BABESSS I NEED PT 3 OF THE AGAIN FERRAN FIC PLEASEEE I BEG
Ferran Torres x Reader
Again, Until it Ends🥲 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here)
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Anon! & also everyone that’s blown up part 2! I’ve got you all🙂↔️ I fr feel bad ab writing Ferran in such a way😭💔
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ANGST/ SMUT- You told yourself you were done with the late night apologies, the way Ferran always found his way back into your bed and your hope. But when he shows up wrecked and whispering I love you in the dark, the cycle threatens to start all over again, until one more photo, one more lie, finally forces the break that neither of you can take back…
—
You wake up alone.
Not completely. His side of the bed is still warm, the pillow still carries the shape of his head, but the space beside you is empty…
The apartment is quiet except for the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic from the kitchen. For one stupid, hopeful second you think maybe he’s making breakfast. Maybe this time the morning will be different.
Then you smell the coffee.
Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly the way you like it.
You sit up slowly. Your body aches in familiar places, hips, thighs, the soft skin of your throat where his mouth had been too rough last night. The perfume from the girl in the photo is gone now, scrubbed away in the shower you’d taken together at four in the morning, but the memory of it still sits under your tongue like something bitter you can’t spit out.
You pull on one of his shirts, the navy one that hangs almost to your knees, and walk out.
He’s standing at the counter in only black sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other stirs your coffee. When he sees you he sets the phone face-down immediately, like a child caught with something he shouldn’t have.
“Morning,” he says, soft. Careful. He slides the mug toward you across the marble. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
You don’t take it.
He notices. His jaw tightens for half a second before the gentle expression returns.
“I left early,” he offers, even though you didn’t ask. “Training. But I came back. I wanted to… talk. Properly.”
You lean against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest. The shirt slips off one shoulder. His eyes drop there automatically, then force themselves back up.
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” you say. Your voice is steady. You’re proud of that. “I told you last night. I can’t keep doing this.”
He comes around the counter slowly, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. “I know. I know I fucked up. Again. But it wasn’t—”
“Don’t.” You hold up a hand. “Don’t say it wasn’t what it looked like. Don’t say she meant nothing. Don’t say I’m the only one. I’ve heard every version of that speech, Ferran. I could recite it for you.”
Silence stretches. Outside, Barcelona is already loud, scooters, distant traffic, someone shouting in Catalan two streets over. Inside the apartment it feels like the air has been sucked out.
He stops a few feet away. Close enough that you can see the faint bruise on his collarbone from your mouth last night. Close enough that you can still smell his shampoo.
“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, and for once the charm is gone. He just sounds tired. “Tell me and I’ll do it. I’ll delete every number. I’ll stop going out. I’ll post about you every fucking day if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t leave.”
You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You always say that when you’re scared I’m actually going to walk away this time.”
His throat works. “Because I am scared.”
Something in your chest twists. You hate that it still works on you, the honest voice, the soft eyes, the way he looks at you like you’re the only solid thing in a world made of glass.
You turn away first. Walk to the window. The city spreads out below, bright and indifferent.
“I need space,” you say to the glass. “Real space. Not the kind where you text me in three hours and show up at my door at midnight.”
Behind you, his breath catches.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“A week?”
“I don’t know, Ferran.”
Silence again. Then the quiet sound of him moving. You hear the mug being set down more carefully this time. The soft pad of bare feet.
When his arms slide around you from behind, you don’t push him away. You should. You promised yourself you would. Instead you stand there, stiff, while he presses his face into the curve of your neck and breathes you in like he’s trying to memorise the scent.
“I’ll give you space,” he murmurs against your skin. “I swear. But can I… just this morning. One more time. Please.”
The word again. Please.
It ruins you every single time.
You turn in his arms. His eyes are red at the edges. He looks younger like this, stripped of the stadium lights and the carefully curated Instagram smiles. Just a boy who keeps breaking the only good thing he has and doesn’t know how to stop.
You kiss him first.
It’s a mistake and you both know it.
He makes a broken sound into your mouth and walks you backward until your spine hits the cool glass of the window. His hands are already under the shirt, sliding up your bare thighs, gripping, lifting. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking. He carries you to the bedroom like the floor is on fire.
Clothes disappear fast. The navy shirt ends up somewhere near the door. His sweatpants hit the floor with a soft thud. Then he’s over you, between your thighs, kissing down your stomach with a kind of desperate reverence that makes your eyes sting.
“I hate that I keep hurting you,” he whispers against your hipbone. “I hate that I can’t stop.”
You don’t answer. You just thread your fingers through his hair and guide him lower.
He eats you like he’s starving and sorry at the same time, slow, deep strokes of his tongue, two fingers curling inside you until your back arches off the mattress. He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s trying to apologise with his mouth. He keeps you on the edge for so long your thighs are shaking and your voice has gone hoarse from saying his name.
When you come it’s with a broken sob, hands fisted in the sheets, body locking up around his fingers. He works you through it gently, then climbs up your body and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Look at me,” he says when he pushes inside.
You do.
His eyes are dark, almost black. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated and both of you are breathing hard.
“Still mine,” he whispers, more like a question than a claim this time.
You don’t correct him.
He fucks you deep and careful at first, forehead pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile. The pace builds gradually, longer strokes, harder, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the quiet room. Every time you clench around him he groans like it hurts.
“Fuck— you feel so good,” he pants against your mouth. “Always so good for me. Always take me so well.”
You dig your nails into his back. He hisses and thrusts harder, angling until he finds the spot that makes your vision white out. One of his hands slides between you, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect rhythm.
“Come again,” he orders, soft but firm. “Want to feel it. Want to feel you fall apart on me one more time before I have to let you go.”
The words wreck you more than the friction.
You come with a cry, body shaking, walls fluttering around him. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck and spilling deep with a long, broken moan of your name.
Afterward he doesn’t pull out right away. He stays inside you, softening, pressing lazy kisses to your collarbone, your jaw, the corner of your eye where a tear has escaped without permission.
“I’m going to do better,” he whispers into the quiet. “I mean it this time.”
You stroke your fingers through his hair and don’t answer.
Because you’ve heard that promise before…
—
He keeps his word for eleven days.
Eleven days of radio silence. No good-morning texts. No voice notes. No late-night knocks. You block his number on the third day just to make it easier on yourself, then unblock it on the seventh because the silence is somehow worse.
You try to fill the space. You go out with friends. You answer messages from people who aren’t him. You even go on one half-hearted date with a guy from work who is kind and boring and doesn’t make your chest ache. When he kisses you goodnight at your door you feel nothing except the absence of someone else’s mouth.
On the twelfth night you’re half-asleep on the couch when your phone lights up with an unknown number.
You almost ignore it.
Then the second message comes through:
It’s me. New number. Please don’t hang up.
You stare at the screen for a long time before answering the call that follows.
His voice is rough, like he’s been shouting or crying or both.
“I know I said I’d give you space. I know. But I just… I needed to hear your voice. Even if you hate me right now.”
You close your eyes. “I don’t hate you.”
A shaky exhale on the other end. “Can I come over?”
“Ferran—”
“Just to talk. I swear. No… nothing else. I just need to see you. Five minutes. Please.”
You should say no.
You say, “Okay.”
—
He’s at your door in under twenty minutes.
He looks wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. A fresh cut on his cheekbone that wasn’t there before, training, probably. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, like he’s trying to disappear into it.
The second you open the door he steps inside and just… stands there. Hands in his pockets. Staring at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
“You cut your hair,” he says eventually, voice soft.
You had. Two inches shorter. A stupid, impulsive decision three days ago when you needed to feel like you were changing something, anything.
“Yeah.”
He nods. Swallows. “It looks good.”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “I miss you so fucking much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”
You look away. “Don’t.”
“I mean it.” He takes a step closer. “I’ve been trying. Really trying. No clubs. No photos. No anything. I’ve been going home alone every night and staring at the ceiling and thinking about how quiet everything is without you.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not enough, Ferran. Trying isn’t the same as changing.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know it’s not. But I’m… I’m scared if I give you too much space you’ll realise you don’t need me anymore. And I don’t know how to live with that.”
You feel the familiar pull, the part of you that still softens for him even when it shouldn’t. The part that remembers the good mornings and the quiet nights and the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in a stadium of eighty thousand.
He reaches out slowly, giving you time to step back. When you don’t, his fingers brush your wrist, then slide up to cup your jaw.
“Let me stay tonight,” he whispers. “Just sleep. Nothing else. I just need to hold you.”
You should say no.
You nod instead.
—
You end up in your bed, fully clothed, his body curled around yours from behind. His arm is heavy across your waist. His face is buried in the back of your neck. Every few minutes his breathing hitches like he’s fighting something.
Sometime after two in the morning you feel him press a soft kiss to your shoulder.
“I love you,” he murmurs into the dark, so quiet you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it. “I’ve never said it right. But I do. Even when I’m fucking everything up. Especially then.”
Your eyes burn.
You don’t say it back.
But you reach down and lace your fingers through his, and he holds on like he’s drowning.
—
Morning comes too soon.
You wake to the sound of rain against the window and the soft weight of him still pressed against your back. For a few minutes you stay still, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.
Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Once.
Twice.
A third time in quick succession.
He doesn’t move at first. Then he carefully disentangles himself, reaches for it, and the second he looks at the screen his entire body goes rigid.
You feel the shift immediately.
“What is it?” you ask, already knowing the answer will hurt.
He locks the phone too fast. “Nothing. Just… training stuff.”
You sit up. Hold out your hand.
He hesitates.
Then, slowly, he places the phone in your palm.
The screen is still unlocked.
A group chat. Team-mates. A photo someone has forwarded, Ferran from last night, standing outside a restaurant you don’t recognise, arm around a different girl this time. Blonde. Laughing. His hand is low on her back again. The timestamp is 11:47PM, while he was still supposed to be giving you space.
Before he called you. Before he came here and told you he loved you in the dark.
Your stomach drops so hard you feel nauseous.
You hand the phone back without a word.
He scrambles. “It’s not— that was before I called you. She was just a friend of a friend. I left right after. I swear to God I left and came straight here—”
“Stop.”
Your voice is quiet. Flat. Final.
He freezes.
You get out of bed. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door. Lock it.
On the other side you hear him say your name once, broken. Then again. Then the soft thud of his forehead against the wood.
“Please,” he says through the door. “Please just let me explain. It didn’t mean anything. I was lonely and stupid and I left the second I realised what I was doing. I came here. I chose you. I always choose you in the end—”
You turn on the shower so you don’t have to hear the rest.
When you finally come out he’s still there, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, head in his hands. He looks up the second the door opens. His eyes are red.
You walk past him to the front door and open it.
He stands slowly.
“Don’t do this,” he says, voice raw. “Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll—”
“Go home, Ferran.”
