is this a safe space to admit that when theres no new fics for me to read i have nothing else to do with my life.. at all
i’m manifesting everyone with writers block to be able to snap out of it and feed the people,, you guys are the backbone of tumblr we can’t do this without you 😞
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.
To Love A Heart, is to Protect Your Own | John Logan & Dean Di Laurentis
summary: what’s worse, losing someone because you love another, or losing someone because you never told them?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, no real ending.
word count: 2.37k
authors note: okay so full warning here there isn’t like a definitive ending in this one cause like I didn’t know based off of the request if you wanted it to lean a certain way or not. and also the vibe I got from the request was just angst so leaned with it in the only way I felt this love square could work.
Dean knew something was wrong before he ever saw you.
He'd been halfway through a game of NHL in the living room, Tucker yelling at him for taking dumb penalties while Garrett sat upside down on the opposite couch pretending he wasn't waiting for Hannah to text him back.
Logan had disappeared over an hour ago.
Dean hadn't asked where he'd gone.
He didn't need to.
He already knew.
Because, in watching you for so long, Dean came to learn how absolutely blind his teammate and roommate was, in fact.
Logan wasn't subtle when it came to Hannah Wells.
Because while everyone else noticed that Garrett and Hannah were a power couple.
You noticed the way Logan’s eyes lingered on the girl for much longer than was probably appropriate if he got caught.
He always found his way back to her somehow.
Dean hated it.
Not because Logan liked someone unavailable.
But because Dean could see just how your eyes spoke for your heart. When you forced smule on your lips, forcing all of it down.
Dean could still see just how much you were hiding.
Tucker groaned from next to Dean “are you even listening?" The boy asked, snapping his fingers in front of the older boy.
Dean blinked as he licked his lips “what?" He cocked his head as he frowned.
The blonde stared at the tv “the game's over." He'd been staring at the pause screen for almost three minutes.
Dean felt his cheeks grow warm “Right." His phone buzzed.
He checked it, silently praying that it was you.
It wasn’t.
Because he hadn't heard from you in almost four days.
Not because anything had happened.
Just because he'd decided he needed space.
He'd realised, somewhere between studying together in the library and walking you home after movie nights, that he'd started looking for you in every room.
Waiting for your laugh.
Making excuses to sit beside you.
Saving you the last slice of pizza without thinking.
That wasn't friendship anymore.
It was something that didn’t deserve a name, not when the heart Dean wanted was in the hands of someone else.
So he'd backed away.
He figured distance would fix it.
It hadn't.
You felt sick.
Not heartbroken.
Not exactly.
Just embarrassed.
Like if the ground could swallow you up, you were willing to let it happen.
The cold October air bit at your cheeks as you hurried across campus, arms wrapped around yourself.
You replayed the last twenty minutes over and over.
Logan had shown up outside your dorm.
Asked if you wanted to walk.
You'd thought it was strange.
But nice.
He'd been quieter than usual.
You'd talked about classes.
About hockey.
About nothing.
Until he'd stopped underneath one of the campus lights.
He looked at you for a long second.
Then kissed you.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't passionate.
Just confusing.
You'd kissed him back for exactly two seconds before pulling away, “what was that?" You let your fingers linger over your lips.
Logan had rubbed the back of his neck "I thought maybe,” he looked defeated as he spoke.
He'd sighed.
"I don't know."
You waited "I thought if I kissed someone else, maybe I'd stop thinking about Hannah." He looked frustrated as he spoke.
Everything inside you had gone still.
He realised what he'd said almost immediately, "No that's not,” he shook his head as he reached out for you.
But you stepped back as you shook your head “you used me?" Hurt clouded your eyes, making it clear just how personally you took it.
"No."
You glared at him as your lips snarled, "Logan." You raised your hand to stop him from moving.
"I wasn't trying to.”
Part of you wanted to laugh as he acted like his words washed away the crimes of his actions, “you literally just told me you wanted to see if kissing me would help you get over someone else.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, hoping that you were dreaming.
But no, you were wide awake.
And this was real life.
Silence.
Because there wasn't really another way to phrase it.
You swallowed.
"Did it work?"
He closed his eyes “no." That somehow hurt even worse.
You laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Your nails dug so hard into your palms that you were worried you might end up causing your skin to break.
But you stuck through it.
Because crying in front of him would've been unbearable, “good to know." You'd walked away before he could apologise.
You made it halfway across campus before the tears finally came.
You hated crying.
Especially over boys.
Especially over one who hadn't even wanted you.
Your vision blurred enough that you didn't notice the familiar face up ahead of you.
Until you heard it, “wait up!” You looked up.
Beau ran up the pathway towards you “what happened?” He asked as he placed his hands on his hips.
He stopped right in front of you as you tried smiling.
It failed instantly "I'm fine." You brought your hands up to wipe your face.
Beau frowned “you've been crying." Beau muttered softly.
His hand squeezed your shoulder “what happened?" He pulled you into his arms.
Because something about the concern in his face made the wall you'd been holding together completely collapse.
"It was Logan."
Once Beau got you to stop crying, he offered to hear you out at a diner, as his treat.
Dean's stomach dropped when he got the text from Beau.
Beau: your little lover girl got her heart broken
Beau: taking her for a drink
Beau: will catch you up on all of it when I’ve dropped her off again
He took you further away from campus than you would have assumed.
Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere, nobody from Briar would bother you.
You barely touched your fries.
Beau waited at first.
But he knew that he needed to ask those questions, mainly because Dean would have killed him if he didn’t, “what did he do?" You stared down at your milkshake.
Your fingers touched your lips “he kissed me." Beau blinked as he cocked his head.
His heart hurt for his best friend, who he knew cared for you so deeply “so,” Beau trailed off.
He knew he needed to act happy for you if it was what you wanted "that's good?" He tapped his fingers against the table in front of him.
You laughed.
It sounded broken “no." Beau really looked at you in that moment.
Your eyes were swollen.
Mascara smudged beneath them.
You looked humiliated “why isn't it good?" You took a shaky breath.
Your fingers fiddled with a napkin in front of you “because he didn't kiss me because he likes me." Tears flood your eyes as you chewed at the inside of your cheek.
Beau felt his jaw tense “he kissed me because he wanted to stop thinking about Hannah." Beau slowly lowered the fry he'd been holding.
Silence.
Complete silence “he what?" His jaw dropped as he tried to quickly mask his surprise.
You softly laughed as you looked up at the ceiling “he thought maybe kissing someone else would get Hannah out of his head." You shrugged as you just about wanted to bang your head against the counter.
You smiled bitterly, “it didn't." You let out a huff as you frowned.
The boy did everything in his power not to gasp “he told you that?" Beau would have hoped that Logan had a touch more decorum than that.
You shook your head “I asked if that's why." You explained to him with a shrug
"And?"
"He said yes."
You looked at him with watery eyes.
"I just..."
Your voice cracked.
"I feel so stupid."
"You aren't."
"I kissed him back."
"So?"
"I should've known."
"You liked him?"
A soft laugh escaped your lips “unfortunately, clearly.” You cursed yourself for being in this position
Your fingers ran along the cold glass of your drink ”and I just thought." You looked away as you cleared your throat.
You licked your lips as you sniffled “I thought maybe he did." And that was what really broke Beau’s heart.
The drive back to campus was silent.
You sat staring out the passenger window as you tapped your thumbs on your thighs "thanks for that." You smiled as you stopped at the front of your dorm building.
Beau shook his head as he put the car into park "you really don’t have to thank me." You managed a tiny smile.
The boy had always had a soft spot for you "I know." You hugged him before you slipped out of his car.
Fifteen minutes after Beau left yours, he arrived at the hockey house.
Dean had been pacing on the sidewalk when Beau arrived.
The blonde climbed into the passenger seat and listened to everything that Beau had learnt.
Dean looked beyond pissed through most of it, but still he found a moment to breathe before he finally spoke "I'm gonna hit him." He announced, certain that he would make good on that promise.
Beau let out a soft low snort "no, you're not." He rolled his eyes as he swallowed a laugh.
Dean shook his head "I'm serious." The look Dean gave Beau made him see that the blonde was being serious.
"I know."
The hockey player looked at his phone, checking if you had texted him again "I've never wanted to punch Logan before." Sure Dean had shoved him during drills, but he had never wanted to bear fist punch the boy.
