simple," you said finally.

"Okay." He waited.

"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by —" you stopped.

"By me," he said.

"By anything."

He was quiet. "That's fair."

"And you don't —" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."

Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself — all the way, no management.

"What have you heard," he said.

"Dean."

"No. Specifically."

You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."

He held your gaze.

"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."

"And now?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.

You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.

The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.

Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.

"Four more pages," you said.

Dean was quiet for a beat.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

You both looked at your screens.

You finished the project.

Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.

You were in your seat when she read them out.

A plus.

You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.

You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."

"A plus," you confirmed.

"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."

"That was my idea."

"I agreed with it enthusiastically."

"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."

"Enthusiastically," he repeated.

You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.

You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.

The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.

Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.

You hugged him.

You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.

When you pulled back he was still looking at you.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."

You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.

Then you walked away.

You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought —

oh.

oh no.

And kept walking anyway.

the wednesday after

The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.

Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No."

"Should I get it?"

"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.

You opened the door.

Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan — of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them — holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.

You stared at him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"I heard the interview went well."

"How did you hear that."

"Beau knows your roommate apparently."

You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.

"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."

You took them. "And the DVD."

"Also for you."

"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."

Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."

"So this is."

"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."

"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."

He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.

You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.

"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."

"I did."

"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."

"If that's what you want."

"Most people would have just texted."

"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.

You stepped back from the door.

"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."

Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.

"I love caesar salad," he said.

"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."

"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"

Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.

You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.

"I got in," you said, to the screen.

Dean went still.

"The interview —" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."

A beat of silence.

"Harvard," he said.

"Harvard," you confirmed.

Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.

"I knew you would," he said.

And then he kissed you.

It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.

He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that cliché about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.

Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.

Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.

On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.

God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.

He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.

"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.

"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."

As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.

"I told you," he said.

You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.

You let out a slow whistle.

Hockey had been very, very good to him.

"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."

"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."

"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then — you watched, incredulous — tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Absolutely not —"

"Focus," he said.

"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"

"Stop teasing," you whined.

"Not so funny anymore, is it."

"Please, Dean —"

"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"

The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."

His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.

When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.

"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.

"Fuck — Dean —"

The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.

"Be a good girl and come for me."

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden and total.

"Dean — oh my god —"

He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.

He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.

You felt him against your thigh.

Oh. He was — yes.

"Breathe, honey."

It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.

Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.

"I need you inside me, Dean —"

"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.

"Please — Dean — please, please —"

He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.

"Oh fuck —" you moaned as he bottomed out.

"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."

His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.

"You really do have the most absurd —" he said against your skin.

"Do not finish that sentence —"

"— tits. I could spend all day here."

Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.

"I'm gonna come —" you breathed.

"I know."

He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.

The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.

"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."

"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.

You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.

You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.

Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.

You pulled his arm tighter around you.

Worth it.

[sleep-i-ness]

fuck this is so unbelievably good

[g0ldendesiree]

Little Black Dress | Beau Maxwell

summary: beau knows the rules, but that doesn’t stop him when someone else tries hitting on you.

series: part two of bad idea right

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 3.51k

authors note: hi party people, we've got our first official series to come from off campus! naturally still trying to plan what comes next as I am trying to follow the rough timeline of the show but with that being said if you want something in the series then do let me know!

previous part

Beau swore that he had wronged someone in a past life. 

Because in his current one he was experiencing a level of torture that he thought nobody was possible of inflicting on another person “you are going to get me killed.” Beau grumbled against your mouth as his hands rested on your waist. 

It made you grin “I’m just a girl chilling on her bed.” You played defensively as you gasped feeling his hips grind against you. 

The boy laughed “you say that like you aren’t in my shirt.” Beau pointed out as he looked down at the football training shirt. 

The grey fabric practically drowned you, reminding him out that day you were in his jersey “hey finders keepers losers weepers.” You stuck your tongue out at him earning an immediate laugh. 

Beau tucked your hair behind your ear “you’re lucky that it looks better on you anyways.” He murmured leaning in to kiss your neck.  

You shook your head as you let your hands cup his cheeks before you pulled his attentions back to your eyes “you know what looks better on me?” You batted your eyelashes at the boy who swore he melted into your bed at that moment. 

You had this way of looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. Sure he looked at you like that too. 

It was funny how time had a way of stopping when you shut your bedroom door. The apartment had become your safe haven once the girls found out about you two, it became a place where you didn’t have to hide “what does baby?” Beau asked as he cocked his head. 

You ran your tongue along your teeth “if it’s off of me.” Your words were met with an immediate groan as his head fell onto your shoulder. 

It made you laugh which was only made louder when the door burst open “absolutely not!” Allie shook her head. 

She was stood with Hannah who grinned when you looked past the boy on top of you “you need to get ready.” Allie pointed her finger in your direction “and you need to go finish helping set up your stupid house for this.” She moved her attention to Beau. 

It made the boy groan “I hate your roommates.” He grumbled when he finally sat up. 

You mocked him with a pout “they’re my roommates.” You reminded him as you giggled “and we’re also the ones who keep your asses safe.” Hannah reminded you of remembering when Garrett had an impromptu drop in and Beau was left being forced into your room. 

In a way it was almost ironic that Beau dropped in on girls night, just for Garrett to do the same thing thirty minutes later. That’s how you ended up being forced to fake a cold for a week after you had to hide in your bedroom too. 

Beau sighed as he knew that the girls were right “what is it that you want from us?” He asked as he let his hand snake around your waist once more. 

Allie rolled her eyes “for you to go away so that we can get her dressed.” Beau looked down to what you were in. 

What was just his t-shirt “well I think she looks perfect.” He confessed making both girls pretend to gag “nice try.” Allie crossed her arms. 

Beau grinned “now go away.” She added making the boy frown. 

He reached for your hand “no don’t look at her she can’t help you.” Hannah stopped him making you laugh. 

The boy looked at you like you had just gone to the dark side “I will see you later.” He went to kiss you but your roommates remained strong “go!” 

You toyed with your necklace as you laughed seeing them shove him out “you know your boyfriend is obsessed with you right?” Allie shook her head and you couldn’t even argue. 

Because the feeling was right, and listening to people still calling him your boyfriend made your stomach feel funny. 

It came when the rain was pouring outside. 

Beau came over after he finished a late class and practically slipped into your bed with you the moment he got a chance as you had complained that you were too cold to practically do anything. 

That’s how the two of you ended up watching Mamma Mia on your laptop together “so just so we’re clear Sam’s the dad right?” His words made you pause your laptop, leaning up from his chest. 

You turned to Beau and let out the harshest sigh you possibly could have “it’s a good thing you’re pretty cause you my friend are wrong.” You shook your head as you felt his hand on your back. 

Beau cocked his head “it’s so clearly Bill!” You whined not realising that the boy in front of you had gone strangely quiet. 

His fingers brushed up your arm absentmindedly. His fingers were slower as if his mind had drifted somewhere else entirely “you’re staring.” Your voice was soft as it pulled him back to you. 

He smiled when his eyes flicked back to yours “no I’m not.” 

“Oh yes you are.” 

And then he paused as he let out a hard exhale “I’m just thinking.” He shrugged as he leaned on his arm “that’s dangerous.” You grinned as your eyes shone this glimmer of mischief. 

He rolled his eyes as he huffed out a laugh “do you ever think about how this started?” He asked quietly as his arm tightened around your waist. 

You blinked as you cocked your head “how you’re wrong about a piece of cultural history?” You spoke so simply that it almost made him laugh. 

Beau shook his head “I mean us.” You turned to be fully in his arms “I think about it all the time.” 

It made you smile “what about us?” You furrowed your brows. 

His thumb brushed against your waist, almost nervous in a way you weren’t really used to seeing him in “I don’t want to just be your friend.” His words made you grow confused. 

“I’m not tracking with you Maxwell.”

He frowned, trying to figure out how he was meant to say it “what are we?” His hand reached up to cup your cheek. 

You chewed at the inside of your lip “I mean.” You couldn’t find the words to articulate it “we’re serious.” You remembered that night when the girls found out about him when you confessed that. 

Beau nodded “they called me your boyfriend.” He reminded you as if it wasn’t something that you were already thinking about. 

You licked your lips “I liked it when they did that.” His confession made you melt as he sat up talk as if it was about to make what he said more proper than when he was laying down “I want you like that.” 

He ran his fingers through his hair “you do have me like that Beau.” You nodded as he shook his head “not officially.” 

That made you nervous “what about Dean-” his hands cupped your cheeks “I know I can’t have you in public.” 

It should have stung. It should have made your heart break “but I want you in all the ways that matter to us.” Beau forced his lips into a smile when you grinned “who would have thought I’d get Beau Maxwell getting all cute?” 

He pecked your lips “your boyfriend Beau Maxwell actually.” 

It lingered in your mind as you walked into the house “Dean might kill me in this.” You shook your head at the two girls who laughed “well then aren’t we glad that you dressed up for your boyfriend.” Allie took a cup one of the guys who smiled at her before she gave it to you. 

You downed it without thinking twice as you nodded “remember if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Hannah patted your lower back when you guys finally spotted Beau. 

He was stood in some black shirt and a backwards hat that made him look dangerously good “I-I,” You cut yourself off as your throat felt dry. 

Now you were learning how the world felt as it was so unfair. 

And then he looked up and finally saw you.

Before he completely stopped moving.

It was almost funny how obvious he was when he wasn’t meant to. 

But somehow it felt like something only you guys were meant to know.

Like his body forgot how to function for a second every time you walked into a room “oh my god,” Allie whispered beside you, delighted “look at his face.”

Hannah snorted looking at the boy “he’s gone.” Beau really was, his drink lowered slowly in his hand as his eyes dragged down your body.

The dress.

Your legs.

The way the black fabric hugged you in all the places he already knew too well.

It was something that Allie found in her closet, and she knew the moment you put it on that it was practically made for you. 

And Beau knew it by the way his eyes looked back up at yours.

And the look on his face made heat crawl up your neck instantly.

Because that wasn’t secretive.

That wasn’t subtle.

That was him reminding you that he was yours.

You swallowed as Allie grinned wickedly, “mission accomplished.” Across the room, Garrett said something to Beau that clearly went unheard.

Beau forced himself to nod as you smiled “think your man is thinking the same thing.” You winked at Hannah, who turned the same colour of red you swore your cheeks were. 

Beau was the first one to make his way over “I’ll meet him there.” Hannah squeezed your hand as she walked to Garrett before he had the chance to unintentionally cockblock you. 

Allie squeezed your arm “oh that boy looks sick!” She giggled like a kid in a candy store “try keep him breathing after midnight.” She teased as she gave you one last twirl.

You barely got a chance to respond before he was stood right in front of you. The boy made sure that there was enough space for it not to be overwhelmingly noticable, but he was close enough that you could still smell his cologne.

His eyes dropped again, straight to the dress. Then your legs. 

And to round off the trip they went back to your eyes, and the look that he gave you was enough to make your stomach flip “hi there, handsome.” You smiled sweetly. 

Beau exhaled through his nose as his eyes sharpened “you are doing this on purpose.” His words were directed at Allie but his eyes never left you. 

He let out a low whistle “c’mon baby I mean.” He reached out to put his hands on your waist but he quickly stopped himself. 

It was the part that you hated, the fact that he couldn’t just reach out and touch you, it almost made you feel jealous of Hannah and Garrett behind you, who got to be real in front of everyone when Hannah was still crushing on Justin two weeks ago, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say that she was still crushing on the singer. 

Sure you knew it was wrong to not be 100% happy for your friend, but you craved the publicity that her relationship got, “you look like trouble.” Beau finally found the words as he made you smile. 

Of course, he’d notice when his compliments made your heart soar, but you’d do everything in your power to hide the effect they had on you “that’s not very nice.” You lightly teased him as he shook his head. 

Beau decided to step forward again, this time allowing his mouth to drop to your ear “last time I checked, I wasn’t trying to be fucking nice.” He grumbled as he let his hand run along your waist. 

Honestly, that moment had done more to you than anything else. The thought of him peeling you out of your dress was something that seemed to be on both of your minds. 

Which was a dangerous look to have on a man in a room full of people “you are going to be the death of me.” He mumbled as he leaned back to take a look at you in full again. 

His jaw flexed as his eyes darkened. Beau was really weighing up the consequences of throwing you over his shoulder and bringing you upstairs

But then it happened, “Beau!” Dean’s voice called out, making your boyfriend step back. 

The boy groaned while you instead laughed “hey Deano.” You smiled seeing your very drunk and very oblivious brother sling his arm around Beau’s shoulders. 