He stares at you for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind the way you always have before.
This time you don’t.
Something in his expression cracks.
He steps into the hallway. Turns back one last time.
“I’m still going to love you,” he says quietly. “Even if you hate me for it. Even if it takes years. I’m still going to be the idiot waiting for you to let me try again.”
You close the door without answering.
The lock clicks into place.
For a long time you just stand there, forehead pressed to the wood, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the stairs.
Then the quiet settles in, the real kind this time.
The kind that doesn’t come with soft apologies or late-night knocks or the promise of tomorrow.
You slide down to the floor, back against the door, and let yourself cry the way you never let him see.
Because this is what the two of you do.
You break.
You reach.
You break again.
Only this time, when the reaching stops, the breaking finally has room to finish what it started.
And for the first time in a long time, you let it.
—
Hmm… so idk if this should be a little Ferran story cause idk whether I want it to end like this in heartbreak or Ferran actually making a change for reader👀
Also managed to like write this up at like 1AM lmao. Hope you guys like it. Apologies if there are any grammatical errors as I just wanted to get it done so I don’t procrastinate💀 x
endless plotting with his son to annoy the life out of you.
watching you in the stands with tobia on your hip at a match because he had promised your son ipad time during the weekend if he convinced you to come.
after the match you see tobia sprint towards his father you have no choice but to follow him down the field.
you’re about to scold him for running off when ferran pulls you in a hug.
absolutely refuses to not correct people about the fact that you’re separated and not divorced.
still has his wedding ring on because it’s just a matter of time before the two of you can figure it out and get back together. if only he could realize that it wasn’t that simple.
absolutely out of his way to make sure he flirts with you at every given chance, would do anything to get bonus points with you.
cancelling plans to stay with tobia just so you could hang out with friends. auto invites himself when you’re on your period so you don’t have to lift a finger and takes care of everything: laundry, cooking, being extra charming.
leaves cute little notes on the fridge every time he drops off your son and you’re not home, yes he has a key.
and he’ll accidentally fall asleep with tobia in your bed by the time you’re back so you have no choice but to sleep next the two of them, making yourself as small as possible because they’re occupying most of the bed.
he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and take a picture of you and tobia snuggled together.
couple days letter the polaroid is attached to the fridge along with a new sticky note.
making tobia fill him in with all that’s going on with mom.
“mom has a guy friend?” “well that just doesn’t work” “you need to help me out here.”
“because your mom is still my wife buddy, and i’m going to get her back.”
after a too many glasses of red wine while catching up. clothes are scattered all over the floor, pressing kisses to your forehead and caressing your hair while waiting for you to adjust to him inside him. telling you how much he’s missed you, how he’s been an asshole and you’re the best woman he could’ve had a child and a family with.
in the morning he’s insufferable. you try to tell him that it was a one time thing but it all goes thru one ear to the other.
two weeks later you wake up next to him once again. “one time is a coincidence, but two times means i’m being given another chance.”
in two months you’re almost civil with him again. tobia has a wicked grin plastered all over his face every time he sees the two interact. goes around telling everyone mom and dad are back together, your friends are furious with you.
friday night he’s at your door with your favorite flowers and you ask him to talk. it’s not easy, because he’s the love of your life. the same man you fell in love with, married, and the same one who cheated on you after a year with a kid together and now expects to be forgiven because he realized he fucked it up.
you can’t pretend none of that happened. that you didn’t get hurt. and let him just waltz right back him.
tobia wakes from his nap, bursts in crying after witnessing his parents argue with eacother. an hour later the three of you are on the kitchen floor apologizing and compromising with him. ferran sits him on his lap trying to explain he had messed up and was going to try and fix it.
by month eight you’re regularly sleeping with each other, the both of you too lazy to do all the dates and meet new people when you’ve got someone that knows your body and needs almost better that you do yourself.
he has to sneak in those nights, it’s a whole new experience with a kid, completely different from what you were used to.
and now that you’re confined to your room for certain activities, your mouth being always covered while he’s pounding on you and your collarbone full of bite marks trying your best to stay quiet and not get caught.
bending you over on every surface available at five am for a quickie before he has to sneak off again. he says it’s important for his mental health.
waking up to his mouth on you, fingers in your mouth, hands under the cover finding his hair to keep him still as you grind against his face setting a more comfortable rhythm for you, you swear you hear him groan in pleasure.
you must’ve lost track of time because you’re laying on the couch eating breakfast off a pizza box when you hear tobia’s sleepy voice go “dada?”
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 14
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings, talk of childhood trauma
Dean noticed something was wrong before you did.
One moment, you were standing beside him in the crowded coffee shop near campus, watching him argue with the barista about whether ordering extra caramel technically counted as ruining the coffee.
The next, a man behind you raised his voice.
“I said stop crying.”
The words cut cleanly through the noise.
They weren’t directed at you.
A little boy stood near the entrance, struggling with the zip on his coat while the man you assumed was his father towered over him. The child’s face was red, tears collecting beneath his eyes as his small fingers continued fumbling.
“I’m not telling you again,” the man snapped. “Stop making a scene.”
The coffee shop disappeared.
Not slowly.
There was no warning, no gradual sense of unease you could recognise and control. One second, you were at Briar with Dean’s shoulder brushing yours. The next, the walls were closer. Darker. The smell of coffee became stale alcohol and damp carpet.
You were small again.
Too small to reach the handle.
Too frightened to make another sound.
Your chest locked.
The cardboard cup slipped from your fingers.
It struck the floor and burst open, coffee spreading over the tiles.
Dean turned immediately.
“Y/N?”
You couldn’t hear him properly.
The little boy whimpered behind you.
The man swore.
Your body reacted before your mind caught up. You stumbled backwards, hitting the edge of a table hard enough to send pain through your hip. Several people turned towards you.
Too many faces.
Too much noise.
Dean stepped into your line of sight.
“Hey.”
You stared through him.
His mouth was moving, but the words arrived from somewhere far away. Your hands had started shaking. You tried to lift them, tried to sign something—anything—but your fingers wouldn’t form the shapes.
Dean reached towards you.
Then stopped.
He didn’t touch you.
Instead, he lowered himself slightly so he wasn’t towering over you and raised his hands where you could see them.
His signing was clumsy.
Slow.
But clear enough.
Look at me.
Your eyes found his.
“There you are,” he said quietly.
The man behind you was still talking, his voice sharp with irritation. Dean glanced over your shoulder, and something cold passed across his expression.
Then he looked back at you.
Only you.
Safe.
The sign wasn’t quite right.
You understood it anyway.
Dean held one hand out, palm facing upwards.
He waited.
Your breathing came too quickly. Every breath caught halfway down, never reaching your lungs properly. Your vision blurred at the edges.
Dean didn’t tell you to calm down.
He didn’t ask what was wrong.
He simply kept his hand where you could take it.
When your fingers finally touched his palm, he closed them gently in his.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “We’re leaving.”
He guided you towards the door without pulling. His body stayed between you and the man as you crossed the coffee shop, blocking him from your sight.
The cold air hit your face outside.
You dragged in a breath.
Then another.
Neither was enough.
Dean led you away from the windows, towards a bench tucked beside the neighbouring building. It was quieter there, sheltered from the main road by a row of bare trees.
He took off his jacket and placed it around your shoulders.
You hadn’t realised you were cold.
Dean crouched in front of you.
His hands moved again.
Breathe.
You tried.
It hurt.
He placed your hand against the centre of his chest.
You felt his breathing beneath your palm—slow and deliberate, his chest rising steadily before falling again.
“In with me,” he said.
You watched his mouth.
Followed the movement beneath your hand.
In.
Out.
Again.
Dean remained there until the pavement stopped tilting beneath you.
Until the pressure around your lungs loosened.
Until you could feel your hands again.
He didn’t ask a single question.
You returned to your room without going to class.
Dean walked beside you the entire way.
He didn’t hold your hand once you were breathing normally again, but he stayed close enough that your sleeves brushed with every step. He carried your bag over one shoulder and his own over the other, ignoring your attempt to take it back.
At your door, you reached for your phone.
Your hands were still unsteady.
I’m okay.
Dean read the message.
“No, you’re not.”
You looked down.
His voice softened.
“You might be later. But you don’t have to pretend you are now.”
Your eyes burned.
Dean’s gaze moved over your face.
“Do you want me to go?”
You should have nodded.
You had always handled this alone.
You would close the curtains, lock the door and wait until the memories faded back into the part of your mind where you kept them buried. You would wash your face and tell yourself it hadn’t been that bad. That it had happened years ago. That you were no longer trapped in that house.
But the thought of being alone made your stomach twist.
You shook your head.
Dean released a breath.
“Okay.”
You unlocked the door.
Your roommate was out.
The room was untidy in the ordinary way it always was. Clothes rested over the back of her desk chair. A collection of empty water bottles lined the windowsill. Your open notebook remained where you had abandoned it that morning.
Nothing had changed.
You had.
Dean placed both bags beside your desk.
“Bed or chair?”
You blinked.
He pointed towards each.
“You look like you’re about to fall over.”
You sat on the edge of your bed.
Dean dragged your desk chair closer but didn’t sit beside you. He gave you enough space that you didn’t feel surrounded.
For several minutes, neither of you did anything.
The silence was different from the comfortable quiet you shared in the library. This one felt crowded by everything you weren’t telling him.
Dean rubbed his palms against his jeans.
“I’m not going to ask what happened.”
You looked up.
“I want to,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to.”
Your fingers tightened around the sleeves of his jacket.
“You can tell me when you’re ready. Or not at all.”
He meant it.
That almost made it worse.
You reached for your phone, but your thumb hovered over the keyboard without moving.
There were things you had never said aloud.
There were things you had never written down either.
Signing them felt too exposed. The language that had given you freedom still required Dean to watch every movement, every pause and every moment your hands failed you.
You picked up the notebook instead.
Dean followed the motion but said nothing.
Your pen touched the paper.
I wasn’t born mute.
The sentence looked wrong.
Not untrue.
Just too small for something that had shaped almost every part of your life.
You turned the notebook towards Dean.
His eyes moved across the words.
He didn’t react immediately.
“You could speak?”
You nodded.
Dean glanced towards your throat before quickly looking back at your face.
You wrote again.
When I was little.
“How little?”
You hesitated before writing:
I stopped when I was seven.
Dean’s expression changed.
Not pity.
Something closer to heartbreak.
“What happened?”
The question escaped him before he could stop it.
His eyes closed briefly.
“Sorry. You don’t have to—”
You shook your head.
You had brought him this far.
Part of you wanted him to know.
Perhaps an even larger part was terrified that once he did, he would never look at you without seeing the frightened child beneath your skin.
Your pen remained still for so long that Dean appeared ready to tell you to forget it.
Then you began to write.
My father drank.