"You'd regret it."
Dean sucked at his teeth "I don't think I would." He weighed up the potential consequences that he’d face on the team if he did it.
And they really didn’t seem as damming as getting the chance to put Logan in his place "you would." Dean exhaled sharply as he pressed his head into the back of his chair.
"how did she look?" The question was probably weird but Dean just wanted to know how your words deceived your eyes.
Because your true tell was the way your eyes spoke "embarrassed." That was exactly what he didn’t want to hear.
Dean frowned as he felt his heart break "I hate that." He wished that he was able to be with you when Beau found you.
Because then, he could have gotten the chance to hug you "I know." Another minute passed while complete silence consumed the car.
Then Beau sighed "you gonna tell her?" He wriggled his eyebrows as he shook his shoulders.
Dean laughed without humor "tell her what?" He rubbed his hand along his jaw.
Beau rolled his eyes "that you're completely gone for her." Dean looked out the windshield.
"No."
The football player leaned forward "Dean." It was something he should have just accepted.
"No."
Beau let his lips pool into a frown "you've liked her for over a while now." The feelings that Dean held towards you were something he couldn’t quite comprehend.
Because it was a new type of love that he got to feel.
"I know."
Dean had to remind himself to breathe so that he didn’t explode "she got used by one of my best friends today." His hands formed fists “she was his damn experiment."
His mind also lingered on the fact that you told Beau you probably needed to be off of men for the next few months "the last thing she needs is another hockey player telling her he likes her." Dean shook his head.
Beau sighed "you wouldn't be using her." He knew that Dean would treat you better than any guy could even try to.
The hockey player sucked at his teeth "but what if she thought I was." Dean knew that he also had a reputation that wasn’t exactly putting him in the running for being boyfriend material.
Beau stayed quiet, seeing that the boy next to him had been thinking about this for a while now "if I tell her now," Dean continued.
Because yes he liked you, but he didn’t want to be a rebound or the guy that pitied you "I'm just the next guy waiting in line." It stung to point out as Dean practically winced.
Because he hated how true it sounded "I won't do that to her." He shook his head as he wanted so much more for you.
He remembered how he you drunkenly said one night that you wanted a guy who spun you off your feet "so you'll just keep pretending?" It was a reality that he hated even picturing.
Dean swallowed hard "I've been pretending for weeks." It had been closer to months but the hockey player didn’t want to admit it.
The boy in the drivers seat frowned "you think that's working?" Beau watched as Dean shook his head.
"Then why?"
That was the million dollar question.
Dean laughed bitterly "because if I tell her," his eyes lingered on his lap.
His voice dropped "and she says no," Dean felt nauseous bringing the concept to life.
He cracked his knuckles, not even wanting to think about it "I lose her entirely." Silence settled between them.
Finally Beau spoke "you know what I think?" He didn’t know if he wanted to hit Dean or pity him actually.
Dean didn't answer, almost fearing that his best friend would be right "I think Logan screwed up." The blonde nodded once.
"He did."
The brunette pursed his lips together "and I think someday." The song on his playlist changed to some song that you argued was the best for car karaoke.
Beau smiled sadly "he's gonna realise he kissed the wrong girl." If Beau didn’t see you as practically the other half of his braincells he honestly would have been attracted to you.
Because you were funny, kind, honest and really pretty.
Dean looked down at his phone, mostly surprised that you had texted him.
You: missed you at lunch with Beau today x
He hoped you were okay.
He hoped you weren't crying anymore.
Mostly he hoped that, by the time he finally found the courage to tell you how he felt, you wouldn't already be too convinced that every guy only looked at you when someone else wasn't available.
summary: No matter how hard you two try to stay friends, the truth is—you never were.
read previous part here
content: the timeline might be off just a little. but same content warnings as all the other fics. also, the boys are having practice on new year’s eve, which doesn’t make sense—something i realized after writing it, so just ignore that lol. google told me they do, so im honestly not sure anymore.
note: i’m so sorry this took forever! i’ve been in my head about giving them a perfect ending and i am still a bit unsure about how i feel about this so if you don’t like it, lie to me please! thank you all so much for the support you’ve shown during this series, i truly appreciate it and i love you all so much. it’s helped me a lot in my confidence! i hope you enjoyed this series and i concluded it well for you all :) also apologies if i forgot to tag you! there was a lot of comments so i feel i may have forgotten some 😭😭
wc: 8.3k
How awful would it be if you ignored Logan for the entirety of summer break?
Because that’s exactly what you did.
Okay, okay, not exactly ignored. More like cautiously avoided. It was impossible for the two of you to completely cut contact since you shared the exact same inner circle, but you certainly never mentioned the kiss after it happened. And true to his word about not pushing you, he didn't bring it up either.
You didn’t know what that kiss meant to him. Honestly, you didn’t want to know. You didn't want to decipher if he was just feeling lonely and pathetic on that particular night and you happened to be there, or if it came from a genuine place. You especially didn’t want to explore the possibility of the latter. You had spent a long, exhausting time being in love with John Logan. You finally thought you’d gotten over the most gut-wrenching and impossible parts of it, but then you made out on his desk and it was like a dam broke. Everything came rushing back.
Worst of all, it was all you could think about. The way he clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it was a feeling you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried.
When the school year finally resumes and everyone lands back on campus, a tiny part of you thinks Logan might actually hate you now. You’ve probably driven him completely insane by letting the silence stretch for months. But you're also well aware that he hadn’t forced the issue because he was terrified of cornering you, especially since you were the one who panicked and ran out of his room.
"You and Logan confuse me so deeply."
Allie’s voice pulls you sharply from your thoughts as she slides into the chair across from you. The two of you had agreed to meet up at the library during the very first week back to map out your semester syllabi in one sitting, saving yourselves months worth of mental breakdowns. Hannah was meant to join you in an hour or two, currently caught up in a panel meeting for a potential senior-year internship.
Allie sets a plastic iced coffee cup down in front of you, placing the second one in front of it. You glance at the printed receipt taped to the side, realizing it’s your exact, highly specific, perfect order.
You deliberately ignore her comment about Logan, reaching for the plastic cup instead. "Thank you. I needed this to survive the day."
Allie sighs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "Don't thank me. It’s from Logan."
You freeze, your straw halfway to your lips.
"I passed by him near the quad on my way over here," Allie explains, watching your expression closely. "I casually mentioned I was meeting you for a library date, and he handed me one of the coffees in his hand and said it was for you. He gave me the other, but I think it was for him. That’s why I say you two confuse me. Were you guys supposed to meet up today or something?"
"No," you say quietly, staring at the melting ice in your cup. Your stomach does a nervous flip. "But he was probably on his way to having a conversation that I've been successfully putting off for months."
Allie quirks an eyebrow, a keen, observant look taking over her features. "Is there something you’re not telling me?"
You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking around the quiet library rows before letting out a defeated sigh. Making a face, you lean across the table and tell Allie everything since St. Patrick’s Day. It’s nice to get out, you have to admit. You hadn’t really told anybody the specifics of it.
"Shut up!" Allie yells, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Several students at nearby tables immediately turn around and glare, issuing annoyed shushes. Allie quickly raises her hands, mouthing a breathless “Sorry, sorry," to the room before lunging back over the table toward you, her eyes wide and vibrating with excitement.
"Okay, so why the awkwardness?" she whispers in confusion. "If you guys finally crossed that line, why have you been acting like passing acquaintances all summer?"
"Because I ran out on him, Allie," you admit, the vulnerability cracking through your voice. "I’m scared of what it could mean. I'm terrified that it meant absolutely nothing to him—that it was just a fluke because we were close and emotional. Honestly, I’m even more scared if it does mean something to him."
Allie’s excited expression softens, shifting into one filled with empathy.
"Logan hurt me bad," you continue, your throat tightening. "It was hard enough trying to rebuild a basic friendship with him while carrying around the ghost of the love I used to feel. If that kiss was a mistake to him, it’ll kill me. But if he actually wants something more, it puts him in a position to hurt me worse than he ever has before. If we ruin it a second time, there’s no coming back from it. I just don't know if I can risk it. There’s no win for me here."
