izzie!

jack abbot’s wife | 19 | 🇧🇷

[toxicgetou]

MASTERLIST!

rules for requests: i currently only write for jack abbot and robby robinavitch from the pitt, no non-con requests, i do not write about pee or anything like that, nsfw is allowed, i cannot respond to everything quickly but i will do my best to get to it as soon as possible.

Jack Abbot x Reader

CALL ME - angst with comfort

ASK #01 - angst with comfort

Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

NATIONAL DOCTOR’S DAY - fluff

ASK #01 - fluff

[pucksandpower]

for keeps

Dean Di Laurentis x Kennedy!Reader

Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything

Warnings: 18+ themes, baby trapping, dubious consent

Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.

For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.

But that was before you.

Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.

You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.

“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.

Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”

“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”

“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”

You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”

“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”

You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.

“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”

Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”

“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.

“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”

“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.

But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.

Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.

“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”

You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”

“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”

***

An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.

“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”

“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”

“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”

“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.

“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”

You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”

“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”

“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”

You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.

“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”

“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.

Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.

“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”

“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”

“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”

You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”

“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”

He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers

tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.

“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”

“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”

He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.

Stanford.

Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.

Stanford. Palo Alto. California.

He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.

“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.

You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”

“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”

“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”

“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”

“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”

You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.

“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.

***

It is 3 AM.

The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.

Dean is wide awake.

He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.

Three thousand miles.

The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.

He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.

When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.

He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.

How does this work? How do they survive this?

Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.

What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.

He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.

He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.

And now, he has to let you go.

He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.

Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end. 

***

It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.

Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.

Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.

His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.

The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.

“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”

Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.

“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”

Dean freezes.

He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.

He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.

But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.

Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.

If you love something, set it free.

He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.

“You look like you’re planning a murder.”

Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.

Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”

“I’ve spoken.”

“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”

Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”

“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”

“Shut up, Logan.”

“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”

“So you’re just giving up?”

“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”

“But?”

“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”

Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”

“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.

“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”

“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”

“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”

Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.

He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.

He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.

Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.

But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.

***

“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.

You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.

“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”

Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.

“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”

“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”

“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.

“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”

You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.

“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.

The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.

“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”

You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”

“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”

“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”

“I have money.”

“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”

“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”

The room goes dead silent.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.

Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”

You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.

He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”

You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”

Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”

Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.

He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.

He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.

When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.

It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.

Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.

He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.

He stares down at the little pink pills.

The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.

He literally microwaves her birth control pills.

Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.

He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.

But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.

If you got pregnant.

The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.

If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.

He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.

He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.

And, most importantly, you would be his.

Forever.

Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …

His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.

He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.

He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.

“Dean?”

Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”

Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.

“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”

“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”

The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.

Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.

The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.

He slowly opens the compact again.

He stares at the foil backing.

He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.

***

The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.

It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.

What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?

The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.

And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.

He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.

Four weeks in, you miss your period.

Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.

“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”

Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.

But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.

Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.

It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.

“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”

Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”

“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”

Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.

Then comes the fatigue.

You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.

“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your

stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.

“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”

Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.

It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.

But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.

The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.

You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”

You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.

And then, you sprint for the bathroom.

Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.

“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”

“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”

“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.

“Dean, what’s today’s date?”

“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.

You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.

“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”

Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”

“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”

“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”

“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”

“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”

“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.

“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.

The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.

When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.

Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.

You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.

“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”

You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.

He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.

Five minutes pass.

The bathroom is dead silent.

“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Silence.

And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.

You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.

Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.

Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.

All three. Positive.

Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.

You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.

But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.

You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”

“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”

“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”

“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”

“But Stanford-”

“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.

“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”

Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.

“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”

You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.

Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.

You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.

“No,” you whisper.

Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.

“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.

“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”

Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”

“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”

“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”

“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.

“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”

He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.

But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.

He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.

Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.

And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.

***

The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.

You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.

“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”

“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”

A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”

“Barely,” Logan mutters.

“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”

“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.

“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”

“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.

“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.

“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”

“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”

“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.

Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.

“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.

Then, absolute chaos erupts.

“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”

Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”

“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.

Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”

“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.

“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”

The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.

“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”

Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”

“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”

“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”

The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.

You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.

“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.

***

Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.

“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.

In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.

“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”

“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”

“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”

“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.

The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.

Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.

“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”

You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.

You gasp.

It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.

It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”

“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”

“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”

You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”

“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”

He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.

“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”

He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.

You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.

“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”

“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”

“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”

Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.

He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.

You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.

“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”

***

The true test comes three days later.

Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.

You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.

“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.

“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”

“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”

Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”

Dean flinches.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.

“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”

You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.

“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

Because I did, he adds silently in his head.

“But the timing-”

“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”

He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.