Dean let his eyes linger over your body “you clean up nicely.” He announced as you tried your best not to look nervous. 

“Thanks?”

Your brother ignored you as he saw how Beau smiled at you “see this is why I have rules.” Dean slurred as he pointed his finger accusingly at his best friend. 

It made Beau’s eyes widen, “what rules?” He asked as he tried his hardest to act like you weren’t there and you tried the same thing with him. 

Dean continued, “you can’t hook up with any of my friends.” You had to force a laugh out of your lips “oh please, I’d never.” You scratched your arm nervously as if your brother knew everything. 

Thankfully he stumbled shortly after, making Beau practically catch him you are drunk.” Dean shook his head “I am having a better time than the two of you it seems.” He corrected his friend as you smiled. 

It was nice seeing the boys together, you had to admit it “c’mon lets get you some water.” Beau’s suggestion fell onto deaf ears “we are doing shots.” 

Dean looked at you “without her.” That was what your brother was always like so you really weren’t annoyed. 

Beau frowned as he really didn’t want to leave you “have fun boys.” You sent Beau a salute as he got pulled back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of people.

Before you knew it, the party had gotten louder. 

Hotter and somehow more crowded even. 

Allie disappeared outside to answer a call from Shawn while Hannah was talking to Justin in some corner as Garrett was in the bathroom. 

Which left you alone as you got a drink in the kitchen “you’re Dean’s sister right?” You looked up to see a guy that you vaugly remembered as one of the lowerclassmen on the football team. 

You nodded as you watched him smile too widely “that’s sick.” He reeked of alcohol, and it made your nose scrunch in disgust. 

The boy didn’t leave “you got a boyfriend?” He stepped closer to you instead.

Your heart skipped “why?” You knew you should have just said yes but you stopped yourself from having to explain this to Dean “because I think we should fix that.” 

He reached for your hand as you shook your head, “I’m good,” the boy didn’t stop “c’mon don’t shut me down that fast.” He made you cringe when you stepped back realising that you were now against the counter. 

Before you even had the chance to panic you heard him “pretty sure she’s good.” Beau clenched his fists as he stood behind you both. 

“Can’t you take a hint?” 

It made the other boy laugh “we are just taking.” You took the chance to wriggle out of his space. 

Opting to slot into Beau’s side instead “no she was trying to get away from you.” Beau wrapped his arm around your shoulder. 

He squeezed his arm making the other guy snarl, “why do you care?” Beau tensed against you “because she isn’t up for the taking.” 

Beau spoke so simply, unaware of the fact that you were just about ready to make out with your boyfriend in the middle of party, without caring who saw you “whatever.” The boy raised his hands in surrender as he walked off. 

The brunette turned his attention to you “you okay?” His expression softened as he made you smile. 

You softly laughed “a lot better now that you’re here.” Your words made him almost melt. 

His hand cupped your cheek as his eyes stared at your lips “fuck you’re gorgeous.” He murmured doing everything in his power to not kiss you. 

His words were sweet as you nodded “you’re not too bad yourself pretty boy.” You shook your head, as you leaned closer to him. Your lips mere inches away from him. 

And just like last time the moment was cut before it had a chance to begin “Beau c’mon someone is sick on our couch!” One of his roommates groaned making you sigh.

Beau was ready to stay with you and leave the mess for someone else to deal with “no talking to strange men.” Beau grumbled as it made you let out a low laugh “is that your takeaway from this?”

He wanted to plant his feet in the ground and never leave you “I’ll behave.” He didn’t believe that you would, but still he couldn’t stay.

Not when he was literally being pulled away “I’m serious!” Was the last thing that he said as he got pulled back into the crowd. 

Allie appeared beside you as you grinned “y’know he was ready to like actually fight that guy.” She squeezed your hand, making your cheeks turn red. 

You licked your lips “that guy was weird.” It sent a shiver down your spine. 

She gasped dramatically “no way, your secret boyfriend who is obsessed with you, got jealous?” She teased you as she let out a laugh when you rolled your eyes. 

The girl looped her arm into yours, leaning her head against your shoulder “I am literally living for this.” You snorted as you shook your head “you are enjoying this way too much.” 

Allie nodded as if it was the most honest thing that you could have said “because it took you two so damn long to let us in!”

She remembered how awkward you and Beau were when you first started sneaking around “y’know he used to look at you like a lost puppy.” Hannah reappeared next to you as you shook your head. “No he didn’t.”

Your defensiveness made them laugh “you love him.” Hannah elbowed your side as she slipped her arm into yours. 

You chewed at the inside of your cheek “yeah I do.” You nodded as you realised that you really meant it. 

Both girls squealed as they jumped up and down, seeing your eyes land on Beau’s. You did always managed to find him in the crowd. 

And like always, Beau was looking at you too. 

Allie stood in front of you as she grabbed your face “this is like the best day of my life.” Her words made you groan.

You shook your head “Allie!” You whined as you hated how well the girls could read you.

Hannah watched as you scrunched your nose “I hate you both.” You grumbled making her stick her tongue out at you.

Allie grinned as she let out a laugh “but we are still the ones helping you two sneak around.” She poked your nose as Hannah giggled.

And they were right.

Because when you couldn’t find Beau anymore. Rather than going home with the girls, you opted to slip up to his room to get some quiet and hopeful company “was wondering how long it would take you to come here.” Beau smiled as he toyed with his watch. 

The door shut behind you “I was waiting for you to come and get me.” You smirked as the boy stood up from his bed.

His steps towards you were painfully slow “was trying to do that most of the night.” His hand reached for yours as he smiled. 

His calloused fingers were rough against your skin “seemed like you didn’t do a very good job.” You let out a breathy laugh when he walked you back into the door. 

Beau licked his lips “you enjoy breaking the rules?” Your lips hovered over his as you smiled. 

He grinned “last I checked Dean said his friends couldn’t hook up with you.” He recounted the conversation as if you weren’t there when it happened. 

You finally scoffed as you sent him a confused look “and what are we doing?”

Beau brushed his nose against yours “I am dating you.” His lips engulfed yours when you started walking him backwards against his bed. 

The boy grunted when he pulled you down with him “do you enjoy wearing something trying to kill me?” Beau asked as his thigh drew these tiny circles against your inner thigh. 

You smiled sweetly, “you look pretty alive to me.” You batted your eyelashes, almost making the boy’s heart stop. 

Beau nodded “that’s cause I have been planning on getting you out of this from the moment you got here.” Your body squirmed as you clenched your thighs against him. 

“So what are we waiting for?”

taglist: @fandom-princess-forevermore @mosbookclub @shannon-1355 @outpostsworld @ellepinkbluepurple @prettylittlewrites @virgoalert123 @wiishies @rika-chan-12 @kmc1989

[sleep-i-ness]

insane insane insane i love jealous beau

[g0ldendesiree]

Bad Idea Right? | Beau Maxwell

summary: what's the worst thing that could happen when you start seeing your brothers best friend?

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, drinking, illusions to smut if you squint?

word count: 4.19k

authors note: when I tell you I love this piece that is an understatement and a half. like I was writing it to set it up to be a series, I liked it that much. it's also to a point where I am ready to make mom and dad a series just so I can get this one. with that being said though I do hope you guys actually like this one.

series masterlist | next part

The first time you kissed Beau Maxwell, he taste like cheap beer and bad decisions.

Which honestly made sense considering the entire thing was one giant mistake. 

But the frat party was a mistake before Beau got involved. 

You hadn’t even wanted to go originally, but Hannah helped do your hair while Allie dug through her closet for something that was ‘slutty but classy’ which directly translated into tight jeans and some white top that now clung to your skin after some drunk idiot slammed directly into you with a cup full of whatever he had too much of “yo sorry girl!” He called out as he continued walking. 

But you stood there staring in horror. Because that once white fabric was see-through now, and that meant that your red bra had to be on full display for everyone to see “shit.” Hannah’s eyes went wide as you let out a huff “I need a drink if I’m meant to deal with this.” You grumbled as both girls followed you. 

They swore you would have gone home right when that happened, but instead you opted to fill your cup up again.

Then again. 

And again. 

Which is how you ended up upstairs half an hour later, annoyed, tipsy and actively trying to find a quieter space after you disappeared from the girls. 

You weren’t thinking when you opened the door to the first semi-empty room that you saw. Until you realised it wasn’t empty. 

Beau was stood there, leaning against his dresser as he looked for a new shirt for himself to wear, as he too was covered in someone’s drink. 

If you had to put your money on it, it was probably your brother’s doing.

His eyes flicked to you immediately, then dropped before they snapped right back up “you okay?” His voice was soft, like it always was when he spoke to you. 

You let out a dry laugh “do I look okay?” You asked as you shook your head. 

Beau’s jaw tightened slightly. Because he was looking again. 

Too long.

Too obvious. 

You crossed your arms out of reflex and that almost made it worse pushing your boobs up. So the boy looked away as if it would quickly reset his mind “what happened?” He asked as he scratched the side of his arm. 

“Some guy happened.” 

His expression immediately darkened “relax.” You saod even though your stomach still felt irritated, “he just spilled his drink on me.” You ran your fingers through your hair. 

Beau’s eyes flicked to your shirt again, the fabric clinging and the outline too visible. His throat moved as he swallowed “I can see that.” His voice was rougher; something about it made your stomach flip. 

Without thinking, you stepped further into his room. Which was a bad idea, as you were now closer to him.

Close enough to smell him properly, beer, laundry detergent and something sharp yet masculine underneath it all. 

Beau shifted slightly as he was suddenly aware of every inch between the two of you “here.” He reached for the Nike hoodie that was behind you “you should probably get out of that shirt so guys don’t look.” His words made your ears turn pink. 

Because not once had you ever thought that Beau cared about what other guys did when it came to you.

You stared at him for a second too long “why?” You asked quietly as Beau blinked, “why what?”

“Why do you care?” 

Silence. 

The music downstairs thumped faintly through the walls. Someone laughed too loudly in the hallway. 

Beau’s grip tightened on the hoodie “I just-” He stopped himself as he licked his lips “it’s just annoying, that’s all.” He said it like it was an answer that made so much sense.

You tilted your head as neither one of you moved, the hoodie was between you and Beau already regretted every second of this conversation “you’re drunk.” He gave you this look, as if it explained everything.

You shot back “so are you.“ And that got him.

A faint helpless nod came from the boy before a pause. It was longer this time.

The tension in the room shifted, never disappeared, just changed shape as if it was keeping up with the times.

You stepped closer without thinking.

Beau didn’t move away. 

That was the problem. 

He never moved away from you “you’re staring again.” You pointed out softly 

The boy dropped his hands “you’re in my room in a see-through shirt. What do you want from me?” His question made you quietly laugh. 

Because he was right, “fair,” but then you went quieter, “is it bothering you?” 

Beau looked at you properly this time, no pretending, “yes he said immediately. 

Your breath caught slightly “because of the shirt?” You teased, voice no longer as steady as you wished it was. 

He shook his head once “no.” That word changed everything as your stomach dropped “oh.” 

Beau stepped forward without warning, it was just one step but ut closed the gap between the two of you.

His voice dropped, “you shouldn’t look at me like that.” His eyes hovered dangerously over your lips. 

Your voice was barely a whisper, “like what?” You always thought he was cute, but you knew your brother would kill you if you ever vocalised it.

“Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Your heartbeat skipped. 

That was it. The moment that everything snapped. The floodgates of emotion and desire flew open and everything was about to come tumbling out. 

You didn’t think. You just grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly. Beau froze for like half a second like he needed to reboot.

Then he kissed you. It was powerful.

Like he had been holding it back since he knew you and stopped pretending he could win.

His hand came to your waist, firm as it pulled you closer, making your back hit the dresser behind you. 

You moaned against his mouth, and that only made him kiss you harder. 

It was warm, dizzy, and completely unfair.

You didn’t even notice when he dropped the hoodie, or when your arms slid around his neck. All you knew was that Beau kissed you like he’d wanted it for longer than either of you was willing to admit. 

When he finally pulled back, it was so he could take in the sight of you, how your lips were now swollen “this is such a bad idea.” He muttered, making you smile, “yeah it is.” Neither of you pulled away. 

So when Beau kissed you again, he brought your legs around his waist before he used his foot to shut his bedroom door.

Because this was definitely going to be a cause of night one and not one night.

The two of you had been sneaking around for a while now, and you made it through the summer, sneaking around the house in Cape Cod. You made it through sneaking into each other’s rooms as if Dean wasn’t feet away. And honestly, you were both feeling like you were on top of the world. 