Allie studies you for a long moment, nodding slowly. As someone who knows exactly how intense and complicated the boys in that hockey house can be, she understands you perfectly.
"Look, you are well within your rights to never want to give him that type of access to your heart again," Allie says gently, reaching out to give your hand a supportive squeeze. "Protecting yourself is smart. But I also want you to know. . . he’s been drowning in it. All summer, whenever your name came up, he looked like he was physically aching. He’s been trying so hard to make up for his mistakes, even from a distance."
You look down at your color-coded planner, letting out a long, heavy breath. "I'll sleep on it."
"You do that," Allie smiles softly, tapping the cover of your textbook to break the depressive mood. "Now, let's get started on this syllabus breakdown, because at the rate we're going, we won't be leaving this library until two in the morning."
The beauty of September always manages to make Briar look like a beautiful postcard, even when your chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a vice.
A few days have passed since your conversation with Allie in the library. You’ve slept on it—or rather, tossed and turned over it—and decided that you refuse to let the ghost of a four-month-old kiss dictate the trajectory of your entire senior year. You want a clean slate. You want to start this school year anew.
You pull out your phone, navigating to your contacts. His name is still saved in your phone under a remnant of your freshman year—johnny boy 🦭—a silly inside joke from a weekend trip you’d completely forgotten about until now.
can we talk? you type, the screen glowing against the overcast afternoon.
You barely have time to lock your screen before your phone buzzes in your palm.
that sentence is never followed by anything good
An unbidden laugh escapes you. Before you can even type a snarky reply back, his contact photo fills your screen and your phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. You slide the green bar to answer, pressing the phone to your ear.
"Hey," his voice comes through the receiver. You can hear that he’s slightly breathless, almost unnoticeably, but you pick up on it, able to tell that he’s already moving. "Yeah, we can talk. Where are you? I’ll meet you."
“Where are you?" you counter, adjusting your tote bag.
"I’m walking."
"Well, I’m walking too."
"Are you on my trail?" he asks, a hint of a tease in his voice.
You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "No, that’s my trail that you stole and started using, John."
Logan chuckles through the line, the sound cutting through all your lingering anxieties. "Fair enough. Guess I’ll meet you in the middle."
The campus around you perfectly encapsulates early-semester energy—freshmen traveling in packs, girls in oversized university sweatshirts carrying iced matcha lattes, and a lone guy near the physics building trying, and failing, to ride a bicycle. You don't look at any of them. Your eyes are fixed entirely on the gravel path that snakes toward the edge of campus, the direction that invariably leads toward Malone’s.
He comes into view soon after that.
He’s wearing a black compression shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the tan forearms you know far too well. He slows his pace as he closes the distance, his intense gaze locking onto yours.
"Hey," he greets quietly, stopping a few feet away.
"Hey," you reply.
Without a word, you both turn and resume walking side by side. Neither of you explicitly states where you’re going, but your feet know the route by heart. The midday sun peeks through the turning maple leaves, casting dappled, golden shadows across the pavement.
You take a breath, trying to calm yourself, before tilting your head up. "How was your summer?"
Logan lets out a sudden, amused huff, shaking his head. "Is that really what you wanted to talk about?"
You shrug, shifting your gaze back to the path ahead. "Just breaking the ice. Things have been. . . weird. And thank you for the coffee the other day, by the way. Allie gave it to me."
He nods, his expression turning a little more serious. "No problem. Glad it was right." He walks a few more paces, then raises a dark eyebrow at you, his eyes searching your face. "Weird because of. . .?”
"Because you ran over my cat," you remark, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You huff, forcing the elephant out of the room. "The kiss, dork."
The ghost of a smile flits across his face, but it quickly fades into something attentive. He doesn't immediately jump in with a defense. He seems to be purposefully waiting on you to speak, deliberately granting you control over how to navigate the wreckage of that night.
You deeply appreciate the gesture—it proves he's trying to respect you—but a stubborn part of you was secretly hoping he’d be the one to lay his cards on the table first. But then again, if he didn't say what you wanted to hear, you know exactly how badly it would sting. So, you take the leap.
"I think the weirdness is just because we didn’t address it," you say honestly. "We just let it sit there all summer."
Logan stops walking completely, turning his body to face you. The sunlight catches the amber flecks in his eyes. "I know I crossed a line," he acknowledges, his tone lacking everything but sincerity. You wonder how long he’s been waiting to speak to you about this. "You trusted me to just be your friend again, and I. . . I couldn't control myself. I failed you on that. And the last thing I ever want is for things to be permanently broken between us, because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. But the ball is in your court. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it."
You look at him, translating his words through the protective filter you built around your heart over the winter. It was a lapse of judgement. He wants to stay friends. He wants to make sure he hasn't ruined the safety of the group, the comfort of the house. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe protecting yourself means keeping him exactly where he is.
"I'd really like to be friends again," you tell him, a raw smile finally breaking through your defenses. "But the proper way. The way where we can actually be honest with each other without holding anything back. I don't want to spend the rest of senior year making you feel like I'm just waiting on you to fuck up again." You tilt your head, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "I mean. . . you don't intend to fuck up again, do you?"
A flash of his classic, witty charm returns to his eyes, a soft smirk breaking through his serious expression. "Not exactly part of the plan, no."
You giggle, the tight knot of anxiety that has lived in your stomach for months finally unraveling. "Good."
Standing there on the trail, you look at Logan and realize how exhausted you are of keeping him at a distance. You slowly raise your arms, opening them up in a silent, clear signal.
Logan doesn't hesitate for a second. He steps into your space, his large, solid arms snaking securely around your waist as he pulls you flush against his chest. He buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his chest letting out a long, shuddering exhale as if he’s finally allowed to breathe after months of being underwater. He holds you tight, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your jacket, completely drunk on the familiar scent of your perfume. He hadn’t realized he’d been starving for it.
You bring your hands up, your fingers automatically finding the short, soft hairs at the nape of his neck, massaging the skin in a rhythm that is so deeply ingrained in your muscle memory it feels like breathing.
"I missed us," you whisper into his shoulder.
The real us, you think. The version of you that remained untouched by the sting of unrequited love, and the version of him who hadn’t yet learned the torture of being so close, yet holding so little.
The depressing scent of roasted turkey, expensive cologne, and forced pleasantries always lingers in the carpets of your childhood home, long overstaying its welcome.
Christmas has always been a complicated beast. Usually, if Jules and Logan’s mother is in rehab—which she is again this year—Logan and Jules migrate over to your place. You hate coming home. There’s an unspoken rule between you and Logan, a mutual understanding he has anticipated since you were kids. Every holiday spent under this roof invariably ends the exact same way: the two of you slipping away to the quiet sanctuary that was the roof, talking about things that don't matter in the slightest just to drown out the things that do.
You had broken that decade-long tradition last year when you packed a bag and left the country, fleeing the aftermath of your fallout. At the time, you had been so far away, so completely suffocated by your own hurt, that you hadn't let yourself think about what he was doing. But tonight, the guilt is all you can feel. Your older sister had been the one to give you that final push to take the vacation, swearing that you deserved it. She’d handled your parents alone so you wouldn't have to.
Your parents aren't bad people. You know you're luckier than most. But they possess a rare talent that is sweeping everything under the rug. They’ve done it to their marriage for decades, and inevitably, they do it to you. The house is always charged with unresolved resentment that you can only stomach for a few hours before you feel yourself teetering on the edge of actual insanity. To make matters worse, they love to host, packing the dining room with distant relatives and neighborhood acquaintances for a meal.
But you and Logan are back to normal now. Not the normal that lasted a few weeks after St. Patrick’s Day, but the bond you shared before the STEM showcase. The friendship has rebuilt its walls, sturdy and comfortable.
Still, you didn't think he’d be up for the roof tonight. Things are different now. Two years ago, you hadn't fallen out. You hadn't made up. You hadn't made out against his desk until your lungs burned. You weren't even sure if you wanted to go up there, afraid the ghosts of those memories would choke you. But by ten o'clock, the laughter downstairs is too loud, the adults are draining the life out of you, and the guests show absolutely no signs of leaving.
You climb out the hallway window, fully expecting the dark expanse of the roof to be empty.
Instead, someone is already lying flat on his back against the slope.
"You're in my spot," you say, your voice cutting through the crisp November air.