Dean’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.
He was worse when he drank, but he wasn’t good when he was sober either.
You stopped.
Your fingers cramped around the pen.
Dean’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. When he noticed, he forced them open again.
You continued.
He hated noise.
A cold weight settled in your stomach.
He hated crying. Laughing. Music. Anything he couldn’t control.
The memory came in fragments.
Your mother’s broken lamp on the floor.
The television playing too loudly.
Your father’s hand closing around your arm.
His voice near your ear.
You forced the pen to move.
One night, he came home angry. I was singing in my room.
Dean inhaled sharply.
You kept your eyes on the page.
He told me to stop. I didn’t hear him the first time.
That wasn’t entirely true.
You had heard him.
You had been seven years old and tired of being afraid. You had wanted to finish the song. One small act of defiance in a house where every breath belonged to him.
He dragged me downstairs.
Your writing became uneven.
My mom tried to stop him.
The pen caught against the paper.
You stared at the small tear it left behind.
Dean’s voice was quiet.
“You can stop.”
You shook your head.
If you stopped now, you might never begin again.
He locked me in the cupboard under the stairs.
Dean went completely still.
He said I could come out when I learned to be quiet.
Your breathing started to change again.
Not enough to pull you back into the memory, but enough that Dean noticed. He moved from the chair to the floor, sitting a few feet in front of you so you could see him without feeling trapped.
You looked down at the notebook.
I screamed until my throat hurt.
A tear struck the page.
You wiped it away quickly, smearing the ink.
I kept calling for my mom.
The next sentence was the hardest.
You wrote it slowly.
She never came.
Dean’s face had lost all colour.
You couldn’t look at him for long.
He left me there until the next morning.
The cupboard had been dark.
You remembered the rough wall against your fingertips and the smell of dust. You remembered pressing your palms against the door until they hurt. Begging at first. Then promising. Then whispering because you had no voice left to scream with.
You remembered hearing your father walk past.
He hadn’t opened the door.
After that, I stopped talking.
Dean looked at the notebook for a long time.
“Completely?”
You nodded.
You wrote:
At first, doctors said there was nothing physically wrong.
The appointments had blurred together over the years. Bright rooms. Gentle voices. Adults asking you questions and becoming uncomfortable when you didn’t answer.
They called it traumatic mutism. Later, selective mutism.
You paused.
But it stopped being selective. I couldn’t speak anywhere.
Not at school.
Not with your mother.
Not alone in your bedroom when you pressed your face into the pillow and tried to force a sound through your throat.
Your voice had become connected to danger.
Silence had kept you safe.
Even after the danger was gone, your body had never understood that it was allowed to let the words out again.
Dean stared down at his hands.
“Is he still alive?”
You nodded.
His head snapped up.
“Is he near you?”
You shook your head quickly.
You turned the page.
I haven’t seen him since I was twelve. My mother finally left.
Some of the tension left Dean’s shoulders.
Not much.
“He can’t get to you?”
No.
“Does he know where you are?”
You hesitated.
Dean noticed.
Your pen moved.
I don’t think so.
His jaw tightened again.
He looked as though he wanted to ask a dozen more questions. Whether the police had been involved. Whether your mother was safe. Whether your father had ever tried to contact you.
He asked none of them.
Instead, he said, “Thank you for telling me.”
You lowered the notebook.
That wasn’t the reaction you had expected.
Dean shifted slightly closer.
“Can I sit beside you?”
You nodded.
He rose from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, leaving a few inches between you.
For a while, he looked straight ahead.
“I’m trying not to say the wrong thing.”
You wrote:
You don’t have to say anything.
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“But I need you to know something.”
You waited.
Dean turned towards you.
“What he did wasn’t because you were too loud.”
Your vision blurred.
“You were a kid. You were allowed to sing. You were allowed to cry and laugh and make as much noise as you wanted.”
You shook your head, tears slipping free now.
Dean’s voice cracked.
“You didn’t lose your voice because you did something wrong.”
You knew that.
Logically.
Therapists had said the same thing. Your mother had said it. You had repeated it to yourself so often that the words had lost their shape.
Hearing it from Dean still broke something open inside you.
You covered your face with both hands.
Dean moved instinctively, then stopped himself.
“Can I hold you?”
Your answer came without signing.
You leaned into him.
Dean’s arms closed around you.
One hand settled between your shoulder blades while the other cradled the back of your head. He held you firmly enough to make you feel protected, but not trapped.
You cried into his chest.
Silently.
You hated that part most.
Even your grief came without sound.
Dean seemed to understand.
He didn’t hush you.
He didn’t tell you everything would be all right.
He simply held you while your body shook, his cheek resting against the top of your head.
When the worst of it passed, you remained against him.
His hand moved slowly along your back.
“I thought you’d always been mute,” he murmured.
You pulled away enough to reach for the notebook.
It was easier to let people assume that.
“Because you didn’t want to explain?”
You nodded.
Another sentence followed.
Because when people know it was trauma, they start waiting for me to get better.
Dean read it.
His expression hardened with understanding.
“They think you’ll talk again.”
You nodded.
Or they try to make me.
Speech exercises.
Breathing techniques.
Encouragement that became frustration.
People insisting they had heard you make a sound and treating it like evidence that your voice was waiting to return if only you tried hard enough.
I don’t know if I ever will.
Dean didn’t hesitate.
“Okay.”
You stared at him.
He shrugged softly.
“If you do, you do.”
His fingers brushed the edge of the notebook.
“If you don’t, you don’t.”
You searched his face.
“You’re still you.”
The tears returned, quieter this time.
Dean smiled sadly.
“And I’m still going to learn ASL.”
You lifted your hands.
You don’t have to.
“I know.”
He signed the next part himself.
His grammar wasn’t right, but the meaning was.
I want to.
You looked down.
Dean touched two fingers gently beneath your chin, waiting until you met his eyes.
“I’m not learning it because I think it’s temporary.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m learning because it’s your language.”
You reached for him again.
This time, Dean didn’t need to ask before holding you. You had already given him the answer by moving into his arms.
You stayed like that until the room grew dark.
At some point, Dean shifted so his back rested against the wall. You curled against his side beneath the blanket, your head tucked beneath his chin. He missed practice and ignored three calls from Garrett.
The fourth time his phone vibrated, you tapped his chest.
Dean looked down at the screen.
“It’s fine.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Coach might murder me, but I’ve survived worse.”
You reached for your phone.
You should go.
“No.”
Dean.
“I’m not leaving you alone after that.”
You typed:
I’m not asking because I want you gone.
“I know.”
He looked at you.
“But do you want me to go?”
You considered it.
Then shook your head.
Dean placed his phone face down on the bedside table.
“Then I’m staying.”
There was no grand speech.
No argument about what he should do.
You had answered.
He had listened.
Later, you showed him another sign.
Dean watched your hands carefully.
He didn’t recognise it.
“What does that mean?”
You repeated it.
The movement felt more vulnerable than writing the entire story had.
Dean attempted to copy you.
“Voice?”
You nodded.
He frowned slightly.
“You’re teaching me voice?”
You pointed towards your hands.
Then your phone.
Then the notebook resting beside you.
Understanding crossed his face.
“Those are your voice.”
You nodded.
Dean looked at your hands for a long moment.
Then he took them gently in his.
“I hear you.”
Your chest tightened.
He lifted your knuckles to his lips, kissing them once.
Not because he felt sorry for you.
Not because he believed you were broken.
Because he had finally understood what so many others had missed.
featuring: jude bellingham x gf!reader.
summary: jude notices you always wear white to his games, but you never wear his real madrid jersey.
contents: established relationship, little bit of angst.
author's note: my first football fic oh my gawd. trying it out to see how it goes. also i kinda like these colors. might change my theme AGAIN.
You and Jude have been together since his days at Dortmund. The two of you met while you were still in college, long before his career skyrocketed to the heights it has today.
The way you met has always been hilarious to you—and incredibly embarrassing for him. It happened early one morning at your local coffee shop, where you were finishing assignments and studying when you noticed a guy in a Borussia Dortmund kit struggling to place his order.
The coffee shop was owned by an elderly couple, and their daughter usually helped them run the place. The problem was that only their daughter and a few of the other workers spoke English. Unfortunately for him, only Greta, the owner’s wife, was working that early morning.
He looked nervous and embarrassed, clearly feeling bad about making her struggle through the interaction, but his German was just as unhelpful as her English.
You watched the scene unfold for a few seconds before stepping in and asking him what he wanted, translating it for Greta. He quickly paid for his order, managing to give her a grateful “Danke” before turning his attention back to you.
"You're an angel."
"Uh no, I'm Y/N."
The rest was history.
He didn’t ask you out right away. Instead, he became a regular at the coffee shop, just like you. Whenever it was only Greta working, he would still try to place his order himself, but by then, she already knew exactly what he wanted, making things much easier for both of them.
After two weeks, he finally built up the courage to ask you out. You accepted, and he took you to a nice, cozy restaurant for your first date. After that came another date, then another, and another, until eventually, the two of you made it official.
Four years had passed, and your relationship was stronger than ever. After four long and exhausting years, you finally graduated from college. You couldn't have been happier to leave behind endless classes and earn the degree you'd worked so hard for, but your excitement was nothing compared to Jude's as he watched you walk across the stage to receive your diploma.
Not long after, the news of Jude's move to Real Madrid became official. You had always known this day would come. Dortmund was a massive club, but Real Madrid was on another level. Even though you weren't a Real Madrid fan, you knew this was the opportunity of a lifetime for your boyfriend.
He asked you to move to Madrid with him. After giving it some thought and securing a great job opportunity in the city, you agreed to go with him. Jude was ecstatic.
You were going to miss Dortmund, but if you were being honest, staying there forever had never been part of your plans.
The first couple of months were better than you expected them to be. Both you and Jude quickly settled into your new routines, adjusting to the new city and meeting new people along the way. Your job was demanding, but also very flexible, allow you to enjoy it and truly make the most of the opportunity.
Jude was still getting used to the team and their style of play. The better he performed, the more confident he became, and watching him grow more comfortable in his new environment made you prouder every single day.
You never missed a single home match. No matter how busy your schedule was or how you were feeling that day, you always found a way to be there for him.
Jude would look up and find you sitting beside his mom in the stands, wearing a white shirt, top, or dress that matched the season and the day’s conditions.
He started noticing a pattern.
You would wear white, or if you were able to travel to see him away from home, you would match his second kit. But you never wore his jersey. Not once.
It wasn’t like you didn’t own one or couldn’t get your hands on one. Jude had plenty of them lying around the house.
Maybe it's because they're too big, he thought.
No, if you really wanted one, you would’ve asked him to get you one in your size. But you never did.
Because you didn’t like Real Madrid.