Because it was getting too easy, which meant soon that you’d both start playing recklessly.

That’s how you ended up in his car at 2 am after a late-night snack run that you practically had to beg the boy to go on. 

You were sat in the passenger seat, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole. Beau was in the drivers seat, turned slightly towards you with his forearm resting on the steering wheel like he needed something to anchor himself to. 

The windows were fogging up a little and neither of you acknowledged it “we need rules.” You announced as you sat up straight. 

Beau quietly laughed “rules?” He cocked his head as you nodded. 

Dean had asked you if you wanted to hang out with him tonight and you didn’t know what you were meant to say when you turned him down “because this is going to get messy.” You insisted even though your voice didn’t sound sure of it. 

Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up “it’s already messy.” He pointed out as the only thing going through his mind was how he really wanted to kiss you in that moment.

You sighed as you fiddled with your rings “okay what are you thinking?” Beau shifted in his seat to give you his full attention. 

You nodded like you were in control of your entire life and not currently sat in his car after sneaking out of your dorm.

One rule should have been obvious: Don’t do this.

But neither of you said it, instead opting for “no public stuff.” You said it carefully as if you were testing the waters. 

Beau nodded in agreement and your heart did something stupid because he didn’t even hesitate, “no kissing at parties or touching were people can see.” You continued knowing that it would be the first thing to blow the two of you up if it happened.

Beau’s jaw tightened at the second one but he nodded again “no Dean.” He added, making you laugh.

It earned a smile from him “yeah none of him.” He was the one you were trying to hide this from after all.

The first two felt manageable, the third was where things were going to get tricky ‘no telling anyone.” You knew that this was something he’d tell Joanna, and before you knew it, everyone would know. 

Beau didn’t respond and that made you look at him properly.

His expression had shifted to something less joking and more serious, like he was actually thinking about the weight of it all “yeah,” he said eventually, “no telling anyone.” Your stomach dipped as you nodded.

Because telling nobody meant hidden, and hidden meant fragile.

Beau seemed to notice your face changed, his voice softened a little “we’re not doing this because we’re ashamed.” His words lingered in the air. 

You licked your lips slightly “then why are we doing it?” Silence filled the car for too long. 

Beau’s hand left the steering wheel and rested on your thigh like he was forcing himself not to reach for your hand “because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He said those words so simply. 

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed and it wasn’t said as if it just made your stomach do flips.

You swallowed “that’s not a rule.” You pointed it out as your brows furrowed.

“No,” he agreed quietly “that’s the problem.”

The air between you both changed. It was thicker now; it was less about the rules you set to make.

More about everything you were trying not to say out loud. You shifted in your seat slightly, facing him fully, “Beau…” You trailed off as he looked a you immediately.

Always immediate. Always like you were the only thing in the room (or in this case, car) that mattered “are we okay with this?” You asked softly “like actually okay or are we just-“

“Already in it?” The boy finished your sentence as if he had been thinking the same thing. 

You nodded, Beau exhaled through his nose, almost like he was annoyed at how true the statement was. 

Then he leaned over the centre console, not fast, not rushed, just inevitable. 

Your breath stuttered before he even touched you “yeah.” He said quietly as his eyes flickered between yours, “we’re in it.” That was all the warning you got before he kissed you.

Slower this time. Less frantic than before. But deeper in a way that made your entire body go warm instantly, like it had been waiting for him to do exactly that.

Your hand slid into his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer as his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he still couldn’t believe that you were real. 

The console dug into your thigh as your seatbelt clicked when you shifted. 

None of it mattered. 

Because Beau Mazwell kissed you like he meant it every time. 

When he finally pulled back it was only slightly, resting his forehead against yours like he needed a break “rule four.” You whispered.

It made him laugh against your mouth, “theres more?” He asked as you nodded, “just one.” 

He hummed against your lips “go on.”

You looked at him properly, your fingers still hooked into his shirt, “if this goes bad ever.” You said, trying to sound casual and failing completely, “we don’t ever talk about it.” Beau’s expression softened instantly.

He paused, “but it’s not going to go bad.” You gave him a look “you don’t know that.”

Beau smiled “I do.” That made your stomach flip again.

You held your pinky out and Beau stared at it for half a second before he laughed and did the same thing “taking this to the grave.” You said. 

Beau squeezed your hand gently “to the grave.” He nodded. 

You should’ve let go after that.

You really should’ve. But instead, you pulled him back by his shirt.

And Beau met you halfway, like he always would. Like there was never really going to be a rule strong enough to stop him.

But it was funny how that last rule really didn’t last long. 

Because the girls were the ones who found out by accident.

Mainly because Beau was a football player and that meant that stealth didn’t come to him naturally.

It was nearly one in the morning when he showed up at your dorm wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, “okay Stevie Wonder.” You let out a snort, seeing his sunglasses on him too. 

He rolled his eyes “if you didn’t take so long to come get me I wouldn’t need a disguise.” He grumbled pecking your lips. 

You grinned as you curled the string of his hoodie between your fingers “hey now I could leave you out here.” You taunted him, licking your lips in the process. 

He let out a low whistle “now where would the fun be in making me go home?” His hands rested on your waist as your cheeks turned red “you’re lucky you’re cute.” You grumbled as you grabbed his hand. 

It made him grin, “you think I’m cute.” He looked as if he had just been told he was the best looking man in the world “yeah so lets not let that change.” 

You got to your floor as you looked around “c’mon be quiet.” You brought your finger to your lips as you had snuck him past the security desk for what felt like the tenth time that week. 

Beau rolled his eyes “I know how sneaking works.” He snorted softly right before he walked into one of the random tables that were out.

It made this loud echo “do you now?” You crossed your arms as he grabbed your waist, shoving the two of you behind some corner before the RA had a chance to appear. 

You bubbled into this silent laughter as you grinned, “you’re enjoying this too much.” Beau muttered as he shook his head “didn’t think you would be this bad at sneaking.” 

“Usually I don’t need to.” 

You were still laughing by the time the two of you got to your dorm suite. 

Where you froze immediately.

Because the once empty living room now had both Hannah and Allie sit on the couch eating cereal. 

With a perfect view of you and the man you were holding hands with “I knew it.” Hannah lowered her spoon as her mouth fell open. 

Your eyes closed “Hannah-” Beau squeezed your hand, reminding him he was there with you. 

“I knew it!” She shrieked louder as Allie clapped her hands, looking genuinely delighted, “oh my god, its Beau!”

Beau looked like he’d rather be taking a tackling drill to the face in that moment “that’s why Garrett said Dean was going on about you having some mystery girlfriend!” Hannah remembered how the hockey captain pointed it out as you were running to a lecture one day as the two studied in your living room. 

Your head snapped “he what now?” Your eyes went wide as Beau groaned from next to you. 

Allie gasped as her hand went over her mouth “you’re the one that give her the hickies!” It was after a party where you were in a low-cut shirt and Beau got a little annoyed seeing all the guys look at you. 

So he made sure you were left forced to wear borderline turtlenecks in the middle of August “this is humiliating.” You groaned as you leaned into Beau. 

Allie scoffed “correction, this is the cutest thing in the world.” She spoke in a duh tone as she placed her bowl on the table. 

Beau slid his arm around your waist as your head buried into his chest, refusing to look at anyone. 

And the girls noticed that immediately. And the worst part? So did you. 

Because the tiny movement said more than either of you had yet “wait are you guys serious?” Her eyes darted between you. 

You finally looked up from the boy’s chest to see his eyes looking right at yours, “yeah.” He nodded making your stomach flip. 

Allie clapped her hands together as she squealed, “you’re dating Beau Maxwell.” It was a massive jump from when you swore you were off of guys last year after another failed hook-up.

You laughed despite yourself, “don’t make it weird.” You groaned, making the girls laugh. 

Hannah shook her head “trust me it’s already weird.” She informed you “your brother literally thinks Beau is in love with some random girl while you’re literally sneaking him into our door.” She pointed out making you look up at Beau who sighed. 

He knew what he was getting into when he started sneaking around with you “Dean’s gonna kill me.” Beau chewed at the inside of his lip. 

Allie shook her head “while you’re probably not wrong.” She trailed off, looking at Hannah, who gasped. 

“Oh my god, we can help keep them a secret!” 

While the girls offer wasn’t something either of you needed to take just yet, it felt like as the weeks continued, something was changing between the two of you.

Somewhere along the way, the sneaking and fun around turned into something serious. 

Beau had texted you all about how he had a bad practice, and that was how you ended up in his room without a second thought. 

He was in his ensuite showering, blissfully unaware of what was sitting on his bed waiting for him. 

You found his jersey and had kicked your jeans off, leaving you in your underwear and his shirt, “holy shit.” His eyes went wide as he took in the sight of you. 

The first went down to your thighs leaving you looking as if you were about to be swallowed whole “hi handsome.” You grinned as you pushed yourself off of his bed. 

Beau felt his brain short-circuit as he dropped his towel to the floor, forgetting what to do with himself “couldn’t you have waited until I got dressed?” He asked quietly as he reached for his boxers from his open drawer. 

You swore you hadn’t seen him get dressed faster in his life “would that have been more polite?” You tilted your head, watching your boyfriend turn back to face you again. 

He was quick to shake his head, “it would have been a whole lot less distracting.” He countered, making you laugh softly. 

Beau reached you as one hand automatically wrapped your leg around him. It was a move that made your pulse jump. 

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against bare skin while he looked at you like he didn’t know where to focus first “you wore this on purpose.” He mumbled as he licked at his lips, “maybe I missed you.” 

It made his expression soften. Every single time it happened. No matter how teasing the moment started, the second you said something genuine, Beau looked at you like you knocked the air out of him. 

“I saw you this morning.” 

You rolled your eyes, remembering how good he looked in your bed “long time.” Your words made him huff out a laugh before he lay you onto his bed. 

The sight always made you squirm as his chain rested on your chin before he kissed you. 

The kiss always started slow with Beau first. As he enjoyed the build-up far too much to rush anything. 

His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, while your fingers curled into damp hair at the back of his neck. 

He tasted like mint and Gatorade.  

And god you swore you could feel the smile against your mouth when you tugged at his hair “you’re trouble.” He murmured as he looked away to look at you. 

You grinned, “you like it.” He nodded as he caught your lower lip between his teeth “I’m obsessed with it.” Your heart skipped embarrassingly hard at that. 

But Beau kissed you again before you could recover, this time going deeper. One hand pressed into the mattress under you while the other slipped under your shirt letting his palm spread against your bare waist. 

You made this tiny sound into his mouth that made him shudder, “don’t do that.” He grumbled as his knee dipped into the mattress.

You cocked your head feeling a little confused, “don’t make noises like that unless you want me acting insane.” His warning sound have made you squirm but instead you smirked. 

“Maybe I do?” 

That line got the boy as he groaned before he kissed you harder again. 

His body settled on top of you as his fingers traced up your ribs underneath the jersey, making your breath catch in your throat. 

“Beau-“

A loud knock slammed against the door as you both froze “Maxwell!” Dean whined from the other side of the door, making your eyes widen in horror. 

Beau dropped his forehead onto your shoulder “you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He groaned as he wanted to hit your brother in that moment.

Another knock came “c’mon Tucker is downstairs waiting for us!” And just like that you remembered why you weren’t meant to be seeing Beau until tonight. 

He was seeing Dean and Tucker after practice “hide!” Beau whisper hissed as he motioned you to slide under his bed “not your bathroom?” You scoffed, matching his tone. 

The boy panicked, “no time.” He pressed a kiss on your lips before you begrudgingly listened making sure that you hid behind where his practice bag was dropped “why aren’t you dressed?” Dean asked immediately, seeing the lack of clothing that his friend had on. 

Beau looked down as he ran his fingers through his hair “sorry bro, the shower ran long.” It was a stupid excuse, but the first one that he could come up with. 

Dean nodded as he crossed his arms “well just hurry up.” The blonde let out a dramatic huff that almost made you laugh.

Your brother looked at the bed, hearing your hand slap over your mouth “did your bed just make a noise?” He asked, making Beau’s eyes grow wide.

Dean shook his head as he sighed, “ignoring that are you gonna come out with us tonight?” Your brother asked but quickly groaned seeing Beau remain quiet “c’mon man mystery girl can’t be that special.” That was the nickname the boys gave you. The reason why Beau smiled at his phone, left parties early, didn’t attend poker nights if the puck bunnies were coming along, and most importantly, stopped flirting with other girls. For weeks now, Dean had been trying to figure out who was the reason his best friend went soft, blissfully unaware that it was the very sister whom he spent mornings ransacking her snack drawer. 