Logan doesn't lift his head, his eyes fixed on the stars. "I was here first."
"This is my house," you counter, crossing your arms against the chill.
He tilts his head toward you, a slow, familiar smirk tugging at his lips in the moonlight. "Touché."
He scoots over, making room on the thick wool blanket he’s already laid down. You kick off your shoes, the cold air biting through your socks, and lie down right next to him. The proximity is natural, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.
"What’s got you up here?" Logan asks quietly.
"The usual," you sigh, staring up at the dark sky. "Not to mention a dozen different adults asking me if I'm still a STEM major. They keep hitting me with that patronizing look, telling me it's 'super hard' and that I should switch to something simpler. Like a nurse or a teacher." You let out a dry, irritated chuckle. "Which is completely wrong in itself, because I tried being a substitute teacher once to make extra cash and that shit was horrifying. I don’t know how they do it. Don’t even get me started on nurses. I’ll take coding over the stuff they deal with any day."
Logan lets out a hearty laugh, the sound warming you. You glance over, suddenly realizing how fast the words had poured out of you.
"Sorry," you murmur, a slight flush hitting your cheeks. "I guess I’m surprisingly passionate about the labor conditions of nurses and teachers."
"Don't be sorry," he says, his eyes turning to meet yours in the dark. "It’s a respectable passion. And a true one."
You let out a soft breath, your shoulders dropping. "I'm just so tired of the interrogation. Last year was a serious relief."
A sudden, uncomfortable silence falls over the two of you, the mention of last year hanging in the cold air like frost. You hesitate, the question slipping past your lips before you can stop it. "Were you up here alone last year?"
Logan is silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Yeah," he confesses. "My mom was downstairs, but. . . it got to be too much. Jules is always way more forgiving with her, so it's easier for them to just smile through it. But at a certain point, I felt like I was completely pretending. I needed some air. Your parents were out on the balcony with some family friends, so your sister saw me. She read my face and let me up."
Your heart aches, a sharp pang of regret hitting you. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Logan immediately shakes his head, his jaw clenching slightly. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. You deserved that trip after everything. It was the only thing that made me feel better that night. That you were away from me, from everything.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, turning your head to look at his profile. "Well, you’ve made up for things. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time you’ve actually said no to me."
"I’m a changed man," he says, a faint, melancholic edge to his voice.
"I'm still not entirely convinced," you tease with a grin.
"Ah, but look at what I swiped from the kitchen."
You sit up on your elbows, watching as he reaches towards something to the side of him, pulling out an unopened glass bottle of sparkling cider.
A rush of pure nostalgia hits you so hard it makes you sick. In a good way. When you were ten years old, the two of you used to spend both Christmas and Thanksgiving hiding in your parents' bedroom upstairs, watching television while the adults conversed downstairs. Your older sister and Jules would always fall asleep on the rug, and the two of you had snuck a peek at Adult Swim. There was a clip of two characters passing a bottle of wine back and forth, sharing the deepest, heaviest secrets of their lives.
Naturally, at ten, you couldn't drink alcohol. So, you had successfully smuggled a bottle of Welch's sparkling cider from the pantry as your stand-in booze, migrated out onto this exact same roof, and talked about your lives. Back then, your tragedies consisted of stupid elementary school crushes and how badly your hands blistered from the monkey bars. You still had the beginnings of your familial issues, of course, but they hadn't yet grown into the giants they are today.
And even as the years went by, you knew Logan was wary about drinking because of his mother's alcoholism. He never said it, but you just knew. So, you had never upgraded the tradition to real alcohol, even when you both became heavily accustomed to drinking at Briar parties. The cider stayed.
It was an intimate tradition, but it had always been your normal. Yet, looking at the glass bottle now, the history of this past year presses heavily between you. Passing a bottle back and forth, sharing mouthpieces—it feels dangerously close to kissing. Which is a terrifying thought, considering the fact that you had actually kissed now. It shouldn't feel weirder, but it does.
Logan carefully peels off the shiny gold wrapping from the top of the bottle, the metallic crinkle loud in the quiet night. He pops the top and extends it toward you, his eyes glimmering.
"Ladies first," he murmurs.
A soft smile finally breaks across your face. You reach out, your fingers briefly brushing against his warm hand as you take the heavy glass. "A changed man and a gentleman."
You tilt your head back, taking a long swig of the sweet, bubbly liquid, letting the familiar taste wash over the residual bitterness of the evening. You lower the bottle, wiping your lip with the back of your hand, and pass it right back to him.
There is a silence that blankets the roof after that. You both just lay there, staring up at the starry sky, listening to the hollow rustle of the wind. It’s mostly quiet since it’s late December and the insects have long since died off. There is nothing but the two of you and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It’s painfully intimate.
So much so, that a question you’ve been keeping locked behind your teeth for months finally slips past your lips.
"Why’d you kiss me, Logan?"
He doesn’t turn his head, but in the corner of your eye, you see his chest hitch. The bottle of cider pauses halfway to his mouth.
"Why do you ask?" he asks, attempting to keep his voice level but failing.
"We talked about it. We closed that case," you whisper, your eyes tracing a constellation. "But I avoided asking you why. I didn't want to know."
"But now you want to?"
"I think I have to." You reach out, your hand brushing his as you take the glass bottle back from him. It’s halfway empty now. You two grew, but the bottle didn’t. It always got emptier quicker now. You don’t drink it yet, you just hold it tightly against your stomach. "You know. . . I was in love with you."
You feel the exact moment his gaze snaps to you, heavy and burning, but you refuse to look back. You keep your eyes glued to the sky.
"I had it bad," you continue, a reminiscent smile on your lips. "And it was really no help that I happened to realize those feelings right when you started becoming this hot-shot athlete. You suddenly grew seven inches in the span of a few months, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you. And then we both got into Briar. It was just you and me again in a completely new place. We were terrified, but we had each other. Then you made the starting line. I was so incredibly happy for you, Logan. But I felt invisible again. It wasn’t your fault. Well. . . not until. . . you know."
Sometime during your rambling, your hands had found each other. It was an act so deeply instinctual, so practiced over a decade of shared life, that you couldn't even remember who had reached out first. But it felt entirely right. His large thumb slowly swipes across the top of your knuckles, a tender, soothing caress that coaxes a shaky breath from your lungs. The touch gives you the courage to finally take another sip of the cider.
"I’m saying all this to tell you why I was so distant after the kiss," you murmur, passing the bottle back. "I’d gotten over it. I’d gotten over you. Then that night in your room happened, and the levee completely broke. I didn’t know how to feel. If I let you in like that, I’m putting you in a position to hurt me again. More than ever before. And I just. . . I wasn’t sure if it was worth it." You swallow hard, feeling him shift beside you. "Please don’t say anything. I’m not asking you to. I think I’ve just been needing to say it out loud."
Logan stares at your profile, the words cutting straight through him, leaving an ache in his chest that feels entirely too large for his midsection. He never truly understood how long you’d been waiting on him to finally open his stupid eyes. Hearing the timeline straight from you—realizing you had loved him through his awkward growth spurts, through the uncomfortable transition to college, through his own blind selfishness—leaves him entirely breathless.
Whether or not you blame him for the timing, he blames himself entirely. He wants nothing more than to roll over, cup your jaw, and tell you exactly how he feels. He wants to tell you that his year of being desperately in love with you feels like a drop in the ocean compared to the years you spent waiting for him. He wonders if it felt as suffocating for you as it does for him now, a relentless squeeze that leaves him completely breathless at the most random times of the day. He wonders if your chest used to tighten to the point of pain whenever he smiled at someone else, or if your voice used to catch in your throat whenever he walked into a room, your heart performing a violent, erratic dance that you had to frantically mask behind a casual eye-roll.
He wonders if you spent your nights staring at your bedroom ceiling, completely consumed by the memory of a fleeting, accidental touch—a hand lingering a second too long on a shoulder, a knee brushing against yours under a crowded table—wondering if it meant everything or absolutely nothing at all.
Logan wonders because that’s all he feels with you. He knows what it feels like to have your entire world narrow down to a single person, to have your happiness entirely tethered to the slight curve of their lips or the tone of their voice. He knows the terror that comes with wanting to offer someone everything you are, while simultaneously knowing they are the one person who possesses the exact power to ruin you.