It wasn’t a secret, but he thought that with time, maybe—just maybe—your dislike for the team would fade. You never made negative comments about the club or his teammates, in fact, you actually liked some of them. But you were passionate about football, and he knew that changing your mind wasn’t going to happen overnight.
It still bothered him to some extent. After all, there was nothing he loved more than seeing you wear one of his jerseys. The last time it had happened was back in Dortmund, not counting the international break.
At first, he tried to ignore it. It was a small thing, dumb even if he gave it any real thought, and he knew there were much bigger things to care about—like the unconditional love and support you'd given him for the past four years.
You supported him in every way that mattered. You had moved to another country for him, you were building a new life alongside him, and you were always there whenever he needed you.
But still, it bothered him. Because to him, the jersey was never just a jersey, it was a milestone.
He had grown up dreaming of moments like this. Playing for a big club like Real Madrid, living the life he'd always imagined—and seeing you wear his shirt would have meant more to him than he could ever explain.
But every match day, he looked up into the stands and saw you dressed in white. You always wore a smile, but never his name. Never his number. Just white.
He hated that it made him feel this way. It almost felt as though it was a part of his life you refused to embrace—which was ridiculous, because you had embraced everything else. Literally.
You helped him adjust when everything felt unfamiliar. You listened as he talked—and ranted—about training, tactics, teammates, and every little thing that came with joining a new club, even if you didn't understand some things. You celebrated his victories and stood by him after the difficult matches. You were there. You were always there.
So why did something so small bother him so much?
Deep down he knew the answer.
He wasn't asking you to love Real Madrid. He wasn't asking you to forget the club you grew up supporting—or the one you'd probably support until the day you died. But a selfish part of him wanted one thing that felt like it belonged only to him.
He wanted to see you wear his name.
So one night, after another match where he found you sitting beside his mom in the stands wearing white, he decided to finally bring it up.
The two of you were curled up on the couch at home when you noticed it. Jude was unusually quiet. You knew him well enough to recognize the silence for what it was.
"What?" You asked, looking up at him. "What?" He looked confused. "You're staring." You pointed out. "I have a question." You raised an eyebrow. "That never sounds good."
"Real Madrid. Do you really hate them that much?"
The question caught you off guard.
"Where did that come from?" Jude shrugged. "You never wear my jersey." That was what was bothering him. "Jude..." He interrupted. "I know it's stupid."
"I just don't get it." He shook his head. "You don't get what?" You asked. "I don't get why you won't wear something that represents me."
The words sat between you. Suddenly, it didn't feel like a conversation about football anymore.
"You think that's what it is?" You looked at him. "I don't know."
That answer hurt more than you expected.
"You actually think me not wearing a jersey means I don't support you?" You were now facing him completely. "No." He said quickly—way too quickly for you not to know he was lying. "You do." He stayed quiet.
You looked away, hurt.
"Jude, I've given up a lot to be here." He rubbed his face with one hand as the other found its way into his hair. "I know."
"No, I don't think you do right now." The guilt immediately crossed his face. "I know you moved here."
"It's not just that, Jude." You were quieter now. "I left my friends behind. A place I knew. Just because I eventually wanted to leave Dortmund doesn't mean I wanted the routine I spent years building to abruptly change. I started over because I wanted to be with you."
"I know."
"I come to every single match. I sit there every week no matter how busy my schedule is. I learn about your team, your opponents, your schedule. I listen when you talk about football for hours, even when you repeat the same stupid stories."
That made the smallest smile appear on his face. But it disappeared when he saw your teary eyes.
"So you don't get make me feel like shit and like none of that counts because I won't wear a fucking shirt."
His expression softened immediately as he grabbed your hands. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know you didn't." You sighed. "But that's how it felt."
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then Jude looked down at your hands.
"I just miss it." He mumbled. "Miss what?" His eyes found yours. "Seeing you wear my name." And that was when you understood. It wasn't about Madrid or the club. It was about him. "You know I don't have to wear a jersey for me to choose you, right?"
"I know."
"Do you?"
He had gotten so caught up in wanting that small thing that he forgot about all the bigger, more important ones.
"I love you. I love watching you play. I love seeing you succeed. But I'm not going to pretend to love a club I don't like just because you're there."
He snorted.
"You really won't compromise on this."
"Nope." He pouted. "Not even for me?" You smiled, shaking your head. "Not even for you." He shook his head, but this time he was smiling. "You are impossible."
"Dude, you knew that the moment you asked me out."
"Fair." He pressed his lips to the back of your hand before pressing them to your own.
And even though he still secretly hoped that one day you would surprise him, he understood that you didn't need to wear his jersey to prove you were on his side.
after discovering jude’s long-hidden affair, everything you built together shatters in one devastating night.
genre: angst [breakup, emotional manipulation, infidelity, intense argument, no happy ending]. one-shot. use of y/n.
word count: 3.5k
n/a: my first ever fic! let me know what you think. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind and forgive any mistakes.
The insistent, repetitive sound of notifications broke the suffocating peace of the flat. It wasn’t just an isolated alert, but Jude’s phone vibrating incessantly on the coffee table every few seconds. The screen lighting up and going dark in a frantic rhythm which became impossible to ignore, repeating endlessly until it dominated the quiet room.
You were lying on the sofa, completely immersed in a book while waiting for Jude to finish his shower so you two could have dinner. Up until that moment, everything seemed to follow the tranquil routine you had built together over the years.
But the constant buzzing eventually dragged your attention away from the page. It was strange, even unsettling. Jude had always kept his phone close by and on silent almost all the time, especially on his days off when he claimed he wanted to ‘disconnect from the world’.
Driven by innocent curiosity and imagining it might be an emergency from the club, an update from his agent or an urgent message from the manager, you leaned over the sofa slowly and picked up the device.
The moment your eyes landed on the display, the world around you seemed to slow down drastically.
A screen filled with an uninterrupted sequence of notification previews met your gaze, but what caught your attention were the most recent messages:
have you made it home yet?
still thinking about last night...
when are we going to see each other again?
Fingers froze instantly over the device. The air left your lungs all at once, as if someone had violently gripped your throat, and your heart began to beat erratically against your chest. Heavy, violent and loud enough to deafen any other sound in the room. A few rapid blinks followed in a desperate attempt to prove this was all a mistake, that a simple explanation existed, or that some context remained hidden behind those few words.
With trembling hands and shallow breath, you typed in a six-digit passcode, that very date you two had started dating. Such cruel irony brought a bitter taste to your mouth... Jude had never even bothered to change those numbers, as if keeping a symbol of a ruined relationship was just another insignificant detail.
Upon opening the app, a cold deep crushing numbness washed over your body.
Scrolling through the chat, seconds were all it took to realise this was no recent contact. Not the result of an impulsive mistake, a drunken night out or a moment of weakness that could be easily explained away.
It was an extensive history, meticulously fed over months. Perhaps far longer than anyone could bear to imagine.
Explicit photos filled the screen without a shred of shame. Messages heavy with intimacy bled into pet names, promises and plans for future meetings.
Sordid details laid bare nights spent in hotels across the exact same cities where Real Madrid had been playing. On the very dates he used to call, claiming he needed to ‘focus on pre-match concentration’, that he was ‘exhausted from training’, or that he couldn’t manage a video call because he ‘simply needed to rest’.
Every new message felt like opening another wound, each word cutting like a dull blade. Slow and relentless.
Not a single tear fell. The shock was so devastating that it paralysed any emotional reaction as though your body had given up on feeling just to bear the weight of that discovery.
You remained motionless, staring at the blue light of the screen as years of loyalty, trust and sacrifice crumbled before your eyes, reduced to a string of messages exchanged between two people who acted as if you had never existed.
“What are you doing with my phone?”
Jude’s voice cut through the hallway, shattering the heavy silence of the living room like a command.
He appeared drying his damp hair with a towel draped over his shoulders, but stopped dead in his tracks the moment he spotted his phone in your hands. His face darkened instantly.
There wasn’t a single trace of genuine surprise, let alone guilt. Rather, a dry, almost offensive irritation, as if the true outrage of the scene was that you had dared to touch his device.
Without asking for an explanation, he strode over to you in long steps. He didn’t even wait for you to utter a single word. Bending over the sofa, he snatched the phone from your hand with a brusque movement, making your fingers scrape against the phone before letting go.
He locked the screen with a quick, automatic gesture, like someone accustomed to hiding what shouldn’t be seen, and tossed the phone carelessly onto the cushions.
“How many times have I told you not to go through my things?” He muttered through his teeth without raising his voice, but lacing every word with a cold, authoritative tone.
You remained sitting in the same position, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, unable to react after the rough way he had yanked the device out of your hands.
Raising your gaze, you slowly took in Jude’s broad shoulders, his rigid posture and the closed expression of someone you had shared the last few years of your life with. This was the person for whom you had moved across countries, left a life behind and learned to call home anywhere in the world.
Even so, the longer you stared, the less you could recognise him.
“Who is she, Jude?” Your voice came out low, barely audible, sustained only by the numbness of the shock. A simple question, carried by an almost desperate need for an answer that might disprove it all.
Jude ran a hand through his damp hair, glanced away towards the glass balcony for a moment and shook his head slowly, as though dealing with a problem far smaller than it actually was.
When he looked back at you, impatience was etched into every feature of his face. His jaw set in a line that betrayed how annoyed he was at having to offer an explanation.
“Are you seriously making a scene out of this now?” He scoffed, letting out a sharp breath. “Look, I’ve got training first thing tomorrow, the board are on my back about the fixtures, the press are everywhere... and you’re starting a row at this time of night?”
You held his gaze without moving.
The composure you maintained was no longer drawn from strength, but from pure shock, as if your body were still trying to catch up with how fast your entire life had collapsed in a matter of minutes.
“I... I read the messages, Jude. All of them...” You interrupted before he could deflect any further. Your voice was barely a whisper, trembling, unstable and fractured by the shock. “I–I didn’t mean to, but... the notifications... they kept coming. And I saw... the hotel photos. I read the chats, months of... of texts you two exchanged and...”
You couldn’t finish the sentence, a lump choking your throat as your voice began to crack. The silence that settled between you lasted only a few seconds, but felt endless.
Jude offered an unwavering stare as every trace of innocence vanished from his face. He let out a harsh sigh, visibly irritated at finding himself trapped. No shame, no remorse. Only the cold irritation of someone who despised losing control of the room.
Closing the distance with two slow steps, he stood over you once more, a hand resting on his hip.
“What do you actually expect me to do now? Break down, deliver some speech, beg for forgiveness? Come on, Y/N, we’ve been miserable for months, and you just chose to ignore it. Every single day, the exact same thing. The same routine, the constant nagging... did you honestly think I was going to live like this forever?”
The words pierced your chest, hurting far more than every text you had just read.
