Salut ma bien-aimèe! I wanted to thank you again for the fic recs, and also let you know that your compliment of my frenglish has been living rent free in my head since you sent it and just thank you so much <3
But I did take your suggestion of sorting by word count, and found some drabbles that were translations, and I shouldn't be this surprised but the parallel reading between the English and French actually helped a lot! So I think I'm gonna go off the deep end and read Cambiare Podents >:)
In the meantime, I'm def gonna be getting ahold of the French editions of HP, but you mentioned having some regular book recs too? Whenever you have the time, I'd love to see those 👀👀 I don't want to use you as a free resource, but I really massively appreciate the time you've been putting into this for me and I super appreciate your patience with my very limited vocabulary!
That's all, have a lovely evening and sleep well!! Love you!!!
MON AMOUR!!!! You're welcome I loove talking about what I read especially to people who are interested. Honestly the frenglish took me out I had to comment on it like it's wild. I talked about you to my family (yeah I don't have classes to complain about at diner anymore and your message was sweet) and your word order wasn't usual when you said 'j'aimerais les bons mots utiliser' (you'd put the utiliser before that, j'aimerais utiliser les bons mots) but my dad thought it was charming and it sounded like Yoda. So. That's a compliment obviously. (talking more about my online friends so that when I have the money to take a plane to come see y'all my parents don't go 'who are you going to see??' also)
Hehe Cambiare Podentes was SO important to me honestly! I started with the french translation but there were only a few chapters translated and it stopped right as it was about to get more interesting, and since the chapters are all the size of a novella the translator was updating like once a month/every few months. I didn't want to wait thought so I said well surely I can read it in english! And now here I am. So I hope you have fun with it too!!!
You're not using me as a free ressource you're giving me enrichment!! I love love love talking way too much about things that interest me but usually people aren't on the same wavelength so they listen politely but they don't really care that much. Which is fine but it's so cool when you know your recs actually have a chance of being read! I'll find you a little list of books + try to get a clean epub/pdf because I just know a lot of the stuff I like isn't going to be available outside of France and I'd feel bad for giving you recs you can't get your hands on. There's also a few visual children's books I'm thinking of (like the Claude Ponti books) that I have at home that I could probably take pics of/scan if you want, once again because I have no idea of the availability outside of France and potentially neighbouring countries/Québec. You'll have to tell me if Cambiare Podentes is the right level or if you want some simpler stuff because I can also do children's books with smaller vocabularies and easier sentences, I just have to know haha.
Also if you want me to speak french at you/with you I have a lot of free time now so 👀👀 text/voice, whatever you want, I'm free a fair amount is all I'm saying.
Thank yoouu you too! I think you said you were going to a concert so I hope you had fun! (and I didn't know if I should say it in the replies but you looked really good in that pic you posted)
hi there!! im not sure exactly how this kinda stuff works so if this is a question that already has an answer, feel free to let me know!
will sold out charms be coming back at all? i had one of your hlvrai floppy disk charms but i managed to lose it a few weeks ago— i really liked it so i wanted to see about getting another one! it was a good addition to my backpack :)
oh yes! my HLVRAI charms (and some other sold out stuff) will always be restocked, it usually takes a month, maybe two at most. nothing is in production atm but i fully intend to bring those back <3
Despite not having any myself, I do love Fairy types. What can I say, I like pink! And I’ll be the first to admit that of the Eeveelutions, Sylveon is my favourite. Maybe it’s the Fairy typing, maybe it’s the pink, maybe it’s the fact that we have a pack that live nearby. Either way, I love them and I can’t get enough of them, so let’s talk Sylveon.
I’ve talked about how empathetic Psychic type Pokemon are, but Sylveon takes empathy to the next level. They’re incredibly sensitive to the feelings of others, especially anyone they’re close to. Eevees form strong social connections with other Pokemon and with people, and an evolved Sylveon will be incredibly in tune to those same bonds. They make excellent emotional support Pokemon for this reason- the entire Eevee line is popular for ESP (emotional support Pokemon) training, but Sylveon is the most popular option of the several because of their high empathy. They surpass even Espeon, which is a feat in and of itself.
Sylveons are very emotional Pokemon. They feel things in big ways! A newly evolved Sylveon will need some help adjusting to this- you may notice they feel a lot more sensitive, are quicker to anger, they look ready to burst with happiness, etc. They need more emotional support in this stage because they’re adjusting to these new big feelings, and the best thing you can do is just be there for them. Be happy with them, help them when they’re angry and see if they need to work it off, give them a good cuddle when they’re sad or frightened. They’ll adjust after a little while, but give them plenty of reassurance that it’s ok to be emotional, and show them as much patience as you can.