Everyone was trying to guess who you were and beyond for you, Beau, Hannah and Allie, nobody was going to be successful for as long as you all could help it. 

Beau gripped his hand at his door “look dude I can’t do tonight but give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll be down for Tucker.” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer as he shut his door, making sure he locked it. 

His head dropped as he helped you out from under his bed “next time I’m hiding you under my bed.” You grumbled as Beau sighed. 

The boy pressed a kiss against your lips “sorry princess your brother would have killed me.” He sighed as his hands rested on your hips “wait for me to come back?” He didn’t want to leave you, he really, really didn’t want to leave you in his jersey looking like that. 

But if you both wanted to make it through the night, you really had no other choice in the matter, “you know I will.” You leaned onto your tippy toes to kiss him again. 

“Don’t make me come back up there, Beau!”

“I am going to kill my brother.”

[sleep-i-ness]

AHHHHHHHHH I WANT HIM

[pucksandpower]

the scientific method (part one)

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to

Read part two here

The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, and you’re pretty sure that’s not supposed to be a good thing.

“This was a terrible idea,” you shout over the music, but your roommate Maggie just laughs and pulls you deeper into the chaos that is The Boy’s House.

“You literally never go anywhere!”

“I go to the library!”

“That doesn’t count!” Maggie’s still dragging you through a sea of bodies, past the kitchen where someone’s doing a keg stand, past a couple making out against the wall with such enthusiasm you have to look away. “You need to live a little. Have fun. Maybe even-”

“Don’t say it.”

“-talk to a guy.”

You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“

“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”

“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.

The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.

“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”

“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”

“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.

Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.

“See? This isn’t so bad.”

You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.

There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.

“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”

“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.

You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.

You fail.

***

Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.

Except.

Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.

She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.

And Dean can’t look away.

“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”

But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.

Huh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”

“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.

Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”

“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.

“That depends on your definition of good.”

Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”

You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.

“Are you having fun?” He tries again.

“Not particularly.”

“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”

“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”

Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.

“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“So why are you here?”

You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”

“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.

“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”

You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.

“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.

And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.

“Dude,” Logan says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“She just …”

“Yeah.”

“That never happens to you.”

“I know.”

Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”

“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”

“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”

“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking nicely?”

Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”

“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”

Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”

“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”

“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.

Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”

Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.

“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”

“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”

“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”

Logan and Maggie exchange a look.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.

“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.

But Dean’s already moving.

***

You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.

“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.

“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”

“We will. Thank you so much.”

You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.

You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.

“You’re good at that,” Dean says.

You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”

“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.

“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.

“But you know of me.”

“Everyone knows of you.”

“And what does everyone say?”

You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.

“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.

“True.”

“That you’re charming.”

“Also true.”

“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”

“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”

“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.

“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”

“You are just some guy.”

“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”

“I don’t need hyping up.”

“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.

“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”

“It’s Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So don’t you ever take a break?”

“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?”

“So I can text you.”

“Why would you text me?”

“To ask you out.”

You blink. “No.”

“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”

“You think that’s all this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”

“Let me at least walk you to the front-”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”

You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. I’m Ubering.”

“Already? We just got here!”

“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”

Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”

“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”

“Dean was talking to you.”

“Dean talks to everyone.”

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”

“He asked for my number.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Is that really so shocking?”

“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”

“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I really am.”

Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Be safe.”

You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.

And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.

***

“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”

“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.

“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”

“Correct.”

“And then she called an Uber and left.”

“You’ve got it.”

Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”

“This girl Dean’s obsessed with,” Garrett says cheerfully.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”

“I have not.”

“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”

Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”

“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”

“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.

Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.

The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.

“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”

“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”

“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.

He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.

He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.

He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.

And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.

“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.

“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”

Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.

He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.

A future that apparently doesn’t include him.

Well.

Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

***

You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.

(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)

You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.

(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)

By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.

“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”

“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”

“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”

“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”

“Maggie.”

“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”

“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”

“You sound like a robot.”

“I sound focused.”

“You sound scared.”

That stops you. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”

“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”

“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.

You stare at the screen.

“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”

“You gave him my number?”

“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”

You read the text again. And again.

You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Three dots appear immediately.

Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks

You: That’s not how libraries work

Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author

Despite yourself, you smile.

You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl

Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking

Dean: what if we were friends?

You blink at the screen.

You: Friends?

Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do

You: You want to study with me

Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win

You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?

Dean: scout’s honor

You: Were you even a scout?

Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?

You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.

You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-

Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?

You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm

Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends

You: You’re ridiculous

Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you

You are. You don’t respond.

Dean: see you tuesday, friend

You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“We are!”

“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.

And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.

“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.

“Friends,” Dean confirms.

“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”

“It will.”

“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

Because Garrett’s probably right.

But as far as Dean’s concerned?

This is only the beginning.

***

Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.

One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.

Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.

Three: He’s a terrible liar.

“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”

You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”

“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”

“There’s a handbook?”

“Absolutely. Chapter three, section two: Thou shalt attend thy friend’s athletic events and cheer loudly.”

“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”

“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”

“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”

“You sound like Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”

Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”

“Is it working?”

You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”

“I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”

“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.

***

Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.

“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”

They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.

“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.

“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.

“She said she would.”

“And you believe her?”

Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.

“She’ll be here,” he says.

And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.

You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.

Then you see him looking, and you wave.

It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.

“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.

Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.

He can think about you later.

***

Hockey is violent.

This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.

“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.

“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”

“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”

“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”

You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.

“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.

Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.

“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was totally for you!”

“We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.

The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.

“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.

“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”

This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.

Right?

With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.

***

Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.

His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.

“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”

“That was Tucker’s idea.”

“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”

“I’ve tried that. She said no.”

“So try again!”

“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”

But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.

He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.

Is it manipulative? Maybe.

Is it ridiculous? Definitely.

Is he going to do it anyway?

Absolutely.

He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-

CRACK.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.

“ON PURPOSE?”

“Keep your voice down-”

“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”

So much for subtlety.

Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.

“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”

“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”

“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”

“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.

***

You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.

“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”

“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”

You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”

“Uh-”

“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.

Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.

“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-

“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”

“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”

He opens his mouth obediently.

“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”

“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.

“Show me.”

Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.

“This is going to sting,” you warn.

“I can handle—OW.”

“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”

He stays still.

“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”

“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”

“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”

“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”

“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”

“Ouch.”

“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”

“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.

Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”

“Sorry. Friends. I know.”

“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”

You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”

“I’m good at hockey.”

“You just got hit in the face.”

“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”

“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”

“You’re really worried about me.”

“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”

“But especially me.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”

The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.

“Y/N-”

“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”

“Will you be there?”

“Dean.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”

“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”

“But you handled this one.”

“Because Garrett came and got me.”

“Lucky me.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”

“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”

“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”

“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”

“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”

“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”

You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.

“You should stay here and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.

“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

“That’s fair.”

He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.

“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”

“I need to take you home first.”

“We have an Uber-”

“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re-”

“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”

“Maggie!” You elbow her.

But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.

His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.

“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.

“You missed the turn,” you point out.

“Did I?”

“Dean.”

“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”

“You’re not concussed!”

But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.

When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.

“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”

He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.

But he’s tired of pretending.

“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”

You’re staring at him.

“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”

“Dean-”

“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”

The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.

Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Your lip,” you say.

“What about it?”

“I said no kissing for a week.”

“You did say that.”

“So this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“It could get infected.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

“We’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is-”

He kisses you.

Or you kiss him.

Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.

You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.

“Your lip,” you gasp.

“Don’t care.”

“It’s going to start bleeding again.”

“Still don’t care.”

You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.

When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.

“I should go,” you say, not moving.

“Probably.”

“Maggie’s waiting.”

“Definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

“This was a one-time thing,” you say.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it.”

You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.

“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”

“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.

He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.

Worth it.

Completely, absolutely worth it.

His phone buzzes.

Garrett: so did your insane plan work?

Dean: better than i could have imagined

Garrett: you’re an idiot

Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n

Garrett: WHAT

Tucker: WHAT

Logan: FINALLY

Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.

And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.

Trying.

Failing.

“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.

The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.

Your phone buzzes.

Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had

You: I told you it was a terrible idea

Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty

You: I’ve noticed

Dean: so … still friends?

You stare at the message for a long time.

You: we’ll see

Dean: i’ll take it

Dean: sweet dreams, friend

You: goodnight Dean

You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.

What have you gotten yourself into?

And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?

***

The shift from library to living room happens gradually.

First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.

Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.

“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.

“We’re studying.”

“In his bedroom.”

“It’s more comfortable than the library.”

“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”

“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.

“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.

“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can I?”

Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.

***

Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.

“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.

“I’m just cleaning.”

“You never clean.”

“I clean.”

“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”

Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.

But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.

Even if it’s killing him.

The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.

You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.

You look perfect.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”

“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”

“Want to reschedule?”

“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.

***

Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.

Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.

“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Sure it is. I just used it.”

You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.

Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.

Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.

He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.

He should really wake you.

Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.

Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.

He’s in love with you.

The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.

But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.

He’s in love with you.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You sleep on, oblivious.

Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.

So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.

He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.

***

You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-

Your eyes fly open.

Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-

Oh god.

Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.

He’s still asleep.

You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.

But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?

“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”

“So?”

“So that’s not … we’re not …”

“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“We should talk about this.”

“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”

“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”

“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s consistently true.”

He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.

“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”

“I don’t snore!”

“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”

Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”

“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.

“We’re in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”

Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”

“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”

“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.

When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Last night … it was really nice.”

He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” he confirms.

You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”

You smile. “Good to know.”

And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.

Definitely not.

***

Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll turn around. I promise.”

He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.

Until you wake up tangled together anyway.

It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.

“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.

“Come here,” he says, and you do.

You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.

“This okay?” He murmurs into your hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is okay.”

And it is. It’s more than okay.

It’s perfect.

Read part two here

[sleep-i-ness]

I am obsessed

[alierecss]

I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan

summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.

notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️

warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.

word count: 8k

The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.

It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.

Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.

And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.

A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.

What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"

So. So what? What were you supposed to say?

"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."

Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.

But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.

So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.

At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.

But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.

You and Logan became friends.

Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.

And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.

And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.

And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.

And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.

Every single time.

Which brings you to now.

You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.

You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.

"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.

You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.

The front door opened.

You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.

He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.

"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."

At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.

"Shoot," you said.

Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"

Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.

"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"

"What? No. I'm a man."

"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."

"I know that. It's not for me."

"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."

"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."

"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"

"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."

You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.

Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.

Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.

You knew that shift. You had felt it before.

The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.

It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.

You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.

The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.

You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.

The third time you stopped counting.

Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.

You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—

You glanced at Logan.

He wasn't laughing.

He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.

The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.

You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.

"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."

"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.

"You okay?" Garrett asked.

"Fine. Just air."

You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.

"I'll come with you," he said.

The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.

Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."

"Baby—"

"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"

He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.

Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.

"It's not—" he started.

"Logan."

He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.

"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"

"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."

"It's not a big deal—"

"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."

"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."

The word landed like a slap.

Girlfriend.

"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."

"That's not what I—"

"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."

He said nothing, which you took as a yes.

"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."

"It's complicated—"

"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."

"You knew what this was when we started—"

"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."

"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"

"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."

"I am being honest—"

"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."

The parking lot went completely silent.

Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.

"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.

"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."

Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.

"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.

"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."

Logan looked at you.

And said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.

"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."

You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.

"Don't follow me," you said.

He didn't.

You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.

Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.

Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.

It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.

Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.

Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.

You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.

Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.

The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.

The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.

I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.

The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.

"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.

You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.

"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.

"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."

"I didn't bring my ID."

Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"

"I forgot." You shrugged.

"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."

You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.

The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.

"You look like you're deciding something," he said.

"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."

He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.

"((Y/N))."

"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."

You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.

By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.

You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.

The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.

You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.

That was the point.

You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.

You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.

Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.

It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.

You were almost believing it.

The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.

Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.

You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.

After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.

Four seconds.

You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.

The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.

You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.

Logan.

He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.

"Hey," you said carefully.

"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.

"That's not really your business."

"You're spending a lot of time with him."

"Logan—"

"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.

"Make it somewhere else."

He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."

You went very still. "The type to?"

"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."

The lobby was very quiet.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.

"Say that again," you said softly.

"I didn't mean—"

"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"

Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.

"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."

"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."

"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"

"Why did you say it?"

He looked at you.

"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."

Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.

"Because I can't—" He stopped.

"Can't what?"

"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.

"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.

And then he looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "It was."

You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.

But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.

Good, you thought.

And hated that you thought it.

Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.

Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.

Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to have spent their teenage years watching anime and grown up to exclusively pursue Asian women, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.