It’s an absolute haunting, he realizes. To love someone this deeply is to be entirely stripped of your armor. He wonders if you felt that same frightening vulnerability every time you looked at him over the last few years, and he hates himself a little bit more for making you carry that weight all by yourself for so long. He hates that you felt as though you could never tell him.
He wants to look into your eyes and tell you that he does think it’s worth it—that love is always worth the risk, if it’s the right one.
But he can't do that to you. Not tonight. Not when you've just handed him your rawest vulnerability and explicitly asked him to just listen.
Instead, Logan takes the cider from your fingers and takes a large gulp of it, using the fizzy liquid to swallow down his confession.
"I miss when our biggest problem was getting to the swings during recess before everyone else," you say, shifting the conversation to steer you both back to safer ground.
A chuckle escapes his chest. "Tiffany Stone always did get there first."
"Yeah," you reply. "But then she’d give it up the second you asked."
"To be fair," he glances over at you, his eyes crinkling, "I’d give it to you right after."
"That didn’t land very well with her," you note, the memory of it painting itself in your mind.
"No," he agrees, rolling your head on the blanket to face you fully. "No, it did not. It landed pretty well with you, though. We stayed friends for another ten years."
"Thank you, Tiffany Stone," you whisper to the night sky.
Logan smiles, a quiet, comfortable silence falling between the two of you once more as the bottle passes back to your hands.
You had told him that it didn't feel worth the risk. And maybe Logan could be content with just having your hand in his for now. But deep down, as the warmth of your fingers laced through his settled into his bones, he knew that love—loving you—was worth every single petrifying risk the universe could throw at him.
By the time your friends finally decide enough is enough, it’s New Year’s Eve. The hockey house is destined to host a massive, sweeping rager to close out the year, but the real countdown isn't for midnight—it’s for the two of you.
For the past month, both the boys and the girls had been forced to watch you and Logan pretend that things weren’t radically different. To your credit, you sold the "just friends" act incredibly well. Maybe you even believed it. But knowing how you two actually felt about one another and trying to let nature take its course was beginning to get exhausting for the audience. It was a classic case of miscommunication. If left alone, it would either end with one of you breaking the friendship because staying "just friends" was too painful—most likely you—or the silence would just swallow you both whole.
It was senior year. They needed to orchestrate a collision.
So, they devised a multi-step plan. Phase one: isolate and implant the thought.
Phase one began with Logan.
He tended to zone out during practice. Not in a way that affected his play—he was still a lethal starting forward—but if you planted an idea in his head right before a drill, he would chew on it like a dog with a bone for the next two hours.
The team is running a grueling line-change scrimmage, skates slashing against the ice, the thud of hockey pucks hitting the boards echoing through the rink. They’d been talking about the party, and naturally—the conversation drifts over to you.
Logan skates hard off the ice, chest heaving, and slams his stick against the bench as he sits down next to Dean.
Dean doesn’t even look at him, casually squirting water into his mouth, and saying, "Hear she’s planning on kissing someone tonight."
Logan freezes, his water bottle hovering inches from his face. He blinks, the sweat dripping from his forehead. "What? Who?"
"Dunno," Dean shrugs, staring blankly out at the ice. "Heard it from Allie. Apparently, she’s trying to find a New Year’s kiss."
"Why the hell are you telling me this?" Logan snaps, a sudden, ugly flare of panic rising in his throat.
Garrett skates up to the bench, spraying shaved ice over their skates, and leaned over the boards. He catches the tail of Logan’s reply, but he’s well aware of what the discussion had been about. "Don't be dumb, Logan. We all know you’re head over heels for her. You look like a kicked puppy every time she leaves a room."
"Shut up, Garrett," Logan speaks through a clenched jaw.
"Line two, out!" Coach Jensen bellows.
Dean stands up, tapping Logan’s shin guards with his stick. "Look, man, the friendship is gonna crash and burn anyway if you don't tell her how you feel. You can't keep doing this half-and-half bullshit." Dean hops over the boards and glides into the play.
Logan sits back, his heart hammering against his ribs. When the next whistle blows, Tucker skates off, taking Dean's place on the bench. He doesn’t waste any time. "You can’t keep using the missed window as an excuse, man.”
"It’s too late, Tuck," Logan mutters, staring at his gloves. "She told me that a few days ago. She used to be in love with me. Used to."
"The wording was loose, bro," Tucker counters, unstrapping his helmet to wipe his face. "Feelings like that don't just evaporate into thin air. What did she actually say to you on the roof? That she wasn't sure if love was worth the risk?"
Garrett chimes back in from the other side, leaning back. "Exactly. She didn't say no. She said she was scared. I feel like she’s basically giving you a roadmap, idiot. She’s telling you to show her otherwise."
"And if not," Dean shouts as he skated past the bench on a line change, "at least you won’t have this heavy weight on your shoulders until you’re gray and old because of what could have been!"
Tucker slaps Logan hard on his shoulder pads, pushing him toward the ice. "Go. Kiss the girl, Logan. Before someone else does."
Logan hops the boards, his skates hitting the ice with a weighty clack. As he glides into the offensive zone, his mind is entirely somewhere else. His friends are right. The realization drills into his skull with every stride. He has to do something tonight.
The second part of phase one ends with you.
While the boys are completing their hockey-bench therapy session, Allie and Hannah are executing their half of the operation.
They had invited you out for a casual brunch at a cafe near campus. You, bless your sweet soul, genuinely thought it was just a kind, stress-free girls' day to kick off the holiday. You are happily tearing into a croissant when the conversation shifts toward the rager scheduled for that evening.
"So, how are we spending the midnight countdown?" you ask, wiping a bit of jam from your thumb. "I’m probably gonna have to be eating grapes by myself this time around.”
A guilty look passes between Allie and Hannah. Two years ago, the three of you had crammed yourself under a dining table at midnight, eagerly shoving twelve grapes into your mouths for good luck in love. The tradition seemed to have a two-thirds success rate, considering Allie and Hannah had locked down six-foot-plus hockey players the following year, while you’re still single.
"Look," you laugh softly, stirring sugar into your coffee. "I won't be offended if you guys want to spend midnight with your boyfriends this year. I can survive the countdown alone."
Allie and Hannah’s faces light up so fast you’d think they had won the lottery.
You pause, your spoon hovering. "Damn. You guys really wanted to get away from me, huh?"
"No! Oh my god, no," Hannah brushes it off quickly, waving her hand a little too frantically. "We love you. It’s just. . . you know, New Year’s romance and all that."
"Right," you murmur, squinting at them. They’re acting incredibly weird.
Allie clears her throat loudly, leaning forward and casually playing with her plastic straw. "You know. . . the upstairs balcony at the house has a beautiful view of the campus fireworks. Hardly anyone goes up there because everyone assumes the second floor is totally off-limits during parties."
Hannah nods rapidly, taking a bite of her avocado toast. "Totally. You should really spice things up this year. If, by some random chance, a cute guy wanders up there. . . you should make him your midnight kiss."
They’re awful at being subtle. Lucky for them, you’re awful at picking up on their ulterior motives.
You stare at them, completely deadpan. "You want me to kiss a total stranger?"
"You only live once, girl," Allie says, shrugging with a practiced air of casualness.
"Yes, a total stranger," Hannah continues, leaning in. "As long as he’s cute. It’s a good way to start the new year—a clean slate."
"Absolutely not," you laugh, shaking your head. "Do you guys not fear mono? Because I definitely fear mono. I am not locking lips with some random frat guy who has spent the last four hours drinking jungle juice out of a trash can."
"Don't write it off yet," Allie teases, kicking your foot under the table. "The grapes under the table are a total cop-out. You need real luck."
"Easy for you two to say," you joke, gesturing between the two of them. "You’ve successfully locked down starting line athletes."
"Who knows?" Hannah offers a mysterious, cat-like smile. "Maybe you’ll catch a real prize on the balcony tonight."
"Yeah," you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair. "Or a very drunk guy who is trying to find a quiet place to puke."
Even though you don’t explicitly say it, Allie and Hannah exchange a quick, victorious glance across the table. The thought has been planted. You’re officially considering the balcony. Now, they just have to make sure the right guy is waiting for you when the clock strikes midnight.