The Sylveons we have here love the environment. They tend towards the fringes of the forest because they like the sun, but Fairy types are everywhere here. Eevees born here tend to evolve into either Sylveon or Umbreon, and the Umbreon live deeper in the forest, though the two packs regularly interact and visit each other. They’ve been recorded to bring evolved youngsters to each other if they evolve to be the other type, and I think they have a sort of ceremony for this before they part ways again. There have been a few Espeon evolutions, and the Espeons live with the Sylveons. There’s a shiny Espeon in their ranks, actually! Can’t miss that bright, bright green. Sylveons and Espeons get along especially well due to their high empathy and the closeness they need to feel in order to evolve, they’re very similar in terms of temperament, though Espeons are less emotional and are noted to support Sylveons when they need it.
If you want someone to go on about Sylveons and who really knows her stuff, try getting into contact with Ballonlea’s former gym leader, Opal! She’s an expert in Fairy types and has years of experience, plus she’s just great to talk to. She’s a bit busy right now training her successor, but if you ask her just right she’ll make time to sit down and talk about Fairy types for hours if you let her!
With the recent rumblings about censorship and work deletions on Wattpad, many users are considering posting to AO3 for the first time. If that describes you, you may have questions.
This post is a collection of resources you can use to start finding the answers to these questions. If you don’t find what you’re looking for at the links below or you have something more specific to ask, please feel welcome to post questions in the reblogs and comments here.
If you’re an AO3 pro answering questions in these notes, be kind. We were all new once, and other fans helped us then. It’s time to pay it forward.
Resources (under the cut)
AO3 guide in Portuguese by @prfanfic2001
How does AO3 work? What is and isn’t allowed?
My first recommendation for new users is always to skim the Terms of Service FAQ. It explains what AO3 allows and why in plain, straightforward terms. AO3 does not allow placeholder works, commercial content such as commissions links, or “work search” posts.
@cuppa-book-reviews has put together a well-written, concise guide to AO3’s user culture.
How can I change the look of the site?
The appearance of AO3 is very customizable! If you just want a basic dark mode, scroll down to the bottom of any page and click “Reversi” under the Customize menu. For more advanced customizations, I can’t recommend @ao3commentoftheday enough. They have so many gorgeous tutorials for everything from site skins to making the site’s content filters do whatever you want.
Wattpad users may especially appreciate the Floating Comment Box extension, which makes commenting on AO3 work slightly more like Wattpad. Someone in the notes recommends this tutorial to get it working on mobile.
How does AO3 search work?
This handy guide by @backofthebookshelf covers the basics. Here is a cheatsheet with more advanced searching tricks. As a bonus, here’s my personal favorite method for finding gold in a fandom tag. Here are some advanced tips for searching within results.
I’m ready to post my own works. How do I add [specific thing]?
With a little bit of HTML, you can do some incredibly neat things in an AO3 work. Here’s the website running Doom. Here is a very comprehensive guide to Limited HTML on AO3. It may look intimidating at first, but you can get a lot done by copying and pasting and paying attention to the results. As a fun bonus, check out the rest of the series, which includes step by step instructions for making your fic look like text messages on a phone screen, newspaper articles, sticky notes, and more.
This guide lets you make fancy customized page dividers without sacrificing screenreader friendliness.
How do I tag on AO3?
Start with this guide to the very basics by @centrumlumina. Then, if you want, check out the very thorough The Fanfic Author’s Guide to Metatext by Eiiri.
There are works on Wattpad I want to save. What’s the best way to do that?
On desktop, check out this guide to Calibre + FanFicFare by @kitkatt0430. On mobile, someone in the notes recommends WP Downloader.
Why is Wattpad doing this now? Have similar things happened before?
Fandom creatives have been outrunning purges and legal threats for a long time. Here is a comprehensive timeline of fandom purges and legal actions taken against fanworks, from 1977 to the present day. Here is another timeline written by @olderthannetfic, with associated commentary from other fans.
Purges on LiveJournal and other sites circa 2007 influenced the founding of AO3. You can read in detail about the circumstances of its founding and the construction of the policies it abides by today here.
If you read this far, I’m proud of you. Migrating to a new site is always hard, and there’s so much grief when archives purge content without warning. Welcome to AO3. We’re glad to have you. 🤝
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?”
“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.”
“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.