But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.

You were not offended by the word.

You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.

That was what got to you.

Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.

You didn't tell anyone what he said.

That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.

You knew what it meant. That was the problem.

You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.

You were done trying to travel between them.

The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.

You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.

You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.

You were fine. You were getting finer.

You were also absolutely not fine.

Dean found you on a Wednesday.

Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.

He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.

"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.

You looked at your coffee. "Okay."

"He feels terrible."

"Good."

"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."

"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."

You were quiet for a moment.

"A little late," you repeated.

"Okay, very late."

"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."

"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."

"Then what are you here for?"

Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.

"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."

You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.

"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"

Dean was quiet for a moment.

"A while," he said carefully.

"How long is a while, Dean."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.

You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.

"Okay," you said.

"(Y/N)—"

"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."

Dean looked at you. "That's it?"

"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."

Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.

"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."

You didn't say anything.

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."

He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.

Since pretty much the beginning.

338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.

You sat with that for a long time.

It had been raining since noon.

Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.

You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.

You had not been thinking about Logan.

You were almost at your building when you heard him.

"(Y/N)."

You stopped walking.

He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.

He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.

"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"You're soaked."

"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."

You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.

"You have two minutes," you said.

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.

"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."

The rain was very loud suddenly.

"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."

You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.

"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.

"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"Yes."

"A year."

"Yes."

"And you said nothing."

"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."

You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.

"The Hannah thing," you said.

"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have what you and I were =and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."

The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."

The street was very quiet under the rain.

You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.

Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.

The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.

"You're an idiot," you said.

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.

"I know," he said.

"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."

"I know."

"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."

"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."

The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.

"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."

"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."

You looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly.

"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."

The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.

Then you closed the distance.

You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.

When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.

"I'm still mad at you," you said.

"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."

"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."

"I know. Whatever it takes."

"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."

"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."

You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.

Worth it, you thought.

Embarrassingly, completely, entirely worth it.

[sleep-i-ness]

you write in the most sensational way

[alierecss]

Ruin the friendship | John Logan

Summary: Falling for your brother’s best friend is already a terrible idea. Falling for John Logan, while Garrett Graham watches the two of you like a security threat, is even worse.

Pairing: John Logan x Graham!Reader

A/N: hii! this is actually the first thing i’ve ever published, which is both exciting and terrifying honestly 😭 i’ve always been more of a reader than a writer, so this is very new to me, but i had so much fun writing it.

if you end up reading, please let me know what you think! i’d really love to hear your thoughts.

also, im taking requests, so if you have any requests you can send it to me

okay bye, hope you enjoy <3

Garrett and you were born three minutes apart. Only three. You've done the math a thousand times, turned it over like a coin, trying to understand how three minutes could possibly account for the way he acts. The only explanation you've ever landed on is that Garrett must have gone through some Interstellar type of thing on his way out, where those three minutes stretched into three decades, aging him into the world's most exhausting older brother before he even took his first breath.

You two were never the kind of twins people expected. No matching outfits, no finishing each other's sentences, no eerie identical habits. From the very beginning you were sorted into different boxes. Garrett's box had ice skates and early morning practices. Your box had dolls and tea sets and the vague, uncomfortable feeling of being dressed up for something you hadn't agreed to.

It was a common complaint "why does Garrett get to do something while I just sit here?" Your mother would smooth your hair and change the subject. Your father never even registered the question. It took years before you understood that Phil Graham simply operated in a world where the answer was obvious. Garrett got to play hockey because Garrett was his son. You got the dolls because you were his daughter. Feminist icon was not a title Phil Graham was ever in the running for.

Growing up, you and Garrett were close in the way that kids who share a wall and a last name and a particular kind of household tend to get close,out of necessity as much as love. It was a good closeness, mostly. Until high school, when it curdled into something more complicated.

The prom thing was the first real incident. Aaron Michaels showed up at your door junior year with his hair combed and his hands in his pockets, and before he even finished the sentence you said yes. Not because you were swept away by him, you barely knew him, honestly. But you had caught Garrett watching from the top of the stairs with that particular expression on his face, the one that meant he was calculating something, and the thought of letting him anywhere near your prom night was enough to make you say yes to virtually anyone.

You think about that sometimes. How early it started.

In college, things loosened. Distance helped. You found your place in a sorority a house full of girls who were loud and warm and didn't ask you to be anything specific. Garrett found his place off campus, in a house with three teammates that quickly became something closer to family.

You were glad for him. You meant that sincerely. He had always been the kind of person who needed people around him, and for a long time the only person around had been you.

What you were less glad for was the way his protectiveness followed you across town like a second shadow. He knew your schedule. He knew your friends. He had a habit of appearing places whenever a boy seemed too interested. You had once watched him dismantle an entire almost-relationship simply by being in the same room, asking questions that were technically friendly and somehow completely lethal.

The thing was, and this was the part that made it complicated, you understood where it came from.

Growing up, Garrett's protectiveness hadn't been suffocating. It had been necessary. Your father's anger was the kind that lived in the walls of the house, that changed the air pressure in a room when he walked in. For a long time you were almost oblivious to it, the way children learn to not see things that are too large and too frightening to look at directly. But then you got old enough that it became impossible to pretend.

What you remember most is not the sounds. It's Garrett, how he would find you, and sit with you, and press your head gently against his chest without saying anything, his hands patient and steady, turning himself into a wall between you and whatever was happening on the other side of it.

He never talked about it. Neither did you. You're not sure you ever will.

Your mother died when you were young. After that, there was just you and Garrett and your father and a house that felt too big and too quiet. Garrett stayed close to you that whole year in a way that asked for nothing and gave everything, and you never once had to ask him to.

So no you didn't resent the protectiveness, not really, not at its root. You understood it.

You just wished it wasn't currently ruining your love life.

It's college, you thought, more than once, lying on your sorority house bed staring at the ceiling. Why can't I get some?

When Garrett moved into the house off campus at the end of freshman year, the relief was quiet and immediate and guilty enough that you didn't mention it to anyone. You visited often it was an easy excuse to get out of the sorority house, and Dean and Tucker were genuinely funny, the kind of company that required nothing from you.

But there was something about Logan that was different from the start. Something you noticed before you had the language for it.

The first time you really registered him was after the team's first game of the season. You had gone to the arena with Rowan, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, expecting to do your dutiful twin sister routine and leave. You found Garrett near the locker room, already mid-conversation with Logan, still in half his gear, laughing at something.

Logan turned when Garrett said your name. That's what you remember: the turn, the way his attention moved to you. He reached out to shake your hand and said something, something normal, something you have completely forgotten because you stopped processing words the moment his hand closed around yours.

His hands were warm. That's what you thought. Just warm. And large. And you were aware of them in a way that made the rest of the sentence disappear entirely.

You let go. You said something back. You moved through the rest of the conversation on autopilot, smiling at the right moments, and the whole time you were thinking about his hands.

On the drive back, Rowan looked at you sideways and said, you have about five seconds to tell me what that was.

You told her.

She was quiet for a moment. Then: make a move before they get any closer. Because once Logan becomes one of Garrett's people, you're done.

You had laughed at the time. But Rowan was right.

That was two years ago. Logan and Garrett were now the kind of friends that finished each other's sentences and covered for each other without being asked. Which meant that every time you let yourself think about Logan, really think about him, about his hands and his voice and the way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren't paying attention ,Garrett materialized in your mind immediately, like a warning, like a wall.

Two years. And you were no closer to doing anything about it.

This morning Logan had texted, and the moment his name appeared on your screen that feeling arrived with it the one that lived somewhere between your ribs and your stomach and had no polite name. You had stopped calling it a crush a long time ago. Crushes were light things, easy things. This was two years old and had roots.

He needed help with an assignment. A professor, a deadline, the usual disaster.

You had started tutoring at the beginning of sophomore year, a natural extension of the waitressing you'd picked up at Malone's when you first realized college was expensive and pride was not a payment method. Tutoring paid better and smelled less like fried food. Logan was the one client you had never once considered charging. You weren't sure what that said about you. Probably something embarrassing.

You got a ride to the house and let yourself in without knocking, everyone did, that was just how it worked here, and followed the stairs up to Logan's room, where you found him on his bed with his laptop open and his reading glasses on.

You took a moment.

"Hey, you," you said, walking in and knocking on the door after the fact, in the way you had trained yourself to do ever since a series of unfortunate incidents involving Dean that you were never going to think about again.

Logan looked up and smiled.

"Hey." He moved to make room. "I was waiting for you."

The assignment was for his sports management elective and it was, structurally speaking, a crime scene.

"Walk me through what you're trying to argue," you said, pulling the laptop toward you.

"That collegiate athletic programs need better mental health infrastructure."

"Say that in the paper."

"I did."

You turned the screen to face him. He read it. He had the grace to look slightly ashamed.

"...that's not what that says."

"No. It really isn't."

You started from the top. Logan sat beside you and explained himself in sentences that were clear and direct and completely unlike anything on the page, which was its own kind of frustrating because it meant the ideas were good. They were just trapped under writing that was trying too hard to sound like writing.

"Stop trying to sound smart," you told him. "You already are. Just say the thing."

He looked at you. "You're kind of mean when you tutor."

"You're paying forty dollars an hour for this."

"You're not charging me."

"Then you're getting exactly what you paid for. Keep going."

He kept going. You kept pushing. Somewhere in the middle of restructuring his third paragraph he had migrated from the desk chair to the bed beside you, and at some point after that the laptop had ended up in your lap, and the space between you had gradually, unremarkably, ceased to exist. His arm was against yours. His knee was against yours. He smelled like cedar and something warmer underneath it, which you were actively choosing not to think about.

Once, leaning over to point at something on the screen, he turned his head and found you already looking at him. Neither of you said anything. You looked back at the screen.

By the time you finished it was late afternoon, the light in the room had gone gold and low, and Logan was leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out and you were beside him, close enough that moving away would have required a decision neither of you had made.

"Thank you," Logan said, and the way he said it was quieter than his regular voice. "Genuinely. You didn't have to do this."

"I know," you said.

"You're kind of incredible, you know that?"

You laughed, which was the only safe response available to you.

"You are very welcome, Johnny," you said, shaking your head, which brought you even closer than you already were.

The room was very quiet.

You had thought about this moment approximately four hundred times over the past two years. You had imagined it in detail. Talked yourself out of it and back into it and out of it again, and every single time Garrett had materialized in your head like a stop sign and that had been enough.

But Garrett was not here. And Logan was looking at you like that, his eyes dropping, just briefly, to your mouth, and coming back up. And two years was a very long time to wait for a moment that kept almost arriving.

You closed the distance.

The seconds that followed were the slowest of your life. You were aware of everything the warmth of him, the sound of your own pulse, the fact that his eyes had closed, which meant something, that had to mean something..

His eyes opened.

He pulled back, just slightly, and looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before and couldn't name.

"Oh," he said. "Are we finished?"

The words landed like a door closing.

You heard yourself say yes. You heard yourself say something about studying, about being busy, about having to go. You were already reaching for your bag. You were already standing.

Every embarrassing moment you had ever lived through, every misdirected wave, every bon appétit thrown at a waiter who had not asked for it, every autocorrected text sent to the wrong person, shrank to nothing. Microscopic. Irrelevant. Amateur hour.

This was the real thing.

There should be a world record for how fast you left that house. You would have broken it.

Arriving home, there was only one thing on your mind.

The almost-kiss.

You prayed on the entire walk back. Prayed that something would take you lightning, a sinkhole, the apocalypse, anything. Because there could not be a world in which you had just tried to kiss John Logan and he had literally swerved. This could not be happening. You felt like you couldn't breathe, and yes, it was dramatic, but how, how could something like this happen to you?

I have to hide forever, you thought.

So hide was what you did. Three days of pretending to be too busy to check your phone, sending texts that said busy, call later to everyone who tried to reach you and yes, that included Logan. He had texted to thank you for the tutoring session and ask how your day was going, which was its own specific kind of torture. It was genuinely difficult to decide which was worse: him not mentioning the almost-kiss, or him not mentioning the almost-kiss.

Your sorority friends decided not to let you sulk indefinitely. You hadn't told them the truth, it was too embarrassing,but they had collectively decided that you needed to go out. Luckily, Dean and Beau's birthday bash was happening that weekend. Rowan had appointed herself costume director. You and her were going as Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen in New York Minute — which was a generous description of what amounted to tiny red shorts and an I ♥ NYC shirt.