“Miserable?” You repeated in a whisper, feeling the pain finally break through the shock that was keeping you upright. Tears welled in your eyes for the first time in utter disbelief. “We’ve been miserable?”
You stood up from the sofa with deliberate slowness and forced yourself to lock eyes with him, refusing to look away for even a fraction of a second.
“I built the ground beneath your feet, Jude!” you shouted, the words tearing through your throat as the pain finally burst. “Five years. Five whole years of putting myself last for you. When you were just a kid and no one gave a damn, who held you together when you wept and said you weren’t good enough? I did! I threw away my own life, moved countries every time it suited you, and gave you everything.”
Jude just rolled his eyes and shook his head, clicking his tongue in irritation as if he couldn’t stand listening to another word.
“Stop talking like I owe you anything” He snapped, his voice sharper now as he stepped closer, closing the gap between them. “I never asked you to do any of that. You did it because you wanted to, so don’t try to make me feel like I owe you now.”
Jude stepped into your space, his cold gaze fixed on you. His voice grew louder with every word, his sharp gestures betraying months of bottled-up resentment as he tried to paint you as the one at fault.
“Do you really think I wanted this?” He said, his voice cutting through the room. “Just look at us! We stopped being a couple a long time ago. We were nothing more than two people sharing a house, going through the motions. Whatever we had... it died. The love, the closeness, all of it. And you kept clinging to what we used to be, pretending our history was enough to keep us alive. It wasn’t.”
He stared at you for a long moment before giving a slow shake of his head, his jaw tightening.
“I stopped missing you. Somewhere along the way, I stopped looking at you and seeing the woman I fell in love with. We just... became routine. We got comfortable, carried on because it was easier than admitting what was happening. I kept telling myself it was just a rough patch, that things would get better. But they didn’t. The truth is... my feelings changed. And one day I realised they just weren’t there anymore.”
Jude swallowed hard, his throat tightening before he looked at you with a quiet, almost unsettling resolve.
“I never wanted to hurt you. But I couldn’t keep pretending we were happy when we weren’t. We hadn’t been for months. I know I lied, and I’m not saying that was right because it wasn’t. But this... didn’t start when I met her. It started long before that, when we stopped talking, stopped trying... and just carried on because neither of us wanted to admit it was over.”
You listened in silence, letting every word sink in. Hearing the man you’d given so much of yourself to speak so calmly about falling out of love with you felt like the final blow. The pain was still there enough to steal your breath, but for the first time it was accompanied by something else: Clarity. There was nothing left to fight for.
Nothing left to save.
For a long moment, all you could do was stare at him. You blinked slowly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. It wasn’t the confession that broke something inside you, but how easily he said it, as though the years you’d shared could be dismissed with a few sentences. In that moment, you realised the man standing in front of you was no longer the one you’d fallen in love with.
“You really believe that, don’t you?” You said quietly, never taking your eyes off him. “You’ve been standing there, trying to convince yourself that this is somehow my fault... because I loved you? Because I stood by you spent years trying to be the person you needed no matter what was happening in your life?”
Silence stretched between you. Jude drew a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck before letting his hand fall. He just stood there, his expression guarded.
You took a deep breath before continuing.
“I spent years trying to be enough for you, Jude! Whenever you needed me, I was there. When you messed up your shoulder, I lived every second by your side! Every appointment, every bloody day of recovery, every time you spiralled thinking you’d never be the player you used to be. I learned to cook whatever your nutritionist wanted, I adapted to everything just to make your life easier! Somewhere along the line, I stopped asking myself what I wanted... because everything became about you!”
A quiet sob escaped you, taking the breath right out of your lungs. Hot tears finally spilled over, and you had to pause, fighting through the lump in your throat just to get the words out.
“The only thing I ever asked for... was loyalty.” A broken laugh slipped past your lips, heavy with defeat as tears finally tracked down your face. “That was it, Jude. Just loyalty. And you couldn’t even manage that.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room, so thick it felt hard to breathe.
“Do you remember what you told me back then? You swore I was the only person who stayed by your side through every single storm. That I was your home.” Your voice cracked, heavy with the weight of memory. “And now you turn around and make the way I cared for you sound like a burden. How could you?”
You slowly shook your head, the bitter disappointment written across your face. You wiped the tears from your face and drew a deep, heavy breath, trying to regain whatever control you had left.
“Don’t twist this. That isn’t a lack of love from me, Jude. It’s pure cowardice from you.”
Jude’s lips pressed into a thin, tight line, yet he stayed silent.
“If you wanted out, you had a fucking choice. You could’ve sat across from me like a grown-up and said, ‘I don’t want this anymore’. Instead, you came home to me every night, climbed into our bed, let me keep planning our future, all while you were already off giving yourself to another woman. That’s absolutely fucking disgusting!”
Try as you might to maintain a firm posture throughout the argument, your body finally yielded to the weight of reality. Again, the tears streamed down, one after another, while your breath hitched in stifled sobs.
“Cheating wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake or because of me. It was a fucking choice! A selfish, cowardly choice that you made, over and over again.”
Jude stared at you, the sharp edge in your voice cutting right through the walls he had built up all evening. Hearing his own actions laid out so plainly made him feel smaller than he’d ever felt. He wanted to blame you, to convince himself that he’d been trapped, but looking at the raw disappointment in your tear-streaked face, the lie fell apart in his mind. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the truth, but he knew he had chosen the easy way out and nothing he could say now would ever repair the trust he had so carelessly shattered.
Tonight was supposed to be just another quiet evening. You were going to have dinner, watch a film before bed and the next day he would head back to training like so many times before.
Instead, everything you had built over the years ended right there, inside that living room.
You brought your hands to your face, wiping away your tears again hastily, trying to prevent him from seeing any further trace of the damage he had caused. You took a few deep breaths, trying to control the tremor running through your entire body.
“I... I can’t stay here.” Your voice came out low, broken.
Jude opened his eyes immediately.
“What?”
You didn’t answer. You simply averted your gaze and walked toward the bedroom, leaving him standing in the middle of the room.
The moment you stepped inside, you pulled the door shut just enough to create a small barrier between you and entered the walk-in wardrobe. Your hands were shaking so much that you had to take a deep breath before you managed to pull a small suitcase from the bottom compartment of one of the wardrobes, and it hit the floor with a dull thud, echoing through the quiet bedroom. Right there, you unzipped it and began packing only the essentials.
Changes of clothes, documents, your phone charger… every item was folded in a hurry, but your movements betrayed how lost you felt. Sobs escaped your lips beyond your control, filling the room with a painful sound that carried down the hallway and reached the living room.
Jude remained motionless, listening to every single one of them, still trying to grasp how everything he had lived over the last five years was ending this way. How, in a matter of minutes, the relationship that once seemed unshakeable had spiraled completely out of control.
After a few seconds, he walked over to the bedroom.
He stood in the doorway of the walk-in wardrobe, watching you knelt before the suitcase, trying to do up the zip while your hands kept trembling. Your face was swollen from crying, and your hair fell messily over your face.
He took a deep breath before speaking. “Don’t do this.”
You carried on packing the last few items without even raising your head.
“We’ll sort this out tomorrow. You’re hot-headed right now, and so am I. Tomorrow we’ll talk properly.”
“Tomorrow?” Your voice sounded raspy when you finally looked up at him. There was as much exhaustion as there was disappointment in your eyes. “Do you honestly think there’s any talking to be done tomorrow?”
Jude took a step into the bedroom. “There is. You don’t need to leave right now.”
You shook your head slowly and took another deep breath before answering.
“I’m leaving. I'm going back to England.”
His expression faltered for the very first time that night. You stand up from the floor and adjust the suitcase.
“I can’t stay here any longer.”
He ran a hand over his face, visibly agitated.
“You’re making a decision in the heat of the moment...”
“No, Jude, please... just stop.” Your voice came out low but steady, your hand gripping the handle of the suitcase.“I can’t even bear to look you in the eye.”
The words struck Jude differently from anything that had been said up to that point. His eyes, red and dull, fixed on the suitcase before rising slowly to your face.
“Are you really leaving right now?” His voice came out low, raspy, stripped of that harsh, authoritative edge.
You didn’t answer right away, feeling a crushing weight in your chest, but without faltering. The pain was still there, raw and burning, but the decision had been made the moment you saw who he truly was.
Jude took a hesitant step, running a hand clumsily over his face. He suddenly looked smaller, as though the massive, luxurious flat had grown too big for him to inhabit alone.
“We don’t have to resolve everything tonight...” he muttered, again, staring at you with a mix of exhaustion and restrained desperation. “You don’t have to leave like this in the middle of the night. We could just... talk tomorrow with a clear head.”
You offered no response.
He swallowed hard, looking down at the floor. His face contorted for a second in an expression of genuine anguish. The weight of knowing he had destroyed the only real relationship he had, the only person who had loved him before the money, the and the fame... finally seemed to crash down upon his shoulders.
“I know what I did. What I said, but…” he began, his voice wavering slightly. Jude stopped mid-sentence, letting out a heavy, shaky sigh. He took another step, reaching out a hand as if to touch your arm, but hesitated halfway and pulled his fingers back upon seeing your distant gaze. “I didn’t want it to end like this.” He whispered, looking at you with glassy eyes.
“You chose this the very first day you betrayed my trust, Jude.” You replied, holding the handle of the suitcase firmly. “The only difference is that today, I’m making your choice official.”
You pulled the suitcase close and walked toward the bedroom door. Jude stepped aside slowly, making way with his shoulders slumped as he watched your every move with a late, useless sorrow.
When you reached the living room, you didn’t look back. With the suitcase in your hand, you walked down the hallway towards the lift, each step taking you further away from him.
Jude remained still for a few moments before finally making his way to the living room, just in time to see the front door close behind you. Standing motionless and silent in the doorway, he watched as you stepped into the lift and walked away, without looking back even once, leaving everything you had behind and walking out of his life.
⊹ ❀ ࣪ ˖ — "I WANT SWEET REVENGE, I WANT HIM AGAIN.."
MACKLIN CELEBRINI X CROSBY!READER
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
(Credits for the divider!!: @cursed-carmine )
SUMMARY: Things continue to be messy between Macklin and Y/N, but it takes a crazy turn when Luke Hughes is involved.
WARNINGS: Reader is a figure skater, SMAU, use of Y/N, Childhood friends with Mackie, possible inaccurate detail’s about figure skating or hockey, swearing, possible angst? Mention/slander of the Hughes brothers.
A/N: I’m SOOO sorry this took so long 😓😓 I feel so guilty for taking so much time, family vacation is HELL and my country went thru national mourning so the process of making this was a mess….
Synopsis: At your first wedding anniversary with Dean, you gift him a piece of something he had but thought he'd never get again. AKA, the missing best man speech he never got.