Phase two is the kiss.
You’ve spent the last few hours of the night silently debating Allie and Hannah’s ridiculous brunch pitch. It is slightly pathetic, but then again, a New Year’s kiss is a completely normal tradition. You had one last year during your solo vacation with some attractive European guy. It had been a phenomenal kiss, you’d never spoken to him again, and the world hadn't ended. Who was to say you couldn't just replicate that effortless, zero-stakes energy tonight?
Downstairs, Logan has spent the exact same hours doing everything in his power to ensure his staring isn’t incredibly obvious. Every time you cross the living room, his eyes track you. You seem focused, hyper-fixated on the crowds, and it is driving him absolutely insane wondering if you’re scouting out the person you plan on kissing. He spent the night sizing up every guy in your vicinity, concluding under a heavily biased lens that not a single one of them is worthy of being near you.
Logan is trapped in a brutal internal war. Is it nobler to be selfless and let you move on, or to be selfish and finally tell you how he feels, knowing it could open a can of worms? But then he realizes the ultimate irony: isn’t it actually selfish not to grant you the right to make that choice yourself? To assume he knows what’s best for your heart without even asking? His head is spinning.
By 11:50, the countdown is turning the house into a pressure cooker of anticipation. Your European-stranger plan has officially lost its appeal; you just want a familiar face to ring in the midnight slot. You start scanning the crowd for Tucker, figuring a comfortable, safe friend is exactly what you need.
But Tucker is nowhere to be found.
Unbeknownst to you, the entire friend group banished Tucker to the freezing garage. They know your exact habits. They knew that instead of heading to the balcony, you would try to find a safety-blanket friend to sit out the countdown with. If Tucker vanishes, and Allie and Hannah are locked at the hip with their respective boyfriends, your only remaining option for quiet air is the upstairs balcony. Tucker, extremely loyal to the cause, had willingly sacrificed his warmth, clutching a beer bottle under the garage rafters.
At 11:52, you finally give up the search and head up the stairs.
From across the kitchen island, Logan watches your retreating back. Garrett and Dean soon flank him, watching the conflict twisting his features. Logan sits on the arm of the couch, twitching uncomfortably for two solid minutes while the clock ticks closer to midnight. Garrett looks ready to physically throw him up the staircase by his collar.
Finally, with a low curse, Logan stands up and makes a break for the stairs.
Once given the green light, Tucker slips back inside from the garage, lifting his beer toward the group. "Here’s to hoping this actually works."
The circle clinks their cups in a tight, triumphant circle. Allie takes a sip of her drink, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "If they don’t come downstairs holding hands, I’m literally gonna go insane.”
You have to admit, Allie hadn't lied to you. It is beautiful up here. The bass of the house thumps beneath your shoes, reminding where you are, but the air on the balcony is fresh, and best of all, entirely free of people.
You lean your forearms against the wooden railing, your fingers mindlessly tracing the woven knots of the friendship bracelet on your wrist. On your trek up here, you passed Logan’s bedroom. His door had been flung wide open—another deliberate piece of staging by your friends that you completely overlooked. You slipped inside, your eyes landing on the desk, and you’d swept the bracelet into your pocket before your brain could talk you out of it.
Logan had never asked if you wanted it back after everything. You didn't blame him, considering the emotional detonation that had occurred the last time you held it. Yet, here you are, wearing it anyway. You can feel the truth press itself into your chest as it sinks into your brain: you don’t want to kiss a stupid stranger tonight. You want Logan up here. You want him looking at the city lights beside you.
Below the balcony, the massive crowd in the backyard is beginning to gather, faces tilted toward the night sky, waiting for the clock to run out.
At 11:55, the click of the balcony door cuts through the cold air. Someone joins you.
Your shoulders tense. You keep your eyes locked strictly on the distant horizon, refusing to look over. You’re under absolutely no obligation to kiss whoever this is, but a stubborn, pathetic part of you is terrified of confirming that it isn’t the one person you actually want. The unknown person steps up to the railing next to yours.
Instantly, a familiar, comforting wave of body heat wraps around your left side. There’s no overwhelming reek of stale jungle juice or cheap liquor—just the familiar scent of cedarwood, winter air, and the exact soap you’ve smelled on his skin for the last ten years. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.
At 11:56, his voice breaks the silence.
"I didn't think you’d be alone out here."
Your head snaps around, surprise instantly painting your features. John Logan is standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his hair slightly rumpled by the winter wind. It’s the exact thing you just wished for, but seeing him in the flesh makes your throat instantly go dry. It’s a hell of a lot harder to execute a casual New Year’s plan when the boy in question is Logan.
You quickly force your eyes back toward the city skyline, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. "Allie and Hannah told me the view up here was beautiful. Turns out they were right. It’s stunning.”
Logan doesn’t look at the sky. He just stares at the side of your face, his eyes set on you. "Yeah," he murmurs, "They were."
The moment you turn your head to meet his gaze, he sharply tears his eyes away, suddenly looking out at the horizon as a sudden realization begins to dawn on him. He starts tracing the math of the evening—the guys’ sudden on-ice warnings, Allie and Hannah recommending this intimate space to you, Tucker’s abrupt disappearance.
You’re tracking the exact same breadcrumbs in your own mind. The wide-open bedroom door. The insistence on the balcony.
The realization hits you both at the exact same time.
"They set us up," you both say, your voices speaking in a synchronized harmony.
A sudden, laugh breaks from Logan’s chest, and the crushing pressure of the night finally fractured. You let out a soft chuckle of your own, shaking your head at the odd yet admirable creativity of your friends.
"Tucker’s in the garage, isn't he?" you mutter, leaning back against the railing.
"One hundred percent," Logan smiles, though the humor quickly fades from his eyes as he looks back down at you.
It’s 11:59. The countdown is vibrating through the very floorboards beneath your feet, and with the humor gone, the proximity between you becomes all the more apparent.
He’s well aware that it’s now or never.
Logan takes a single step closer, completely closing the gap until his shoulder is brushing against yours.
"I don't want to be selfless anymore," Logan whispers suddenly, the words rushing out of him as if he’s running out of time. He reaches out, his large hand warming yours where it rests on the railing. "I spent the whole night trying to convince myself that letting you go was the right thing to do. But I can't. I'm too selfish."
Your heart suddenly begins to thump frantically against your ribs, your breath hitching in your throat. "Logan. . .”
The backyard below erupts into a deafening, unified roar, the collective voices of a bunch of people beginning the final descent of the year.
“TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"
"I'm in love with you," he confesses, the raw truth finally out in the air. He steps fully into your space, his other hand rising to gently, desperately cup your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone just like he had before. Only this time, he isn’t trembling. He seems entirely solid. "I loved you when you offered your friendship back. I loved you when we kissed that night in May. I loved you when you poured your heart out to me on that roof as we passed a bottle back and forth. And I know you're scared. I know I put that fear in you. But I swear to god, I will spend every single day of my life proving to you that it's worth the risk. Just let me show you."
“THREE! TWO! ONE!"
The sky above explodes into a magnificent, deafening canopy of brilliant whites, greens, and golds, the thunder of the fireworks echoing across the roof.
But you don’t look at the sky.
You look at John Logan, the boy who has held your heart in his careless hands for years, the boy who is currently looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The fear is still there, a tiny ache in your chest—but looking at the vulnerability in his eyes, you realize you don’t want to be safe anymore.
"Show me," you whisper against his lips.
Logan doesn’t waste another second. He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that completely obliterates every single month of silence, separation, and yearning that had built up between you.
It isn’t like the slow, tentative kiss on his desk. This is consuming, intense, but completely devoid of uncertainty. Logan lets out a ragged groan into your mouth, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you so tightly against his chest that the air leaves your lungs. His fingers massage the back of your neck, holding you there, deepening the kiss as the fireworks thunder overhead.
The familiar taste of him, the safety of his embrace, the desperate way his hands hold onto you—it was everything you had been drowning without. You reach up, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all. You’re kissing him back with all you have left, completely surrendering to the emotions that have long made their mark on you.
When he finally breaks the kiss for air, he doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, ragged puffs of white mist in the winter air. His hand remains on the back of your neck, his thumb soothing your lower cheek.
Logan lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, a massive smile breaking across his face in the flashing light of the fireworks. "I guess that means you like me too.”