An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.

Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.

“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”

You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.

Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.

“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”

Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”

“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.

Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.

You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.

Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”

Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”

You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”

“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”

“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”

“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”

She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.

“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”

You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.

“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”

“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”

“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”

You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.

He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.

He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.

You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.

You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.

***

September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.

It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.

The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.

But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.

But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.

You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.

At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.

You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.

So, you find a new project.

“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.

You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.

“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”

“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.

“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”

“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.

His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”

“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”

Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.

He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.

“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”

“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.

“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”

“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.

He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.

But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.

Dean has a break at 1:00.

You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.

***

The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.

Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.

“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”

“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”

Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.

Dean’s head snaps up.

You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.

The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.

The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.

“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”

“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”

Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.

“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.

He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”

The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.

“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.

“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”

“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”

You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.

Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.

Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.

They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.

And Dean? Dean thrives on it.

He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.

It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.

You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.

“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.

Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.

“Professor,” Dean greets easily.

“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.

Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.

“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Richards says, extending a hand. “Robert Richards.”

You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.

“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.

He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.

“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.

You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.

“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”

Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”

You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”

Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.

A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.

Dean stands up.

He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.

Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.

“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.

“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”

Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.

“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.

Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.

“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”

The courtyard seems to go completely silent.

Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.

“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”

Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.

As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.

“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”

Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.

“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”

You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.

“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”

“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”

“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.

He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.

He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.

But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.

He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.

The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.

But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.

He needs the lock.

He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.

Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.

He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.

Tomorrow.

He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.

Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.

***

December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.

The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.

You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.

At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.

But you are here for Dean.

Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.

He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.

But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.

You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.

“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.

You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.

But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.

Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.

Your parents.

You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.

You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.

They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.

Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.

She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.

Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.

George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.

Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.

Your parents begin to walk toward you.

They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.

“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”

“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”

The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”

“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”

“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”

“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”

“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”

The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.

“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”

“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”

The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.

You gasp, turning your head.

Dean is standing right behind you.

The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.

He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.

“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.

Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”

Dean lunges forward.

It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.

“Dean, no!”

You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”

Dean freezes.

The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.

He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.

He chooses a different weapon.

“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”

George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.

Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.

“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.

“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”

Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”

Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.

The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.

“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.

“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”

You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.

“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”

“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”

Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.

“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”

George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.

“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”

Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.

“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”

George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.

George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.

The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.

He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.

“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”

“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”

“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”

Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”

“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.

As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.

And Dean?

Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.

They accused you of trapping him.

Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.

You will never leave him. Not ever.

And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.

***

“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”

Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.

You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.

It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.

You have been in labor for nineteen hours.

“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”

“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”

“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”

Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.

As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.

It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’

“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”

You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.

“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.

“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”

“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.

But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.

Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.

Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.

But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.

“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”

The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”

“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”

You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.

“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”

“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.

“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.

You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.

And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.

It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.

“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”

You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.

Dean is frozen.

He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.

His son.

The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.

The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.

“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”

Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.

“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”

“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.

And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.

“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.

Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.

As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.

For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.

But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.

It is done.

The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.

You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.

An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.

“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”

“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”

“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.

***

Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.

You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.

But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.

Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.

He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.

You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.

“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.

Noah Di Laurentis.

Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.

“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.

“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Dean says immediately.

He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.

Dean’s breath hitches.

He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.

You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.

You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”

Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.

The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.

It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.

But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.

He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.

You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.

You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.

“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.

Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.

“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”

“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”

“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”

Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.

“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”

You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.

“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.

When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

***

The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.

It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.

“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.

“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.

“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”

“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.

“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.

“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”

You spin around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.

Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.

He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.

“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”

“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”

Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”

“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”

You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”

“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”

***

The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.

The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.

“Excuse me, Y/N?”

You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”

“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”

Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”

“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”

You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.

You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”

Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”

“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”

“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”

“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”

“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”

You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.

“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”

***

The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.

The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.

You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

You hear the booming voice before you see him.

Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.

“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”

“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”

“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”

“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”

“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”

“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”

“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”

As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.

It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.

And they are absolutely staring at you.

Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.

“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”

You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.

One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.

Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.

He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.

He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.

Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.

“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.

Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”

Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.

“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”

“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”

Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”

“I do,” Dean smirks.

“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”

“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.

He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.

“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”

Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”

He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.

“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”

“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”

“It is now,” he declares.

He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.

But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.

You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.

“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”

Dean’s breath catches.

His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.

He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.

And you never knew.

You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.

Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.

Does he feel guilty?

He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.

No.

He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.

He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.

“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”

You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”

Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.

“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”

Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”

“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”

“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”

“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.

“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.

He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.

Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.

He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.

He trapped you.

And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.

It was the best damn thing he ever did.