Walking into the party, you spotted your brother almost immediately. He was standing with a girl: Hannah, you realized after a second. You had heard the rumors that Garrett was seeing someone but hadn't paid much attention. Garrett with a girl was like rain in the Amazon. Unremarkable. Constant. A feature of the landscape.

You already knew Hannah from Malone's. She was sweet, genuinely, almost confusingly sweet, and you had always had a hard time understanding why a girl like her would give the time of day to someone like your brother. You grabbed a drink and kept glancing at them, and spotted the exact moment Garrett stepped away and Jules moved in with that particular look on her face that meant she was about to conduct a full background check.

Time to intervene.

"Hi, Hannah," you said, inserting yourself smoothly. You turned to Jules with a look of mock severity. "Jules. This is a party. Stop the questionnaire."

They both laughed, because that was exactly what Jules had been doing. She threw her hands up and wandered off.

"Hey, (y/n)!" Hannah said cheerfully. "I haven't seen you at Malone's in a while — how have you been?"

"Busy. Tutoring." You shrugged. "How about you? I heard you were dating my brother."

Hannah looked startled. "Oh, not dating. Just a fling."

"Nice. A fling is nice." You tilted your head. "But since when do you do flings?"

"It's new. Experimenting." She seemed to run out of words.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said, softening your voice. "I'm not going to say anything. I thought you had a thing for that guy Justin,the one with the band?"

"I did," Hannah said, and then lowered her voice. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."

You made the motion of zipping your mouth shut, locking it, and throwing away the key.

"Garrett is helping me," she said. "He said guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. So he's helping me seem less available so Justin will come around."

You stared at her. "He's fake-dating you to make another guy jealous."

Hannah nodded.

"That's—" you started, then stopped. Actually not the worst plan. "Okay. Solid strategy."

As if summoned, Garrett appeared carrying a can of beer for Hannah, which was objectively cute even if you would never tell him that.

"Hey, (y/n)." He pulled you into a side hug. "Why have you gone MIA? I was getting worried."

Because I tried to kiss your best friend and he dodged me like I was a pothole in the middle of the road.

"Just busy," you said pleasantly. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." You winked at Hannah, who turned pink, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

The thing was, you couldn't stop turning it over. What Garrett had said to Hannah guys aren't interested in girls who are too available. Was that it? Was that why Logan had pulled back? Had you made it too obvious, been too present, too easy to read?

It was the kind of question that only one person at this party could answer.

Dean was in the kitchen taking shots with Tucker, Beau, and,of course, Logan. He was dressed as Maverick from Top Gun, which was doing entirely too much for everyone in the vicinity. The navy jumpsuit was one deep breath away from falling off his shoulders entirely, to the visible appreciation of roughly half the party.

Your heels announced you before you got there. All four of them looked up.

"Dean." You used your most businesslike voice. "I need to talk to you."

Logan, who until that moment had been carefully avoiding looking at you, looked at you.

"In private," you added.

Beau and Tucker made a coordinated oooooh sound. You took Dean by the hand and led him to a quieter corner, and from the edge of your vision you could feel Logan watching the whole way there.

"Do you think guys go for girls who aren't available?" you asked, skipping any kind of introduction.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Just answer it. Do guys prefer women who are harder to reach?"

He studied you for a moment with the particular expression of someone who was not fooled even slightly.

"(y/n)."

"Dean."

"It's Logan."

"It's not…"

"It is literally Logan." He glanced over his shoulder and back at you. "He's been staring at this corner since you dragged me away from the shots he was pouring, by the way. So I hope this is worth it."

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"He swerved me," you said finally, quietly, in the tone of someone confessing a crime.

Dean's eyes went wide. "He what—"

"Don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing, I'm just" He stopped, visibly recalibrating. Then something shifted in his face. The confused expression dissolved into something far more dangerous. A Dean I have an idea smile. "Okay. I know exactly what to do."

"That face terrifies me."

"Let me make him jealous."

You stared at him. "What."

"Think about it." He leaned against the wall, warming to the plan in real time. "You and me, rest of the night, very cozy, very close. Logan spends the whole party watching. By midnight he either says something or he implodes. Either way you get your answer."

"That is insane."

"That is genius and you know it." He held out his hand. "What do you say, Graham?"

You looked at his hand. You looked across the room at Logan, who was very deliberately not looking in your direction, which meant he was absolutely looking in your direction.

You took Dean's hand.

"If this blows up," you said, "I'm telling everyone it was your idea."

"It is my idea." Dean grinned and pulled you back toward the party. "Come on. Let's go be very convincing."

Dean was, it turned out, an excellent co-conspirator.

He had led you back into the main room with his hand on the small of your back, a small gesture, casual enough to be deniable, obvious enough to be noticed, and steered you toward the couch where Tucker and Beau had set up camp. You settled in close to him, closer than you normally would, and let the conversation wash over you while you tracked Logan from the corner of your eye.

It took approximately four minutes.

Logan had migrated from the kitchen to the edge of the living room, arms crossed, drink in hand, wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. Not angry exactly. Something tighter than that. Something controlled, but only barely.

Dean said something in your ear something about Tucker's costume, and you laughed and leaned into him, and across the room Logan's jaw tightened.

Good, you thought, and then immediately felt terrible about it, and then thought good again.

The night continued like that. Dean was committed to the bit in the way that only someone who was genuinely enjoying himself could be his arm around your shoulders, finding excuses to tuck your hair back, laughing at everything you said like you were the most interesting person in the room. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. Dean was funny and warm and completely unthreatening, which made it easy.

What was not easy was Logan.

He didn't leave. That was the first thing you noticed he had every opportunity to drift to another room, another conversation, and he didn't take a single one. He stayed in the periphery of wherever you were, a fixed point, his drink barely touched. He had stopped pretending to talk to people. At some point Tucker said something to him and he responded without looking away from you, which Tucker clearly clocked because he glanced between the two of you with an expression of dawning comprehension and wisely said nothing.

Once, you made direct eye contact with Logan across the room. Neither of you looked away for a long moment. Then Dean said your name and you turned, and when you looked back Logan had moved closer.

He was close enough now that you could hear him when he spoke, which he had started doing small insertions into the group conversation, technically friendly, with an edge underneath them that you recognized because you had never heard it from him before.

When Dean refilled your drink, Logan was suddenly beside him. "I'll get it."

"I've got it," Dean said pleasantly.

"I said I'll get it."

Dean looked at him. Logan looked back. The silence lasted exactly long enough to be uncomfortable.

"She likes more ice than you think," Logan said finally, which was such a specific and unguarded thing to say that Dean had to look away to keep from smiling.

He brought you the drink himself. Set it down in front of you without a word and went back to his position across the room, jaw tight, arms crossed, watching.

You picked up the drink. You took a sip. You did not look at him, which cost you more than you were prepared to admit.

Okay, you thought. So it's working.

The makeout was a decision.

You made it around midnight, when the party had gotten louder and the lights had gotten lower and Dean had pulled you onto the makeshift dancefloor with the easy confidence of someone who had committed fully to a plan and intended to see it through. You were dancing close, and it was working you could feel Logan's attention like a hand on the back of your neck and then you looked up at Dean and he raised an eyebrow, a question, and you thought about Logan swerving you on a quiet October afternoon and something in you made a decision.

You kissed Dean.

He kissed you back, because he was Dean and he was committed to the bit, and for a moment it was just that a kiss, warm and uncomplicated, Dean's hands steady on your waist.

You didn't hear Garrett coming. Nobody ever did.

"What the fuck?" His voice came from directly behind you, loud enough to cut through the music. You pulled back from Dean and turned around.

Garrett was standing there looking like he had just witnessed something that had personally offended him on a cellular level. Behind him, a few feet back, standing very still, was Logan.

"(y/n)." Garrett's voice had dropped into that register the one that meant he was trying very hard to be calm. "What is happening right now."

"I'm at a party, Garrett."

"You're…" He gestured at Dean, who had the presence of mind to take a small step back. "That's Dean."

"I'm aware of who it is."

"He lives in my house."

"Also aware."

"(y/n)"

"Garrett." You crossed your arms. "I am an adult at a college party. I don't need your commentary right now."

"I'm not — I'm just—" He stopped. Dragged a hand through his hair. Then, with the particular tone of someone who had not thought through what they were about to say before saying it: "Thank God. Logan went to get me — I thought something was actually wrong—"

The sentence landed in the middle of the room like something dropped from a height.

You went very still.

Logan went to get him.

Logan, who had been standing across the room all night with his arms crossed and his drink untouched and his jaw tight, had watched you kiss Dean and gone to get your brother instead of coming over himself.

You turned, slowly, and looked at Logan. He was looking back at you with an expression that was carefully, completely neutral, which was somehow the most infuriating thing you had ever seen on a human face.

"Garrett." Your voice came out quieter than you intended. "You want to talk about boundaries? Let's talk about boundaries. Let's talk about the fact that you have spent the last three years treating me like I'm something that needs to be managed. Like I'm a problem to be solved. I am your sister, not your assignment."

"I know that—"

"Do you?" You were properly angry now, the kind of angry that had been looking for a door for a long time and had finally found one. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like you don't trust me to make a single decision about my own life without you swooping in to fix it. I kissed someone, Garrett. At a party. Like a normal person."

"I just—"

"You sent Logan to get you." Your voice cracked slightly on his name, which you hated, and pushed past. "Like I was a child who had wandered too close to the street. I'm twenty years old."

Garrett opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked, for the first time in the conversation, genuinely uncertain.

"I need some air," you said, and turned and walked toward the door.

You made it to the front porch before you heard footsteps behind you.

"(y/n)."

Logan's voice. Of course.

You kept walking down the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold, and didn't turn around.

"Hey." He was closer now. "Can we—"

"Logan." You stopped walking but didn't turn. "Please don't."

"I just want to—"

"I said please." Your voice was steady, which surprised you. "I can't do this right now. I need you to leave me alone."

A long pause. The sounds of the party filtered out through the walls of the house, muffled and distant.

"Okay," Logan said quietly.

You heard him stop. Heard him not follow you. Stood there in the cold for a moment with your eyes closed, and then kept walking.

The week after the party, you became a ghost.

Not dramatically, you didn't make an announcement, didn't post anything, didn't give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had gotten to you. You just quietly became unavailable. Texts went unanswered for hours, then days. You skipped the house visits. You stopped showing up to things you normally showed up to.

Garrett called twice. You let it ring both times and sent a voice memo that said I'm fine, just busy in a tone that made it very clear you were not interested in discussing it further. He texted after that, a long one, full of run-on sentences and no punctuation, and you read it three times and didn't respond.

Logan texted once. Just your name. A single word, no punctuation, no follow-up. You stared at it for a long time, lying on your bed in the dark, and said none of it. You set your phone face-down on the desk and went to sleep.

Or tried to.

The only people you talked to with any regularity were Hannah and Dean. Hannah because she never pushed, never pried, just showed up with iced coffee and terrible reality television and the quiet uncomplicated warmth of someone who liked you without needing anything from you. Dean because he was the only person who knew the full story and had the decency not to turn it into a conversation every time he saw you.

He did try, once.

"You can't hide forever," he said, sitting on the edge of your bed one afternoon while you stared at the ceiling.

"Watch me," you said.

He watched you for approximately eleven more days before he stopped saying anything about it at all.

The car situation came to a head on a Tuesday, which felt appropriate. Tuesdays had always had a particular talent for making things worse.

You had always known, in a vague and carefully unexamined way, that the car thing was unfair. Garrett had gotten one junior year of high school a practical, slightly dented Honda Civic that Phil Graham had handed over with a clap on the shoulder and a speech about responsibility that lasted four minutes. You had gotten a lecture about how young women didn't need to be driving alone at night, delivered in the measured, reasonable tone your father used when what he actually meant was something he knew better than to say out loud.

In college it hadn't mattered much. Campus was walkable, rideshares existed, and you had quietly become very skilled at organizing your life around other people's cars without ever quite admitting that was what you were doing.

And then the interview came up and the system collapsed.

The position was tutoring coordinator at a learning center in Boston — real money, flexible hours, the kind of thing that could genuinely change the shape of your year. Friday at nine. Boston. Forty minutes away on a good day.

You needed a car.

Which meant you needed to call your father.

Phil Graham suggested lunch, because Phil Graham always suggested lunch. It was his preferred format for any interaction he wanted to feel like generosity rather than transaction, a restaurant, a table, the performance of a normal family.

You took Dean with you without asking permission, which your father noticed immediately and acknowledged with a slight tightening around the eyes that lasted less than a second before his public face reassembled itself. He shook Dean's hand with the particular warmth he reserved for audiences and said it was nice to see one of Garrett's friends, and Dean smiled and you watched them take the measure of each other across the table.