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
Word count: 3k words
Content: SPOILERSS! Grief, mentions of death, hurt and maybe comfort if you squint? Light swearing.
Notes: BEAU MAXWELL IS MY SHAYLA AND THIS IS THE ONLY TIME IM GONNA ACKNOWLEDGE THAT HE'S DEAD😭. Writing this has been a challenge for me, but it's also been cathartic. Some of this came from imagination, and some of it came from my own experience. Thank you for reading. All constructive criticism is appreciated, encouraged, and thank you everyone for the engagement!! It means so much <3
Dean had been insufferable all week.
“I got you the best gift ever.” he says at the breakfast table one morning.
You didn’t even look up from your coffee. “You don’t know what my gift for you is.” you say.
“I don’t need to.” he said smugly. “I’ve won this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You sound very confident.”
“I am.” he doesn’t even bother hiding it.
“You’re going to absolutely love me.” he says in a sing-song voice.
“You’ve become unbelievably unbearable in just one year.” you say with fake exasperation lacing your voice.
“I’ve earned the right to be unbearable!” he defends.
You smile despite yourself.
“We’ll see.”
Your first wedding anniversary wasn’t anything extravagant. Neither of you had wanted that. Just the people that mattered to you guys were there. Your closest friends and family.
The venue itself was fancy, scattered with round tables everywhere with a fancy ivory tablecloth and fancy cutlery.
People drifted between conversations, old stories resurfacing.
Someone inevitably bought up all the honeymoon disasters.
Someone else bought up the time you and Dean didn’t talk to each other for two whole days because you were supporting opposing football teams.
You laughed so hard you almost spilled your drink. You caught Dean’s eyes on you from across the room, happy to see you enjoying.
Eventually came the gifts.
Dean went first, obviously.
He placed a velvet box in front of you with the air of a man that had bought the sun and moon for his wife’s gift.
“Open it.” he said excitedly.
You did. Inside was a necklace.
The necklace featured a simple gold chain, but with a rectangular resin piece, encasing a small, pressed flower plated in gold. The pendant also had a gold border shaped like intertwining vines, your and dean’s initials curled together in elegant gold script, in a beautiful gold colour, making this the most valuable piece of jewellery you’d ever owned.
You gasped. “Dean, this is- this is beautiful!” you exclaimed.
He was kneeling in front of you. “The flower is from your wedding bouquet.” he says softly.
You feel your eyes well up with tears. “Dean…” you start. “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me.” you pull him up and into a hug, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
“I hate how good you are at this.” you admit.
“I had help from Hannah.” he mutters.
“I don’t care.” you look up and kiss him. The room applauds.
You turn around so he can help you wear it before he kisses your neck and guides you to sit back down.
Dean sits back in his chair and leans back, a smug smile taking up permanent residence on his face.
“Nothing beats that.” he boasts.
“Oh?” you question, excitement making your stomach churn.
Once everyone had settled, you stood up. You picked up a remote for the huge projector and connected your phone to it.
“This is my gift for you,” you say, nervous as well as eager for this.
“A slideshow?” Dean raises an eyebrow.
“Nope.”
“A speech?” he asks.
“Nope!”
His expression morphs into one of horror.
“You wrote me a song?”
You hit him with the remote. “No, idiot!”
“Thank God…” he sighed. You glare at him before picking up a mic.
“Lades and gentlemen.” you begin, and all conversations come to a soft halt.
“Today, we’re celebrating one year of us.” you look around at the room- at all the people that have been there for you during different stages of your life.
Your eyes pause at the table with Hannah, Garrett, Logan, Grace, Tucker, Sabrina, and little Jamie. They continue moving until they reach the family table. Your parents, Dean’s parents… and Beau’s. Dean absolutely insisted that they have a place at that table, and you weren’t going to refuse.
“One year is a long time. And when people talk about our marriage, they always talk about the big moments.” you smile.
“The moments that made us, us. But there are also the people that got us here…”
A pause. Dean’s smile fades slightly, but not because he’s worried. It fades because he knows that tone, and he’s listening.
“One year ago today… there was someone else that was supposed to be standing next to Dean at that altar.”
There’s a sharp change in the atmosphere. A few people sit up straighter. Nobody needs you to say his name.
“Someone that would have spent the entire morning teasing Dean for crying over which colour tie to wear…” a tiny laugh escaped someone in the audience.
“but also someone that would have given the most heartfelt speech in the room.”
You pause.
“Beau, his best man.”
The room is so quiet you could hear the birds chirp outside. You smile despite the ache in your chest.
“I know Dean has spent the last year thinking about what he would have said, even though he doesn’t admit it.”
You meet his eyes with a soft expression. Not pity in your eyes, but love. Understanding.
“Maybe…” your voice catches. “Maybe he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.”
Dean’s expression shifts.
“No.” he says, voice quiet in a way you’ve hardly heard before.
“Yes.” you say to him gently.
His eyes dart between you and the huge white projector screen lowering itself on the huge wall. “What…?”
The video loads on the screen. It flickers, but then-
Beau.
Young.
Alive.
Wearing his lucky football jersey he was seen in more than anything, curls messier than anyone remembers.
Dean forgets to breathe.
Across the room, Beau’s mom presses both hands on her mouth before a sound can escape.
His dad’s eyes are stuck on the screen. He looks like he can’t bear to watch it but can’t bear to look away either.
Dean’s mom reaches across the table and takes Beau’s mother’s hand. Neither of them say anything.
The video begins in the off campus house. A younger you is adjusting the camera on the mantel so it doesn’t fall while Beau laughs at you.
Hearing that laugh, Dean freezes.
It’s been over a year since he’s heard that voice, heard that laugh. For over a year he’d been terrified that one day he’d wake up and forget that sound. Now it crashes into him with an onslaught of emotions. It was warm, familiar, but made his chest ache all the same.
His fingers white knuckle the edge of his chair. Your fingers immediately find his under the table, and he squeezes your hand so hard it hurts. But you don’t say anything.
“You’re recording this?” Beau on screen teases.
“Hey, some day 20 years in the future we’re gonna be looking back at this and laughing.” you say, walking back from the phone and seating yourself.
The venue stills. Twenty years.
You said twenty years in such a sure way, like it was a guarantee. The thought that he might not have even another two years not crossing any of your minds.
“So, Beau Maxwell.” you begin in the video. “Future best man. Give us a preview of the speech.”
Beau laughs in that easy going way of his. “Not on camera! You’re going to use this to blackmail me.”
You chuckle. “This is something I learnt in a drama workshop I did.” Beau groans immediately.
“Record yourself giving a speech, so you can watch yourself later and see how you come across. Y’know, your posture, pacing, body language, yada yada.” you convince him.
Beau rolls his eyes so dramatically that everyone watching the video laughs.
“Okay, wait.”
He stands up and pretends to brush imaginary dust off of his pants. He looks around the room for a second before settling on a random jacket in the hockey house living room- Dean’s, and wears it.
“This,” he announces proudly. “Is my suit.”
“If you actually wear that to our wedding,” you begin, threat evident in your voice. “I will actually kick you out, best man speech be damned.”
He ignores you and picks up a glass and spoon from the kitchen, tapping it together, making a pitiful noise.
“Oh my god, you’re going to break the glass!” you scold him playfully.
“All worth it for your wedding,” he says solemnly.
The tension in the hall is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Dean lets out a breath that sounds like the beginning of a sob.
On the screen, blissfully unawaure, Beau clears his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he announces confidently in the empty room.
“So, apparently I’m supposed to be giving a speech.” he continues.
You snort on camera. “You literally begged to be the best man!”
He looks offended. “Please, I was coerced!”
You give him a no-nonsense look. “You made a grand show of going on both your knees acting like you were the one proposing to him.”
Beau smirks. “Like I said, I was manipulated.”
You give the camera a deadpan look.
The room erupts in laughter again. Even Dean laughs through his tears, shaking his head.
“Well, I’ve known Dean since ages.” he starts seriously. “I’ve seen all his phases, from the time he was convinced that wearing Nike basketball shorts and grinding in the gym daily, even in the winter, just to impress girls, was-”
He’s cut off by your laugh.
“I can’t do this if you’re laughing!”
“I’m not saying anything!” you protest.
He shakes his head.
“Okay. Again.”
“I’ve known Dean for…” his brows furrow and he looks intensely concentrated.
You ask him in the most strained tone ever. “Are you trying to calculate how long it’s been since you guys have been friends?”
Next to you, Dean mutters "Not long enough."
Beau gives a guilty smile, which is met by a cushion you throw at his face.
“Ow! You broke my nose!” he clutches at his face dramatically. “That’s the moneymaker!”
“Are you going to give the speech, Maxwell, or should I tell Nick to start writing his own speech?”
He glares at you. “Here I was going to talk about how kind you are.” He glances at the camera. “But she’s also incredibly annoying.”
His face lights up like he just came to a realization.
“That’s why you and Dean are perfect for each other!”
Dean's eyes break away from the screen and he gives you a soft kiss, conveying all the gratitude he felt to you for giving him this.
On screen, Beau’s just standing there, mouth open, like he’s discovered the secret of the universe when another pillow is thrown at his face. He retaliates and throws it back, his quarterback skills making sure the pillow hits your arm. You try to throw it back, but somehow end up knocking down the phone.
When the phone is back upright, you back away and sigh.
“Okay. Again.”
Beau groans. “If I do it properly, can we go back to watching TV?”
“Deal.” you agree.
He cleared his throat dramatically.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” he announces confidently to the nearly empty room.
“Dean has been an important person in my life ever since high school.”
“I was with him when he put diesel in his petrol car.” he smiles fondly at the memory.
“When he fell for his first pyramid scheme. Or when he bought a whole shipment of redbull before deciding he didn’t like it.”
The room laughs, remembering all of this.
“And somehow, he’s made it to adulthood.” he looks at you.
“He’s also managed to find someone else that puts up with his antics.” Beau’s smile softens.
“I always knew I’d be standing next to him when he got married.”
Dean lets out a loud sob at that, but no one says anything. Even Garrett looks teary eyed.
Dean had kept Beau’s empty spot at the wedding. An empty chair next to you both at the reception. No one had questioned it.
“So did almost everyone who knew us since high school. Granted, they thought we’d be standing right next to each other and I’d be reciting vows instead of giving a speech, but that honour has been reserved for our lovely piranha here.”
A knot develops in your throat at that familiar nickname, while the room laughs.
“After meeting you, Dean became soft in a way I never thought I’d see.” He pauses.
“He started saying lovey dovey shit like-” he pauses and looks at you with a panicked expression. “Fuck, can I say shit?- Fuck, I can’t say fuck either can I?”
He takes one look at your murderous expression and continues his speech.
“While I do miss pre-domesticated Dean, the Dean that was up for any bad idea without saying ‘I’ll have to check with my girlfriend’ first, I don’t miss wondering if he was ever going to be happy.”