You look up at him, a radiant smile of your own finally clearing away the last of the shadows. You hit his chest. “Don’t push it, dork.”
Logan chuckles, the sound cozy against your mouth, his eyes squinting. But as the laughter dies down, his gaze softens. He captures your hand—the one that just hit his chest—and laces his fingers through yours, pressing your knuckles right over his heart.
"I mean it," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere."
You look at your intertwined hands, the last of your fears melting away into the cold night. You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes with a serious but soft look. "I'm giving you my heart, John Logan. Don’t break it."
Logan leans down, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."
warnings: none, this is pure fluff, reader has a dog named clifford, logan being determined and smug
a/n: this is very short and just something I came up with when I couldn’t sleep but also cute does logan look with a dog, hope you like it!
The first time John Logan visited your house to fix your sink, your dog, Clifford, won’t stop barking at him. He even pulled, bit his jeans and growled at him when he tried to pet him. Since you lived alone, Clifford was over protective of you, that’s the only explanation you could give him. Logan looked wounded his puppy dog eyes didn’t work for the first time, given that his competitor was an actual dog.
A few months later, you started dating, and Clifford still hated Logan. He growled at him whenever he got too close to you and would bark when you both would close the door to your bedroom. Logan was frustrated, to say the least, and you couldn’t stop laughing.
‘It’s fine, John, he’ll warm up soon enough. He’s like this with everyone, baby.’ , you’d say chuckling when he would vent out to you frustratedly, about how your dog hates him.
Logan even vented and took advice from the entire hockey team on how to win your dog over, which resulted in him being made a laughing stock and comments like ‘pussywhipped’. But Logan didn’t pay any mind to them, he was determined to win over your dog, at any cost.
After few weeks into your relationship, you came back to your house only to find Logan reading a book with Clifford perched up on his side, suspiciously quiet and normal.
‘Hey?’, you asked, clearly confused at the situation. ‘Hey baby! How was your day?’, he asked, looking up from the book, one hand casually petting Clifford. ‘Um what’s this? He doesn’t bite you anymore?’, you asked, smiling and crossing your arms over your chest, leaning on the doorframe. ‘We decided to be civil, for you.’, he grins, ‘Right bud?’, he asked Clifford, who wagged his tail and moved closer to Logan. ‘How did you even manage that?’, you laugh, seeing finally the two boys in your life getting along. ‘Just a few bribery treats and walks when you weren’t here to scold me and a deep long talk, i mean come on, who has ever been able to resist me?’, he smirked, the smugness evident in his voice. ‘I’m glad, whatever worked, atleast now both of you won’t growl when I get closer to the other one.’, you laughed, stepping closer and joining Logan, his hand instantly going over your shoulder and pulling you into his side. ‘Hey! I don’t growl! What do you mean?’, he said, faking offence, you laughed as Clifford joined the two of you, resting his head on your lap.
This was a few weeks ago, now when you come back home, you find Logan and Clifford, together, either sleeping, playing or doing whatever the hell they did. Logan started taking him on walks, he also took him often to the hockey house, Clifford also came along on your drives, contently perched in Logan’s lap, hell whenever Logan went back he would give you a kiss on your forehead and bend down, giving Clifford one too.
One day, Logan and you were sitting on your bed, watching a movie. Soon one thing led to another and you leaned in, kissing Logan, when you heard growling. You pulled away to see Clifford at the foot of the bed, growling like all those times, but this time, it was directed at you and not Logan.
‘Oh my god, you stole my dog!’, you gasped, hitting him playfully in the chest, which only spurred Clifford on as he barked. He lunged into the bed, snuggling in Logan’s lap, ‘Not my fault he loves me more than you. See how that feels like?’, he laughed, petting Clifford on the head.
You scoff, the scene in front of you that you never would’ve believed to have happen, ever, ‘I hate both of you.’ ‘Aw come on baby, don’t feel bad, I’ll talk to him, he’ll like you again.’, he smirked as he talked to Clifford in a baby voice telling him to ‘like you again’. ‘Unbelievable.’, you roll your eyes at them and tried getting away, but Logan wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back beside him and kissing you, ‘Told you I’d win him over.’, he smirked against your lips, making you laugh.
nothing about this is surprising, not at all, but he just does it so well. it makes you wanna whine and pull him close- closer than he already is. you wrap your arms around him, he makes you ride his thigh, and it's making you lose your mind. "john-" you whisper, he likes hearing his name from you during sex. "i need more." and he holds your waist, keeping you in your spot securely. "i know, gorgeous," he murmurs as he kisses your jaw. "you know i'll give you anything."
when he finally lays you down on his bed properly and parts your thighs to settle down between them, you look up at the way his eyes sparkle, they are just so big and bright. he drags his fingers from your chest to your belly, all the way down to reach the wetness between your legs. you let out a shaky breath when he uses his fingers to look at you. "there she is," he whispers, his arm wrapped around your thigh. "so pretty. you know how pretty you are, right? such a gorgeous girl." and he kisses, kisses, kisses, everywhere he can reach, making you a mess.
you roll your hips, chasing the friction, he holds you stable. "i know," he just says, "i know, but look how perfect you are, don't you want this to last longer? good, good baby."
he loves your moans, so delightful, follows every tiny breath of yours and moves his fingers. he loves the way you chase that intense release you are looking for, "good," he keeps telling you with a raspy voice. "big stretch, huh, baby? but you are taking it all, you are so good." he moves inside you, his hips hitting yours in a delicious rhythm. he kisses your cheeks. your glossy eyes get him closer to the edge. you are eating up every praise, every leading sentence he tells you, just so good at listening.
he makes too much noise when he comes, but only for you to hear. he's panting, it's too much, but he loves the way you clench around him as you let go at the same time. "yes," he moans. "yes, that's so good, you are so good- come, baby, come around me- gorgeous girl-"
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
OMG HIII I LOVED YOUR DEAN X FIGURE SKATER PT2 IT WAS SO GOOODD
ok so I have had this idea around for a while and I geniunely think you would write it so well: ok so imagine Dean is always flirting with reader and she’s just really calm and like all the hockey boys think she’s just oblivious (maybe a little neurodivergent coded cuz sometimes I miss social cues…) and they all know Dean is like freaking obsessed with her.
Hannah and Allie have been trying to set Dean up with reader for ages and the spoiler is Dean and reader have been secretly dating for months and like there’s a big reveal and everyone’s shocked cuz they are like omg I thought you couldn’t tell Dean’s like practically in love with you and it’s all really happy
Does this make sense 🥹🥹
This is sooo sweet. I hope that I was able to do you justice!!
Word Count: 2110
・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・゜
By the time Hannah and Allie decided they were going to set Dean Di Laurentis up with you, they had been watching him orbit you for nearly a year.
It was not subtle.
Nothing about Dean had ever been subtle, but whatever he had going on with you was so obvious that it had become almost embarrassing for everyone else to witness.
He followed you around campus like he had been assigned to you for a group project and had decided to take the responsibility extremely seriously. He waited outside your classes, even when his own were on the other side of Briar. He carried your bag without asking. He bought you coffee without needing to check your order. He appeared beside you in the library with a grin and some excuse about needing to study, then spent forty minutes staring at you over the top of his textbook.
And his hands were always on you.
A hand at the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded party. Fingers hooked lazily through the belt loop of your jeans while he spoke to someone else. His arm slung over your shoulders on the couch, pulling you against his side until your cheek rested against his chest. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table, steady and warm and impossible to ignore.
Dean flirted with everyone, technically.
That was the problem.
He had a smile for every girl who looked his way. A joke ready before anyone else had thought of one. He could make a waitress blush in under thirty seconds and leave a party with three new phone numbers without even trying.
But with you, it was different.
With you, it was not a performance.
“You look pretty today,” he told you one morning as you stepped out of class.
You looked down at yourself. You were wearing leggings, one of his old hockey hoodies, and your hair was pulled into a messy bun because you had overslept.
“Thank you,” you said easily. “You look pretty too.”
Dean stopped walking.
Garrett, who had been beside him, nearly walked into his back.
“You’re calling me pretty?” Dean asked, looking at you like you had just handed him the winning lottery ticket.
“Yes,” you replied. “Your hair looks nice.”