Dean was good at this. You had not known, before today, exactly how good. He had a way of being present without inserting himself filling silences before they became uncomfortable, asking your father questions that were just interested enough to be flattering without being so specific that they required anything real. He ordered the second cheapest thing on the menu, sat up straight, and spent the meal being quietly, almost imperceptibly perfect, and you watched your father recalibrate in real time.

"I need a car," you said, when the food arrived. Straight to it.

Your father looked up from his plate. "A car."

"I have an interview in Boston on Friday morning. I need reliable transportation."

"You could take the train."

"The timing doesn't work for the train."

A pause. Your father cut into his steak with the precise unhurried movements of a man deciding how much something was going to cost him versus how it would look to say no in front of company.

"I'll look into it," he said.

"I'd prefer to sort it out today."

Dean took a sip of his water and looked pleasantly at the middle distance, which was exactly right.

Your father bought you a car three days later. A white Subaru, two years old, clean interior. He texted you the details with no preamble and no sentiment, and you picked it up from the dealership with Dean in the passenger seat reading the car manual out loud in a documentary narrator voice until you were laughing so hard you had to pull over.

It was, all things considered, one of the better days you'd had recently.

The tire went two weeks after the party, on a Friday morning, on a stretch of road so unremarkable it felt like an insult.

You heard it first a dull, percussive thud that traveled up through the wheel and into your hands, followed immediately by the lurch of the car pulling hard to the right. You steered onto the shoulder and sat there for a moment with both hands still on the wheel and the hazards blinking orange into the grey morning air.

Boston was forty minutes away. The interview was in just under two hours. You were wearing your good blazer.

You got out and looked at the tire. Flat. Completely, aggressively, unapologetically flat.

You got back in the car and called Dean.

"Tell me you know how to change a tire," you said, when he picked up.

"Good morning to you too."

"Dean. I have a flat tire and an interview in Boston in less than two hours."

A pause. The sound of someone sitting up. "Where are you?"

You told him. There was a longer pause the kind that meant he was deciding something you weren't privy to yet.

"I can't come," he said finally. "I'm on the other side of town and I don't have the truck. But I'm going to fix this. Give me ten minutes."

"If you send Garrett—"

"I'm not sending Garrett." His voice had gone careful. Deliberate. "Ten minutes. Stay put."

He hung up before you could argue.

You sat on the hood of your car in your good blazer and watched the morning traffic pass and tried very hard not to think about who else Dean might send. You had a short list. The list had one name on it.

Fourteen minutes later, a familiar dark truck pulled onto the shoulder behind you.

You closed your eyes briefly.

Dean, you thought. I am going to kill you.

Logan got out without hurrying, because he never hurried. He was in a worn grey shirt with the sleeves pushed up and dark jeans, carrying a jack and a spare tire with the easy competence of someone who had done this many times before, and the morning light was doing something completely unreasonable to the line of his jaw.

You crossed your arms.

"I didn't ask for you," you said, before he reached you.

"Dean called me." He crouched beside your tire and assessed the damage.

"I know Dean called you. I'm saying I didn't ask for you."

"I know." He ran his hand along the tire. "You've got a nail in the sidewall. It's not patchable."

"Logan—"

"You can be angry at me the whole time." He looked up at you briefly, and there was something in his expression that wasn't quite an apology and wasn't quite a plea but sat somewhere in between. "But you have an interview in an hour and forty minutes, so let me do this."

You looked at the road instead.

He worked quickly and without commentary loosening the bolts, positioning the jack, the methodical progression of someone who understood machines in a way that was almost meditative to watch. You tried not to watch. You watched anyway.

Once he glanced up and found you looking. You looked away first.

"This is a temporary spare," he said, after a while. "It'll get you around town but not highway speeds. Not safely." He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he reached into his pocket. "Take my truck."

"Absolutely not."

"Your interview—"

"I'm not taking your truck, Logan."

"Why not?"

Because taking his truck meant owing him something, and owing him something meant having a reason to come back, and coming back meant another conversation where you said something you couldn't take back and he looked at you with that expression and didn't say anything.

"Because it's your truck," you said.

"And your interview is in less than two hours." He held out the keys. "Take it. I'll stay here. Come by the house when you're done and we'll swap back."

"I can call a rideshare—"

"(y/n)." Just your name. Just that, quiet on the side of the road, and something about the way he said it made all the arguments feel very small. "Please."

You looked at him. He looked back, steady and patient, keys extended, and you were so tired of fighting things that weren't worth fighting anymore.

You took the keys.

"I'm paying for the tire," you said.

"You're not."

"Logan—"

"Go." The corner of his mouth moved, almost. "You're going to be late."

The interview went well. You thought about Logan the entire time.

You drove back in his truck, which smelled like cedar and old coffee and something else you couldn't name, and you sat in the driveway of the house for a moment before going in.

Logan was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, and he looked up when you came in.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Good. Really good, actually." You set his keys on the counter. "Thank you. For the truck."

"Of course."

A silence settled. The television murmured from somewhere in the house. Tucker's laugh, distant and easy.

You should leave. You had told yourself on the drive over that you were going to return the keys and go clean and simple, no openings.

But you were so tired.

Tired of the almost-conversations and the loaded silences and the two years of carrying something that got heavier every time he looked at you like that and said nothing.

"I like you," you said.

The words came out quieter than you intended. Steadier than you expected. You watched them land.

Logan went very still.

"I know that's complicated," you continued. "I know about Garrett. I know that's why. I'm not asking you to do anything about it." You paused. "I just needed to say it out loud. I've been carrying it for two years and I needed to put it down somewhere."

Logan looked at you with an expression you had never seen on him before — open and unguarded and almost pained. His mouth opened.

"(y/n)—" he started, and his voice was different, lower

The back door opened.

Garrett came through it pulling off his jacket, mid-sentence about something to Tucker, and nearly walked into you before he registered you were there.

He stopped. For a moment he just looked at you. Then something cracked open in his expression relief and guilt and two weeks of missed calls all arriving at once.

"(y/n)." His voice was careful. "Hey. I didn't know you were here."

"Just returning the truck," you said. Perfectly normal. You were getting very good at it.

"Okay." He nodded slowly. Then, quieter: "Can we talk? It's been weeks and I—"

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," you said.

Behind you, almost inaudible, Logan said: "It's okay. Go."

You turned.

He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed and his expression carefully arranged into something neutral, and he met your eyes for exactly one second before he looked at the floor.

"Logan—"

"Go talk to your brother." His voice was even. Controlled. "It's fine."

You stared at him. The word sat in the kitchen between you like something neither of you wanted to pick up.

Fine.

"Okay," you said. And turned away.

The conversation with Garrett lasted longer than ten minutes. They always did.

He sat across from you on the couch with his elbows on his knees and said: "I'm sorry about the party."

"Okay," you said.

"I didn't mean to embarrass you. I was worried."

"I know."

"I know you're an adult. I know you don't need me to—"

"Garrett." You looked at him. "I know you know. That's never been the question."

He was quiet. In the kitchen, the low sound of Tucker and Logan talking, the refrigerator opening and closing.

"Then what's the question?" he asked.

You thought about it. About his hands pressing your head against his chest in the dark. About the house that felt too big after your mother left. About the whole year he had stayed close without ever being asked.

"I think you learned to protect me at a time when I really needed it," you said carefully. "And I think you don't know how to stop. And I think—" your voice went slightly unsteady "—I'm always going to love you for the first part. I just need you to work on the second part."

Garrett looked at the floor. His jaw worked.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah, okay."

It wasn't a resolution. It wasn't a fix. But it was the most honest thing you'd said to each other in years, and when you stood up to leave he pulled you into a hug that lasted long enough to mean something.

Logan was in the hallway when you came out.

Not waiting, exactly leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand, doing the convincing impression of someone who just happened to be there. He looked up when he heard you.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey." You picked up your bag. "I should go."

"(y/n)—"

"I meant what I said." Your voice came out gentler than you intended. "I'm not asking you for anything. You don't have to—"

"I know." He said it quickly. "I know you're not. I just—" He stopped. Something moved across his face. He pressed his mouth closed and looked at the ceiling briefly. "I heard you. What you said in the kitchen. I need you to know that I heard you."

You stood there with your hand on the door and the cold night air coming in.

"Okay," you said quietly.

And you left.

The guy's name was Eric.

He was in your economics lecture tall, easy smile, the kind of person who made friends without trying. He had asked to borrow a pen three weeks ago and somehow that had turned into sitting together, and sitting together had turned into coffee after class, and coffee after class had turned into texts that had nothing to do with economics.

You liked him well enough. He was uncomplicated in a way that felt, after everything, like something you might need.

You mentioned him to Hannah on a Thursday. Hannah mentioned him to Garrett on a Friday. Garrett mentioned him to the house on a Saturday, in the way Garrett mentioned things casually, as information, with the studied neutrality of someone who had learned to deliver news without editorializing.

Dean watched Logan's face when Garrett said the name.

Later, he would describe it as watching someone step on a piece of glass they hadn't seen coming.

Logan lasted four days.

Four days of being completely normal. Of practice and class and the house and dinner and conversations that had nothing to do with you. Four days of his phone on the table, not checking it, of going to bed at a reasonable hour and lying there for a long time.

On the fifth day, Dean knocked on his door.

"You have about forty eight hours," Dean said.

Logan looked up from the bed. "What?"

"Before she decides Eric is actually a good idea." Dean leaned against the doorframe. "She's not in love with him. She's barely interested. But she's trying, and she's good at trying, and if you wait much longer she's going to try herself right into actually meaning it."

"She deserves to be happy—"

"She deserves to be with someone who's been in love with her for two years, actually." He said it simply, without drama, the way you said things that were just true. "But that's just my opinion."

The word landed in the room and sat there.

In love.

Logan didn't correct him.

"Garrett—" he started.

"Talk to Garrett first if you need to," Dean said. "But do it tonight. Because forty eight hours is generous and I'm not known for being generous."

He left the door open when he walked out.

Logan found Garrett in the kitchen an hour later.

It was the conversation he had been avoiding for two years the one that lived in the back of his head every time you walked into a room, every time he had talked himself back from the edge of doing something about it.

"I need to talk to you about (y/n)," he said.

Garrett turned from the refrigerator. His expression moved through several things quickly before settling into something careful and still.

"Okay," he said.

"I like her." Logan held his gaze. "I've liked her for a long time. I should have said something to you before now and I'm sorry I didn't. But I'm saying it now because I can't not anymore."

The kitchen was very quiet.

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. Long enough that Logan had time to fully contemplate what losing his best friend would feel like, to turn it over, to decide that he was going to say it anyway.

"I know," Garrett said finally.

Logan blinked. "What?"

"I've known for a while." Garrett set his drink down. "I was waiting to see if you'd do something about it or if it would just go away."

"It didn't go away."

"No," Garrett said. "I can see that." He was quiet for a moment. "She's not easy to know. You know that."

"I know."

"And if you do this and it goes badly—"

"It won't."

"Logan—"

"It won't." He held Garrett's gaze. "I promise you it won't."

Garrett looked at him for one more long moment. Then he picked his drink back up and said, in the tone of someone changing the subject entirely: "She's probably at the sorority house."

You were on the porch when he pulled up.

You had come outside for air, just that, and you were sitting on the steps with a mug of tea going cold in your hands when you heard the truck. You knew the sound of that engine. Your stomach did the thing it always did.

He got out. Crossed the front path. Stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at you with an expression that had nothing careful about it — no composure, no distance. Just Logan, standing there looking like he had driven over without thinking it all the way through and wasn't sorry about it.

"There's a guy," he said. "Eric."

"I know who Eric is," you said slowly. "He's in my economics class."

"I know." His jaw worked. "I know, and I have no right to say anything about it. But I've been sitting in that house for four days and I can't—" He stopped. Tried again. "I can't watch you choose someone else because I was too much of a coward to say something."

You were very still.

"I talked to Garrett," he said.

"You—" You stared at him. "When?"

"Tonight." He took a step up, closing some of the distance. "I should have done it a long time ago. I should have done a lot of things a long time ago." He looked at you with an openness that was almost difficult to look at directly no walls, no distance, just the thing underneath all of it, which was apparently enormous. "I like you. I have liked you since the first time Garrett introduced us and you shook my hand and looked at me like you were trying to figure out what I was. And I have been handling it badly ever since and I'm sorry."

The street was quiet. The mug in your hands had gone completely cold.

"Eric is fine," you said. Your voice was slightly unsteady. "He's a perfectly nice person."