You smile.
Beau directs his next words to you.
“Meeting you has changed him in a lot of ways, yeah, but I’m glad they did.” Beau’s voice becomes a little quiet.
“He still drives me insane, but…”
“Gone are the days I was worried that he wouldn’t find true happiness.”
Dean bows his head. Beau never got to find his.
Dean would spend the rest of his life wishing he could somehow trade places with him, just once.
Just long enough for Beau to know this kind of happiness too.
“I’ve seen so many versions of him. I’ve seen the loud Dean.” Beau starts listing off.
“Angry Dean.”
“Dean when he refused to believe that he was in love.”
He smirks. “That one was painful to watch.”
His voice becomes sincere. “But I’ve never seen Dean as happy as he is with you. As carefree, or as peaceful as you make him.”
Beau looks at you in the video.
“So I’m honoured to be the one that Dean chose to help him with a new version of himself- him on his wedding day.”
Dean wipes away his tears, and leans into you. You wrap your arms around him in a way that’s become familiar over the past few years.
He’s looking at the screen with an intensity that borders on desperation, like if he memorizes everything Beau does, he won’t lose another piece of him when this video ends.
You in the video start crying as well.
Beau groans. “You’re getting emotional!”
“Am not!” you say, wiping away a tear.
He points at you accusingly. “Stop crying.”
“Mind your own business.” you retort.
“Delete this video.” he protests.
“Nope!” you say with a wet laugh.
“Okay, I don’t know how to end this…” Beau grumbles.
“D… I think you’ve found the right person for you. Don’t mess this up.” he says seriously.
“I hope, years from now…”
He pauses.
“She’s still the first person you call when something happens.”
“The first person you want to see after a bad game.”
“You still reach for her hand without thinking.”
He smiles at you again.
“As someone who used to be Dean’s favourite for a long time… I hope you enjoy growing up with him as much as I did.”
There isn’t a dry eye left in the room anymore. His father watches the screen with a heaviness that’s specific to a father hearing his son’s voice after believing he’s heard it for the last time as a scream.
Dean covers his face with his hands.
He would give anything to argue with Beau about anything again. Anything to lose another bet. Anything to hear him tease him about how whipped he was.
Nobody tells you that, after someone dies, you don’t just miss the big moments.
You miss the ordinary ones as well.
The ones you never thought to treasure because they weren’t anything special.
In the hockey house living room, Beau holds your eyes for a second.
“Beau… that was amazing.” you say breathlessly.
“And if y'all ever have kids, you know I’m going to tell them all the embarrassing shit you did together.” he grins.
“I’ll be their godfather Beau.” He looks at the ceiling of the hockey house and smirks. “The rest of these idiots can have uncle status.”
You laugh. “Done?”
Beau bows dramatically.
“For now.” he says.
He points at the camera. “I’ll save the good stuff for the wedding. I have time.” he says with a self assured grin.
The words hang in the air.
You’re about to speak again when the sound of a door opening disrupts you.
A blur of sweat and a hockey jersey shoots through the room before sweeping you up in a hug so hard your feet leave the floor.
You laugh and shriek. “Dean! Put me down!”
Beau laughs as the rest of the hockey team files into the room post practice, Tucker faceplanting on the couch you were just sitting on.
Garrett opened the fridge and raided it.
Logan shouted something about Dean’s stinky shoes.
Sabrina rolled her eyes at all of the chaos.
Nobody appreciated the moment. They took it for granted, thinking they’d have thousands more just like it.
He walks over to the phone and picks it up before pointing it towards both of you in an embrace, saying something before ending it.
“They’re going to be just fine together.”
The screen fades to black.
Nobody moves. The silence in the hall stretches.
Dean stands before hugging you so tight your blood circulation cuts off.
There’s no trace of his smug personality from just 10 minutes ago as he holds onto you.
“Thank you.” he says, words holding a lot of weight.
He only lets go of you when he walks over to Beau’s parents. He doesn’t say anything.
He drops to his knees besides their table and hugs his mother first.
She’s sobbing, holding him in the same way she did at the funeral.
Beau’s father places his hand on Dean’s trembling shoulder.
“I miss him.” Dean says. Such simple yet heartbreaking words.
“In a way, it’s a good thing.” Beau’s mom whispers in his ear.
At Dean’s confused silence, she explains.
“Missing him means you had someone worth grieving, and I think that’s beautiful.”
Dean just sobs harder. For a moment, no one can tell where one family’s grief ends and the other’s begins.
Disclaimer: I know that in the book, Dean didn't attend Beau's funeral, but I really liked the line and didn't want to remove it.
when someone leaks that oscar piastri is a young father, oscar feels like his whole world is about to cave in as he tries to protect you and your daughter.
oscar piastri x f!reader ୨୧ warnings : language, fan culture, tabloids/hate comments, invasion of privacy ୨୧ note : n e ways– oscar gave me baby fever so enjoy 😅 if you enjoy don't forget to comment/reblog!
📅 august 30, 2025
deuxmoi an insider has just leaked exclusive photos and information of formula one driver, oscar piastri, stating that him and long-time girlfriend, y/n, have been parents since 2022. the pictures provided have been revealed to come from y/n's private instagram that reportedly only close family and friends follow.
the insider states that while they can't give away too many details, they confirmed that their daughter's name starts with an 'r'.
View all 28,290 comments
user WHOA WTF OSCAR'S A DAD???? THIS WAS NOT ON MY BINGO LIST
user not them covering the kid's face with a koala cause oscar is australian 😭😭 why is that actually kind of cute
user someone is about to lose their job 😬 hope the quick cash was worth it
user all those jokes about us calling yn mother and HERE SHE WAS AN ACTUAL MOTHER THE WHOLE TIME
user omggggg that picture of oscar with baby r is literally the cutest thing in the world
user he looks so young in it too 🥺
user so apparently oscar's stroke game is just too good huh 🤨
user sorry we doubt you king 😔
user have they never heard of protection??? seriously how could someone with a career like oscar's be so careless 🙄
user at least deuxmoi covered the kid's face...
user wowow wtf is wrong with people???
user what kind of person would expose something like this????
user clearly someone without anything better to do
user no offense... but i doubt oscar does any parenting with how often he's probably gone
user just say oscar isn't your favorite driver and move along 😪
user maybe yn should be more careful on who she lets follow her private account and this wouldn't have happened 🙄 typically pick me wag behavior
user hey!! your comment is a little unnecessary, not yn's fault someone she thought she would trust decided to leak the photos
f1gossipupdates oscar piastri talks about recent rumors of him being a father.
🎙️ : so, oscar– first off congratulations on the win
OP : thank you 🙂
🎙️ : secondly, we have to ask about the recent rumors that have come out this weekend. would you like to make any statement about them?
OP : umm, i mean nothing really to say except that my family's privacy has clearly been invaded. my daughter has nothing to do with racing, and i plan to keep it that way. she's still growing into her own person and i would like to keep her out of the spotlight until she is able to decide whether she wants to be seen or not. the pictures going around were taken from my girlfriend's private instagram that she uses to share those pictures with long-distance friends and family, so quite disheartening to see them being used to 'expose' our daughter.
View all 1,283 comments
user OH HE'S MAD MAD GUYS
user can you blame him though 😭 someone literally just exposed the biggest secret of his life during his wdc title fight 😭😭 i would be pissed too
user he handled that better than i would have honestly
user not saying he wouldn't be but oscar seems like a great dad so i hope fans respect his daughter's privacy
user kind of weird that she got pregnant and oscar didn’t marry her 🤨 cause he def gives the vibe of marrying his gf if he knocked her up
user frrrrrrr maybe he didn’t marry her so it would be easier to leave her if he wanted 🤣🤣
user i wonder what their baby's name is???
user heard some theories it might be rosé or reba but no one knows for sure and i doubt we'll ever find out
ynln and oscarpiastri updated their stories !
📅 december 7, 2025
clip #1 — baby piastri spotted running to oscar after the race
the clip is taken from the grandstand, zooming in on oscar as he's standing in parc fermé trying to cooldown from the race he just finished.
that's when the camera catches oscar turning his head and large smile breaking out onto his features as he's kneeling. that's when a tiny body jumps into his arms and he stands to his full height, hugging his daughter close to him. you are then seen coming up to join oscar and your daughter, the australian driver holding one arm out so that you could join in on the hug.
the clip zooms in even more to catch oscar kissing you sweetly on the lips before he's kissing your daughter on her cheek as she smiles brightly at him.
💬 comments :
👤 : oh those are HIS girls
👤 : oscar didn't win the championship but he sure won the family lottery
👤 : still hate that someone went and leaked baby r's existence before oscar and yn was ready, but i'm glad it didn't stop them from bringing her to the last race
👤 : i agree... i think oscar really enjoys having yn and their daughter at the races with him
👤 : BABY R WAS AT THE RACE 😱 NOT A THREE YEAR OLD GOING TO MORE F1 RACES THAN ANY OF US EVERY WILL 😭 life is truly unfair mannnnnn 😭😭
📅 december 25, 2026
🔒 privyn rowen told oscar every room needed a tree🎄 so guess what every room got 😂
View 92 comments
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️
nicolepiastri she's getting so big 🤧 can't wait to see you guys soon
hattiepiastri still can't believe oscar made literally the cutest baby everr
oscarpiastri thanks 😑
lando lmaoooo why is she making that last face 😂
privyn oscar made a lame joke and she wasn't impressed
ediepiastri glad to see you and ro putting some whimsy into oscar's life 😆 it was very much needed
privyn can never have too much whimsy is what ro says 😆
📅 march 29, 2026
ynln godzilla was r's favorite thing from japan 🇯🇵🗼
View all 82,203 comments
oscarpiastri taking home a trophy and several godzilla action figures
ynln i'm afraid japan unlocked a new obsession 🤭
user STOP THATS SO CUTE– r being so cute and obsessed with godzilla is literally so adorable
user glad to see oscar and yn letting r explore different interests!
lando cutest godzilla lover i know
haasf1team hope she liked our livery this weekend then 🙌
ynln she was obsessed with it! thank you for letting us come by to see it 🖤 hope ollie is okay ❤️
olliebearman a little bruised but i'm good!
user the cherry blossom emoji to cover r's face is very on brand for this japan dump
user little r coloring in hospitality 🤧🤧 she seems so well behaved
user oscar is so boring cause he gave all the potential personality to his daughter
user OMG I SAW THEM WALKING AROUND THE PADDOCK ON SATURDAY!!! YN AND R WERE VISITING SOME OF THE OTHER WAGS
user ohhhhhhh they took r to japan 🥺🥺 seems like she had a good time too
clip #2 – oscar was joined by his daughter during his post-race interview
"uh, yeah, pace was really good today. very happy with the results. turns out we're not so bad when we actually start a race."
both oscar and the interview laugh a little bit. the sky sport's interview is about to ask another question, when oscar suddenly looks down. the camera just barely catches the top part of a tiny head now standing in front of oscar before arms were also appearing, gently patting oscar's stomach.