His expression went completely soft.
Garrett looked between the two of you, then covered his face with one hand.
“She has no idea,” he muttered.
You glanced at him. “I have no idea about what?”
“Nothing,” Dean said quickly, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “He’s being weird.”
Garrett stared at him. “I’m being weird?”
“You’re always weird.”
You laughed, and Dean looked down at you like that sound was the only thing worth hearing.
Garrett sighed.
It was hopeless.
Everyone thought you were oblivious.
Not because you were shy, or because you lacked confidence. You had never been either of those things. You knew exactly who you were. You knew you were smart, funny, capable, and pretty. You did not need Dean to tell you those things, though you liked when he did.
You just did not always understand why people said things they did not mean.
You took words seriously. You took people seriously. If someone said they were fine, you believed them until they told you otherwise. If someone made a joke that sounded like a statement, you sometimes needed a second to work out which part was meant to be funny.
Your friends knew that about you.
They knew to explain instead of making you feel like you had missed something obvious.
When Hannah complained about Garrett leaving hockey gear in the hallway, you had immediately suggested buying a storage basket.
When Allie said, “If I were into girls, I would date you in a second,” you had looked at her carefully and asked if she was trying to tell everyone something.
Allie had laughed until she saw your face.
Then she had softened and explained that she was complimenting you, not coming out.
“Oh,” you had said. “Okay. Thank you for clarifying.”
Dean had kissed your temple and whispered, “You are very dateable, pretty girl.”
You had smiled. “I know.”
He had looked so happy about your answer that Allie had nearly thrown a pillow at him.
The thing nobody knew was that you were not oblivious to Dean.
Not really.
You knew when he flirted with you.
You knew when his hand lingered at your waist because he wanted to touch you, not because he was simply standing close. You knew what it meant when he found you at a party and immediately folded himself around you from behind. You knew that when he called you pretty, he meant it completely.
You flirted back because you liked him.
You let him hold your hand because you were dating him.
You kissed him in the kitchen when nobody was looking because he was your boyfriend.
You had been together for months.
It had started quietly, in the way some things did when neither person made a big deal out of them.
Dean had walked you home after a party one night. You had been talking about something random—your class, maybe, or a movie you had watched—and he had been unusually quiet beside you.
When you reached your dorm, he had stopped beneath the yellow glow of the streetlight.
“You know I’m serious about you, right?” he had asked.
You looked at him. “Yes.”
Dean had blinked. “You do?”
“Yes.” You had tilted your head. “You have been flirting with me for months.”
“I know, but—” He had laughed nervously, which was strange enough that you had paid closer attention. “I mean, I actually like you. A lot.”
“I know that too.”
His face had gone still.
Then you had stepped closer, taken his face between your hands, and kissed him.
Dean had kissed you back like he had been waiting for permission his entire life.
After that, things had simply become yours.
Late-night calls. His hoodie in your room. Your toothbrush in his bathroom. Dean falling asleep with his head in your lap while you studied. You sitting in the stands during his games, watching him look for you the second he stepped onto the ice.
You never announced it.
Neither did he.
You thought everyone knew.
Dean thought you wanted to keep it quiet.
It was a misunderstanding neither of you noticed until Malone’s.
Hannah and Allie had arranged the night out with a plan.
They had spent the previous week whispering about it in the girls’ dorm, both of them completely convinced that Dean was one good push away from admitting he was in love with you.
“He is down catastrophically bad,” Allie said, lying across Hannah’s bed.
Hannah nodded. “He watches her like she’s the only person in the room.”
“And she has no idea.”
“She knows he likes her, I think.”
“No,” Allie said firmly. “She thinks he’s being Dean.”
Hannah frowned. “That’s fair. He does flirt with everyone.”
“Not like that.” Allie sat up. “Not with that face.”
“What face?”
“The face where he looks like she invented oxygen.”
So they invited everyone to Malone’s.
The bar was crowded and loud, warm with bodies and music and the smell of fries. Your group had taken over a booth near the back, all of you squeezed around the table with drinks and baskets of food between you.
Dean sat beside you.
Of course he did.
His thigh was pressed against yours beneath the table. One arm rested along the back of the booth behind you, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. His other hand was on your knee, thumb moving slowly over your jeans while he listened to Tucker tell a story.
You were eating fries when Allie looked across the table at Hannah.
Hannah looked back.
You noticed.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” Hannah said.
You narrowed your eyes. “That was not nothing.”
Dean smiled beside you. “You’re doing the detective face.”
“I do not have a detective face.”
“You do,” he said, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “It’s adorable.”
You smiled at him. “You think everything I do is adorable.”
“Correct.”
Allie looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Then she put down her drink.
“You know,” she said, “I think you two would be really cute together.”
You paused with a fry halfway to your mouth.
Dean’s hand went still on your knee.
Hannah nodded eagerly. “You should go on a date.”
You looked from Allie to Hannah, then down at Dean.
Dean was watching you with a strange expression, like he had realised something before you had.
“We have been on dates,” you said.
The table went quiet.
“What?” Allie asked.
You frowned. “We have been going out for months. It’s a bit late for a first date.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Garrett lowered his drink.
Logan’s eyebrows rose.
Tucker stopped chewing.
Hannah’s mouth fell open.
Allie stared at you like you had just told her the sky was green.
Dean started laughing.
Not loudly. Not cruelly.
He laughed like he could not believe this had happened, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back against the booth. Then he turned to you, his eyes bright and impossibly fond.
“You thought they knew?” he asked.
You looked around the table. “I thought everyone knew.”
“They didn’t know, pretty girl.”
You blinked. “But you hold my hand in front of them.”
Dean lifted your joined hands from beneath the table.
“She has a point,” he said.
“You kiss me in front of them,” you added.
Dean immediately kissed your cheek.
“Also true.”
“You call me baby.”
“Baby,” Dean said, grinning.
You looked back at your friends. “I thought that made it clear.”
Allie made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scream.
“Oh my God,” she said, covering her face. “You two have been dating this whole time?”
“Yes,” you said.
“Since when?”
“October.”
Hannah looked at Dean. “Since October?”
Dean’s arm came around your waist, pulling you closer into his side. “Yeah.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
Dean glanced down at you. “I thought she wanted it private.”
You turned toward him. “I thought everyone already knew.”
For a second, Dean just stared at you.
Then he smiled, slow and helpless.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I am correct.”
“You are.” He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. “You’re also my girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
His smile widened. “Say it again.”
“I’m your girlfriend.”
Dean looked like he might actually combust.
Across the table, Garrett groaned. “This is disgusting.”
“You’re jealous,” Dean said.
“I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed that you’ve both been acting like this for months and none of us knew.”
Allie pointed at Dean. “We have been trying to set you up with her for weeks.”
Dean looked delighted. “You were trying to set me up with my girlfriend?”
“Yes!”
“That’s kind of adorable.”
“It is not adorable,” Hannah said, laughing despite herself. “It is humiliating.”
You looked at Allie. “You thought I didn’t know Dean liked me?”
Allie’s expression softened. “We thought you didn’t realise how serious he was.”
You looked at Dean.
He was already looking at you.
The teasing had gone quiet in his face. His hand slid up from your waist to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye.
“I know how serious he is,” you said.
Dean’s expression changed.
It always did when you said something simple and true. Like he had spent so much of his life making people laugh that he never knew what to do when someone looked straight through all of it and chose him anyway.
“I’m pretty serious about you,” he said softly.
“I know.”
Then you kissed him.
The whole booth erupted around you.
Allie squealed. Hannah reached across the table for your hand. Tucker complained loudly about being surrounded by couples. Garrett shook his head, smiling into his drink. Logan looked like he had just watched his favourite movie ending.
Dean barely noticed any of them.
His hand stayed on your cheek. His other arm stayed around your waist. When he pulled away, he pressed one more kiss to your forehead and looked at you like you had given him everything.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’m kind of glad they know now.”
You thought about it.
“Me too.”
Then you glanced around the table, at your friends still laughing and arguing over how they had missed something so obvious.
“But I still think they should have known already.”
Dean laughed, warm and bright, and pulled you closer.
“Yeah, pretty girl,” he said. “I but they know now.”
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)
Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut
Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
2087
theartofmadeline
gamechangershow
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