[andy-15-07]

Hii! I love your writing and I was wondering if maybe you could do one with Logan and a Brazilian reader? Pls,pls,pls

Brazilian Sun

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1900

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

John Logan had always been a good listener.

It was one of the first things you noticed about him, and one of the reasons being around him felt so easy. He listened like he actually wanted to know the answer, not just because it was polite or expected. When you talked, he looked at you like the rest of the room had been turned down a little.

Which was probably why, three months into knowing him, you found yourself telling him things you had not expected to share so easily.

Like how the first time you ever left Brazil, you cried in the bathroom of the airport because everything felt too loud and too far from home.

Like how you still missed the rhythm of Portuguese in a room full of English.

Like how you had spent years thinking that little details about yourself would have to be translated for people to understand them.

John had never looked at you like that was true.

He just sat with you, calm and warm and steady, and asked questions in that easy voice of his like every answer mattered.

Now, on a quiet Sunday afternoon, you were in the kitchen of the hockey house while John stood on the other side of the counter with a piece of paper in his hand and a very serious expression on his face.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

He glanced down at the paper, then back at you. “Because you said you were going to teach me Portuguese.”

You laughed. “And?”

“And I am realizing this may have been a mistake.”

You gasped, offended. “You begged me for this.”

John’s mouth twitched. “I did not beg.”

“You absolutely did.”

He folded the paper and leaned against the counter, watching you with that soft half-smile that always made you feel a little too seen. “I asked nicely.”

“That is begging, in a polite form.”

He gave you a long look. “That is not what begging means.”

You laughed and crossed the kitchen to stand in front of him, reaching up to straighten the collar of his shirt just because you liked touching him when you were teasing him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He blinked. “Cute?”

“Very cute.”

John looked mildly offended. “That feels disrespectful.”

“It’s not.”

“It sounds like I should be more intimidating.”

You smiled. “You never will be to me.”

That softened his expression immediately, though he still tried to look annoyed.

You nudged his shoulder. “Okay. Start with something easy.”

He looked back down at the paper. “You wrote a list.”

“A very careful list.”

He scanned it. “Olá. Tudo bem? Obrigado. Por favor. Meu amor.”

Your face warmed a little when he got to the last one.

John noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He looked up slowly. “That one seems important.”

You folded your arms. “It’s common.”

“Mm-hm.”

“It is.”

He smiled. “Sure.”

You tried very hard not to smile back. “Say ‘olá.’”

He did, with surprising accuracy.

You blinked. “Okay. Good.”

John looked absurdly pleased. “I’m not hopeless.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

He moved to the next line. “Tudo bem?”

You listened carefully and nodded. “Very good.”

He repeated it once more, then looked at you with a slight brow lift. “That one sounds like it belongs in a song.”

You laughed softly. “Kind of.”

John leaned a little closer over the counter. “What does it mean exactly?”

“‘All good?’ ‘Everything okay?’ Depends.”

He nodded as if storing that away. “Useful.”

“It is.”

He moved to the next word. “Obrigado.”

You smiled. “That one sounds nice with your accent.”

His gaze lifted instantly. “You like my accent?”

You shrugged like it was no big deal even though it absolutely was. “Maybe.”

John’s mouth curved. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You shook your head and pointed at the paper. “Keep reading.”

He let you get away with the deflection, mostly because he looked entirely too amused by it. “Por favor.”

“Perfect.”

John looked satisfied with himself in a way that was almost irritating. “I’m getting better.”

You laughed. “You really are.”

He looked down at the last line again, then hesitated. “This one.”

You did not answer right away.

He looked up. “What?”

You smiled slowly. “Say it.”

He did, carefully. “Meu amor.”

The kitchen went quiet for half a second.

Your chest felt a little strange in the best possible way.

John’s expression changed when he saw your face, the easy teasing fading into something quieter. “Did I say it wrong?”

“No,” you said, a little softer than before. “You said it right.”

He seemed to relax at that, but his eyes stayed on yours. “What does it mean?”

You looked at him for a second, then answered, “My love.”

John went still.

You pretended not to notice how warm your own face felt.

He repeated it under his breath, like he was trying it out on his tongue. “Meu amor.”

Your heartbeat did something inconvenient.

“Yeah,” you said, trying very hard to sound normal. “That one.”

John studied you for a moment, then gave you a quiet smile. “I like that one.”

You looked down at the counter, suddenly shy for no reason at all. “You would.”

He stepped around the counter without much warning and came to stand in front of you, close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Is that what you call someone when you care about them?”

You looked up at him, caught by the sincerity in his voice. “Yeah.”

He nodded slightly, expression thoughtful. “I like it.”