"daddy up," the microphone just barely catches and oscar can't bother to hide the smile on his face as he looks down at his daughter. then without a second thought, oscar leans down and picks the small girl up. him holding rowen on his hip as she immediately rests her head on his shoulder – clearly content with being held.
"hope you don't mind someone joining us," oscar says as he fixes his daughter's sweater.
"would you say your daughter was a good luck charm for this race?"
"probably, but i wish her good luck would have kicked in back in australia," oscar laughs looking from the camera to rowen. "either way, p2 is a great result for the team, so i'm glad i was able to start and finish this one."
rowen is caught watching as her father talks into the red and blue microphone. her bright eyes then looking towards the microphone and seemingly curious about it.
"daddy, what's that?" she interrupts him, leaning forward to where her tiny fingers just barely grazed the microphone.
"it's a microphone, baby, they use it so people watching on tv can hear me," he explains softly, his hand coming up to gently move her hand away.
💬 comments :
👤 : STOP SHE'S SO CUTE I LOVE BABY R SO MUCH 🥺🥺
👤 : oh that little girl has oscar wrapped around her finger. i've never seen oscar look this soft before
👤 : "i wish her good luck would have kicked in back in australia" OSCAR STOPPPPP 😭😭😭 IM SCREAMING
👤 : i love how oscar doesn't ask where she came from and just picks her up without thinking 😂😂😂😂
👤 : using this as future evidence when haters try to say that oscar doesn't care for his daughter
📅 april 26, 2026
oscar81updates oscar talks about baby r in recent interview and what it was like becoming a young parent in his recent interview.
🎙️ : so, it's been a year since it was revealed you have a daughter. you had her at a young age, what was that like? having to juggle going from f2 to f1 while also learning how to change diapers.
🐨 : it was definitely something i struggled with learning how to do, but more so learning how to juggle being a racer and a dad. me and my girlfriend we both struggled i think, and there were times i thought i was failing the both of them. but y/n was always there to pick me up even when she was exhausted. i'm thankful that my parents really helped us in the first year. they really helped me grow more confident in being both a loving dad and partner; i was able to be there for y/n like she was for me.
🎙️ : how does your daughter feel about you being an f1 driver? does she realize what you do and why you are constantly leaving?
🐨 : umm, she knows i drive a really fast car. she's always had that kind of understanding, we have pictures of my car along with my old helmets all over the house, so she's grown up with seeing the f1 cars. when she was about two, she was obsessed with the little hot wheels cars, and so i was constantly buying them whenever i went to a new country for her. she still plays with them, we got her one of the race tracks – the one with the shark – and she played the hell out of it.
at the very beginning when she was like one and half to two years old, she was always very distraught when i left. she would burst into tears whenever she seen my suitcase by the door. i remember she even took her first steps towards my suitcase, not me or y/n, because she wanted to push it away *laughs* it very cute and we were both shocked. but now she does much better with me leaving, i always tell her that i'll call her and to watch me on tv. obviously, she still has her moments where she throws full tantrums, but she's four so it doesn't surprise me and usually me holding her and rocking her gets her to stop.
🎙️ : i bet you've almost missed your flights cause of that!
🐨 : oh, one thousand percent, but i wouldn't trade it for the world. i hate leaving knowing that she's crying. it really messes with me.
🎙️ : has she been to any races?
🐨 : yeah, she’s been to a few. we don’t take her to a lot just because it can be a lot for someone so young. we didn’t start taking her to any until 2024, and that was only a handful. she’s been to the australian one for the past three years. she’s been to the british and monaco one, and we also took her to abu dhabi last year.
🎙️ : i remember seeing the clips of your daughter running up to you after the race.
🐨 : *laughs* yeah, seeing her run to me kind of just… i felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders. and i knew that even if i wasn’t world champion, i was still champion to her — as cheesy as that sounds, and i wouldn’t change it for the world.
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user dad!oscar is my fav genre of oscar 🤧
user he may not be my favorite driver but i have mad respect for him and how he's able to balance such a crazy life
user so glad he's more comfortable talking about his daughter now 🥺 you can really tell how much love he has for her
user like that's HIS baby
user omg r being obsessed with hot wheels is so cute and them even getting her one of the tracks too STOPPPPPPPP
user so being obsessed with cars is just a piastri thing then 😂😂 bless y/n's heart for now having two car obsessed people lmaooooo
user still can't wrap my head around oscar being a dad 😵💫😵💫 certified dilf if you ask me
📅 may 9, 2026
oscar81updates oscar was spotted attending his daughter's dance recital in monaco last night and also posted an update of r in her recital outfit.
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user oh he looks so proud of her 🥺🥺🥺
user this just confirms that oscar was always meant to be a girl dad
user dude grew up with three younger sisters, it would have been weird if he WASN'T a girl dad lmao
user i heard the dance recital was for mother's day which i think makes it even sweeter, so glad he was able to go see her dance
user i love that he's slowly posting just a little bit of r here and there
user glad he can trust us 🤧
user NO ONE RUIN THIS FOR US GUYS I SWEAR TO GOD
user 2026 is the year of girl dad!oscar and i'm LIVING for it
user oscar living in peace now that he doesn't have to worry about winning a championship with that tractor mclaren like to call a car
user he literally looks so happy to be there watching his daughter
user normalize not recording celebrities in public esp when they are at private events or with their kids 😭😭
📅 may 10, 2026
oscarpiastri happy mother's day to the love of my life and the one who always keeps me steady and sane. every year i grow more and more thankful to you, my dear y/n, and i know i'm not usually good with words, but i hope you know how much i truly adore and love you.
i remember when we first started dating you asked me if i believed in soulmates, and i told you no. and i didn't. but i realize that even if i didn't believe in them at the time, you were always my soulmate. my other half. the mother of my daughter, my precious world. last year was a crazy whirlwind for us and i'm glad we got through the storm together.
i love you so much, y/n 🧡
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ynln oh oscar 🥺 you are literally so sweet and i love you so much
lando happy mother's day y/n! oscar would literally be a chicken without its head if it wasn't for you and little r 😂
mclarenf1 happy mother's day y/n 🧡🧡
user can't believe we got sappy oscar before gta6
user omg i literally can't 🥹🥹 the different photos throughout the year has me SOBBING
user such a beautiful family!
user omg that first slide is from the originally ones that were leaked!!
user oscar reclaiming that picture from the loser who leaked it to begin with 🙂↕️🙂↕️
user the mixture of pics of yn by herself and with r are so sweet 🥹 she's literally so gorg
user oscar pulling such a pretty girl just isn't fair 😤😤
f1atelier photos are just placeholders! yn doesn't have an actual faceclaim please imagine yourself or whoever you want in these pictures! thanks.
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey trophies on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
later that evening, the summer heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
DEAN DI LAURENTIS TEXTS -> ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS TEXTS (with secret feelings?)
‘who dis?’: offcampus!dean di laurentis x afab!reader
summary: you and dean really get on each others nerves, yet you’re always each other go to fuck buddy, but is that really all?
warnings: mentions of sex, mentions of foreplay, and sexual language.
note: THIS IS MY FIRST OFF CAMPUS FIC! i’m kinda nervous to post this, but i’m excited for you guys to read. this is heavily influenced by allie and dean’s relationship in off campus (the tv series), i hope this reaches the target audience. as always if you have any requests send to my inboxxxxx!! thank you 💗
ps! im not gonna put my taglist for this because its really just harry fans on there… my taglist is for both though just so people know. psa!
Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.
Angst / Hurt-Comfort
Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.
A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!
Words:
Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.
Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.
He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.
But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.
It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.
But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.
When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.
It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.
The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.
He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".
In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.
That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.
You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.
To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.
You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.
I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.
God, you were a fucking idiot.
You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.
You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.
You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.
You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.
The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.
She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.
You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.
But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?
For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.
But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.
You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.
And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.
"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."
Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"
"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".
He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.
Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.
The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.
You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.
The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.
So you just... faded out.
You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.
You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.
But you forgot who you were dealing with.
"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.
You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.
"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."
"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.
You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.
Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.
A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.
It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.
He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.
"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.
"No."
"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."
He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.
The boys knew.
They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.
It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.
Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.
You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.
Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.
"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.
Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.
He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.
"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"
The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.
"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."
"Bullshit."
He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.
"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."
"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."
"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"
The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.
"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"
The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.
Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.
Dean froze.
The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.
His green eyes widened as he stared at you.
You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.
"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."
"Don't," you choked out.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.
"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."
"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."
It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.
The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.
His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.
As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.
"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.
His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.
"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."
"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."
Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.
"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."
You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.
Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.
The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.
"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.
Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.
He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.
"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.
"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."
The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.
Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.
"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."
A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."
"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."
You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.
It was over.
Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.
It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.
But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.
You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.
But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.
RED RIGHT HAND! | An Off Campus x Criminal Minds AU
Summary: After his daughter and her boyfriend, university hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, go missing on their way back from a concert in Boston, David Rossi pulls out all the stops and drags the BAU to Hastings to find them.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Rossi!Reader
Warnings: Typical Criminal Minds violence, assault etc. Rossi grapples with the fact that he might not be the dad that he thought he was. Every chapter will have individual warnings.
Author's Note: Surprise! My thriller loving heart can't wait to start writing this AU, and I hope I am dedicated enough to the idea to stick it out to the end. I know it seems wild and random, but I've seen all kinds of AU's and crossovers going on in the Off Campus fandom and it gave me and idea for one of my own.
CHAPTER ONE: RED RIGHT HAND!
A dirt road, a silver 4-Runner found with both front doors open, radio still playing, and a voicemail from his daughter that sends shivers down David Rossi's spine brings the BAU to the hallowed campus of Briar University. A place where Rossi thought his daughter would finally be safe.
CHAPTER TWO: BLACK HOLE SUN
Rossi follows a potential lead to the home of the Briar Fighting Hawks, and the team investigate the last known location of the missing. Elsewhere, Dean and YN start to plan their escape.
CHAPTER THREE: TWISTING THE KNIFE
With Dean in the hospital and YN still missing, the search grows desperate as pieces of YN’s past are slowly revealed.
CHAPTER FOUR: NO MORE TEARS
The team run down an alibi at Malone’s, and YN comes face-to-face with her abductor.
CHAPTER FIVE: THE MASTERPLAN
The team close in on Nathan Kapranos, and YN makes her final stand.
CHAPTER SIX: MY LUCK IS WASTED
YN and Dean have their tearful reunion, and Rossi fills YN in on the final Lexie’s of Kapranos’ plan.
Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