"I know."

"I'm not in love with him."

"I know that too." Logan's voice dropped slightly. "Is it too late? Because Dean said—"

"What did Dean say?"

"That I had forty eight hours."

You looked at him.

"Dean gave you forty eight hours," you said.

"He said it was generous."

"He's right, it was." You stood, which put you on the same level as him, close enough that you didn't have to look up anymore. "I was going to give you until the end of the month."

Something broke open in his expression. "Yeah?"

"Don't make it a thing," you said, and kissed him.

He kissed you back immediately, no hesitation, one hand coming up to the back of your neck and the other finding your waist, and it was nothing like October — none of the uncertainty, none of the held breath. This was certain. This was two years of accumulated patience finally running out, from both directions at once.

When you pulled back he was smiling — a real one, unguarded, the one you had always liked best on him.

"For the record," he said, "the first time you shook my hand I thought about it for three days."

"I know," you said. "I could tell."

He laughed. You smiled. Down the street a light came on in someone's window, and the night was cold, and two years of almost finally became something else entirely.

[sleep-i-ness]

oh my fucking god i love this

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Baby Doll {Dean Di Laurentis x reader}

Possible Part 1?

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Warnings: Phil Graham (not in this part), anxiety/panic attacks mentioned, sex

Dean Di Laurentis. The biggest man-whore of Briar U. His carefree and funny persona and his cocky attitude got him all the girls he wanted. Obviously, his looks didn’t hurt to look at either. He was 6’5 with gorgeous blonde hair and striking blue eyes. Being Garrett’s sister, Dean has always tried to get to you. He flirts with you every chance he gets. But Dean is never serious about anyone. He always says he doesn’t do relationships. Not that you care.

You and the girls walk into the kitchen where the guys were. Hannah was Graham’s girlfriend, which meant she went right to him. You look down at your clothes, feeling a bout of self-consciousness. Allie had lent you her red corset top tonight, saying “You haven’t been out since…” She stops, “You should look hot!”

You feel a presence next to you and don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Hello Dean.” You say with an annoyed tone to your voice.

His signature smirk spreads across his face as he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest-showing off those broad shoulders that made most girls swoon.

“Miss me already, baby doll?” His voice is low, teasing, as his blue eyes drag slowly down to the red top and your exposed cleavage, then back up. “Because I noticed you the second you walked in here.”

You scoff. “Huh really? Because I didn’t notice you at all.” You say sarcastically.

He lets out a low, deep chuckle, clearly enjoying the sarcasm. He shifts closer, his tall frame looming over you, effectively trapping you against the counter with his arms caging you in.

“Liar.” He murmurs the word, his voice dropping an octave as he looks down at you. “You always know exactly where I am, baby doll.”

You avoid his eyes, you always do. You feel your heart beating faster. You push on his chest to get him to move.

“Unfortunately for you it’s because you’re fucking everywhere.” You scoff again.

His hand catches your wrist mid-push, his thumb tracing slow circles over your pulse point-feeling how fast it’s racing. He doesn’t move an inch, just leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“Keep telling yourself that, baby doll.” He murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. “But that little heartbeat under my thumb says otherwise.”

Before you could justify yourself, you hear;

“Hey! Dean! I told you to stop hitting on my sister!” Garrett appears next to you guys.

Dean’s smirk doesn’t even falter, he just keeps his eyes locked on you, thumb still pressed to your racing pulse. “Can’t help it, man. She comes into my house, wearing that,” he gestures lazily at your top with his free hand, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Jesus Christ.” Garrett groans, rubbing his face. “Just…leave her alone, okay? Off limits, Di Laurentis.” He says half joking, half dead serious.

Dean finally let’s go of your wrist, but not before brushing his thumb one last teasing time over your pulse. He steps back, hands raising in surrender, but his smirk is still firmly in place. “Off limits, got it, captain.” He winks at you over Garrett’s shoulder. “For now.”

Garrett gives you a sympathetic look before being pulled away by Hannah.

You roll your eyes, looking around the room to see if you could spot Allie but low and beyond, she’s nowhere to be seen.

Of course she’s gone, why am I surprised?

The second she saw Logan or Tucker; she’d vanish into the crowd. Dean watches you scan the room, then steps back into your personal space when he sees you’re alone again.

“Lost your protectors, baby doll?” He grabs two beers from the fridge, twists one open, and hands it to you without asking. “Don’t look so panicked.”

You eye the beer bottle in his outstretched hand, feeling anxiety bubble up your chest.

“I-I don’t drink at parties’ thanks.” You ignore the beer and push down the memories.

Dean doesn’t press you about the beer, but his eyes stay locked on you like he’s trying to figure out the puzzle. The music pounds through the house and through bodies that were grinding against each other on the makeshift dance floor. He watches you shift uncomfortably, clearly out of your element.

“You look miserable, baby doll.” He finally says, voice low and close. “Want me to take you somewhere quieter?”

You nod subconsciously, not even realising what he said apart from the words “somewhere quieter.”

Dean grabs your head, silently asking for your consent, you squeeze his hand and he immediately weaves you through the crowded house. His grip is firm and warm, surprisingly gentle. He leads you upstairs, past the chaos, to a quiet bedroom at the end of the hall. He closes the door behind you, muting the noise from downstairs.

You sigh in relief, feeling air enter back into your lungs finally.

He leans back against the closed door, watching you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath since you walked through the front door. The room is dim, lit only by a streetlamp outside the window. It’s quiet, finally.

“You looked like you were like five seconds away from a panic attack down there.” He observes softly, losing the cocky smirk for a genuine, concerned expression after you don’t reply. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. Shaking your hands out to rid you of the anxiety you feel.

He watches you shake your hands out, recognising the physical notion of someone trying to regulate their nerves. He stays by the door, giving you space, crossing his ankles casually. No flirting, no teasing. Just calm observation.

“Breathe, Baby doll.” He says quietly, his voice low and steady in the quiet room. “You’re safe up here. Nobody’s gonna bother you.”

“Except you.” You say with a light exhausted laugh, still shaking your hands out in front of you.

He actually laughs back at that remark, the sound surprisingly warm and genuine. “Fair point. But you know I’m not gonna bother you like the other assholes down there.” He pushes off the door, moving slowly like he’s approaching a skittish animal.

You show a genuine smile. You notice that this was his room, just by the smell, his smell you knew all too well.

You suddenly remember where you were and who you were with. “I-I’m sorry I’m okay I promise, I’ll just go back to Bristol House.” You turn rapidly.

He stops you, “Whoa, whoa.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “No need to apologise and you’re not going back out there right now.” He moves closer but doesn’t crowd you. “You were shaking like a leaf down there, baby doll. Just…stay here for a minute.”

You relax at his words, “Okay.” You say quietly.

He nods, satisfied with your agreement. He notices you holding your arms over your chest self-consciously. So, he walks over to his dresser and grabs a hoodie, tossing it to you gently. “Here.” He watches as you catch it awkwardly, still trying to shake off the last remnants of your anxiety.

You tug it over your head and pull it over your body. You close your eyes, inhaling his scent, forgetting that he was right there watching.

You open your eyes and find him smirking at you. You blush a deep red and stop your inhale. “Uh thank you.”

His smirk softens into something almost tender, and for once there’s no teasing in his eyes. “Did you just smell my hoodie?” He asks, voice low with amusement rather than mockery. He steps closer, not threateningly, just… curiously. “That’s fucking adorable, baby doll.”

You feel heat pool in the bottom of your stomach at him calling you ‘baby doll’ again.

“Okay I should go, thank you for this but I have a lecture early tomorrow so uh, tell my brother I said bye?” You don’t wait for him to respond and swiftly exit his room, making your way down the stairs and out the front door before anyone notices, you get on your bike and ride back to Bristol House.

Dean watches you go, a small smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t bother chasing after you, knowing it would just freak you out more. Instead, he leans against the door frame, watching your figure disappear into the darkness as you ride away.

I hope you enjoyed this? I decided to write my own because where are all the off campus Dean fics at?? I'll do part 2 depending on how this part goes down...

[sleep-i-ness]

desperate for a part 2, I love this!

[bitchinbarzal]

Babe | D Di Laurentis

summary: dean has his sights set on punching hunter in the face, you, his ex girlfriend won’t let him.

—

Malone’s was loud.

Music thumping through the walls, people packed shoulder to shoulder around the bar, hockey boys shouting over pool games in the back.

You were half listening to Logan tell some ridiculous story while Hannah laughed beside you when you felt it.

That shift in the room that only came when Dean was about to do something catastrophically stupid.

You looked over immediately.

And there he was.

Standing near the bar gone completely still, drink hanging loose in his hand while his eyes locked across the room.

Hunter Davenport.

Oh no.

You knew that look on Dean’s face.

Everyone did.

Garrett noticed a second later, muttering, “Shit.”

Dean was already moving.

You were out of your seat before anyone else reacted.

“Dean.”

He barely glanced at you, still stalking toward Hunter. “Y/N, move.”

His voice was dangerously calm.

“Dean, no.”

“I mean it.” He gently but firmly pushed you aside by your arm without looking away from Hunter. “Hey, Davenport!”

Every head in Malone’s started turning.

Hunter looked up from where he stood with a couple teammates near the bar.

Recognition flashed. Then smug amusement.

Huge mistake.

You saw Dean’s jaw tighten instantly.

“Dean Hayward Di Laurentis,” you snapped sharply, stepping in front of him again, “turn around right now.”

For the first time his eyes actually landed on you.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Because you knew him. Knew that once Dean got angry enough, common sense disappeared completely beneath loyalty and emotion and impulse.

You could practically see it happening now.

The tunnel vision. The adrenaline. One bad second away from ruining everything.

“Baby,” you said quickly, reaching for his wrist before you even realized the word slipped out, “listen to me. Just turn around, okay? Don’t do this.”

Silence.

Behind you, Logan choked on his drink.

Hannah’s eyes widened.

Garrett looked like he’d just witnessed a magic trick.

Because Dean froze.

Completely.

Not at the command, At the baby.

You saw it hit him in real time.

Saw the anger crack just enough for him to actually look at you properly.

And once he did, you knew you had him.

“Wha…” His voice came out rougher now. Confused. “What?”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist.

“Dean,” you said softly this time, desperate now that you had his attention, “walk away. Babe, we’ll deal with this, okay? But you are not throwing your life away over him.”

His chest rose heavily.

Still angry.

But now he was looking at you instead of Hunter.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

Dean’s eyes locked onto yours immediately.

There he is.

Not hockey Dean.

Not party Dean.

Not angry Dean.

Your Dean.

The one who always listened to you eventually.

“You hit him,” you continued carefully, “and then what? Suspension? Charges? You wanna explain that to your coach? Your family?”

Dean swallowed hard.

Hunter laughed somewhere behind you. “Aw, Di Laurentis needs his ex to calm him down?”

You felt Dean tense all over again.

“Dean,” you warned immediately.

His jaw flexed.

You stepped closer without thinking, both hands against his chest now.

And quieter, “Please.”

That did it.

You literally watched the fight drain out of him.

Not completely but enough.

Dean closed his eyes briefly before exhaling hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Relief hit you so fast your knees almost weakened.

Behind you, Garrett quietly said, “Holy shit.”

Dean looked down at you finally, really looked.

Your worried eyes.

Your grip on his shirt.

The way you were standing between him and a fistfight without hesitation.

“You called me babe,” he said quietly.

Heat flooded your face instantly. Of course that was what he focused on.

“Dean.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything. “You called me babe.”

“You were about to commit aggravated assault.”

“Yeah, but you said babe.”

You stared at him incredulously.

Logan barked out a laugh somewhere behind you.

Even Tucker muttered, “He’s unbelievable.”

Dean finally dragged his eyes away from you long enough to glare over your shoulder at Hunter.

Then back to you.

Then, with visible effort, he stepped backward.

Away from the fight.

The entire bar looked stunned.

Because nobody stopped Dean Di Laurentis when he got like that.

Nobody except you.

And the worst part is that you weren’t even together anymore.

[sleep-i-ness]

love love love omg

[edawgz]

# DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS

⤿ DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn't get it... until you did.

!! wc: 2.8k. fluff. fem!reader. enemies to lovers ish. flirting. innuendo. dean being dean. dean fell first and hard. reader lowkey nonchalant w it. COME TO ME MY FELLOW OFF CAMPUS LOVERS. i will die for this series and briar u and the kids series. taglist open. off campus masterlist coming soon. ENJOY.

By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

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[sleep-i-ness]

I love this its so cute ahhhh