You tilted your head. “You like the word or the idea?”

His gaze flicked over your face and softened. “Both.”

That made your stomach feel too full and too light at once.

You leaned back against the counter behind you, trying to recover. “You are very smooth for someone who nearly gave up on Portuguese ten minutes ago.”

John laughed under his breath. “I was never giving up.”

“No?”

“No.” He reached for the paper again, tapped it once, and said, “I’m committed now.”

You smiled. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.”

He glanced at the paper, then back at you. “Teach me something more useful.”

You laughed. “Like what?”

“Something I can actually say to impress you.”

That made you stop for a second.

Then you smiled because the answer was too easy and too sweet not to give him.

“Então vem cá,” you said.

John repeated it carefully, though not perfectly, and you shook your head with a laugh. “Close.”

He looked at you expectantly. “What does it mean?”

“Then come here.”

That got his attention.

He raised a brow, a little challenge already lighting up in his face. “That sounds suspicious.”

You smiled and crooked a finger at him.

John did not hesitate.

He stepped closer, hands settling lightly on your waist, and looked down at you with that calm, warm expression that always made your thoughts go a little softer around the edges.

You smiled up at him. “There.”

He nodded once. “Useful.”

“Very.”

His thumbs brushed lightly at your sides. “I’m going to use it.”

You laughed softly. “I’m sure you are.”

He lowered his forehead to yours for a second, just long enough to make your breath catch. “And if I say the wrong thing?”

You smiled. “I’ll correct you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It should be.”

John gave a quiet hum, then kissed your forehead in the slow, absent way he did when he was relaxed and happy and not thinking too hard about hiding it. “Teach me something harder.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Why?”

“Because I want to hear you say it.”

That made your heart turn over in a way you were absolutely not prepared for.

You blinked at him, suddenly aware that the sunlight was coming through the kitchen window in a soft gold line and catching in his hair. He looked beautiful in the kind of quiet way that never needed much attention to be noticed.

John watched your face, clearly waiting for your answer.

So you gave him another phrase.

One of the ones you had grown up hearing from people who loved you long before you understood what love even felt like.

“Eu gosto de você,” you said softly.

John repeated it, slower this time. Not perfect. Still very good.

You smiled a little. “You’ve got a nice accent.”

He gave you a look. “You keep saying that like you’re trying to distract me.”

“Maybe I am.”

John’s mouth twitched. “What does that mean?”

You looked up at him, feeling a little more honest than you had intended to be. “It means I like you.”

He held your gaze.

Then, quieter now, he said, “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

John studied you for a second like he was trying to decide whether to let the moment stay soft or make it worse by saying something even more honest.

You could practically see the decision happen.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

It was gentle and warm and so familiar by now that it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you there like he had no intention of letting you drift too far away. You softened instantly into him, smiling against his mouth when he kissed you again.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at you with a quiet kind of happiness that made your chest ache.

“Was that the phrase?” he asked.

You laughed softly. “No.”

He smiled. “Good.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know I can keep doing that.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too much to look convincing. “You’re greedy.”

John shrugged with that easy, unbothered confidence he wore so well. “Maybe.”

You looked at him for a second, then let yourself lean into him again, resting your hands against his chest. “You know,” you murmured, “you’re doing very well for a beginner.”

His hand slid up your back, warm and steady. “I aim to impress.”

“Are you?”

John’s gaze softened in the way that always made you feel seen right down to your bones. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

You smiled, and he kissed your temple before pulling the paper from the counter again.

“Now what?”

You laughed. “You want more?”

“I want to know how to say ‘you’re very pretty’ in Portuguese.”

That made you stop.

Then you smiled with a mix of affection and embarrassment that he seemed to enjoy far too much.

John noticed. Of course he did.

He tilted his head. “Well?”

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “You really do learn fast when there’s a compliment involved.”

He gave you a very serious look. “I’m motivated.”

You laughed and told him the phrase.

He repeated it carefully, then looked at you with a soft, certain expression that made the whole kitchen feel smaller in the best way.

“Again?” he asked.

You smiled. “You want to hear it again?”

“Yes.”

You shook your head, laughing as he stepped closer, just enough that the only thing left between you was the steady warmth of his hands at your waist and the quiet promise in his expression.

And when you said the words again in Portuguese, John looked at you like he had just been handed something beautiful enough to keep forever.

[thebriarbunny]

The Heart Rate Challenge… 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽

𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒽𝒶𝓂⁴⁴ 𝓍 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓃’𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒶𝒾𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 || 𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗, 𝚝𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛, 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 + 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞

6.8K words 𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 ⁀➴ 𝒶𝓈𝓀

𑣲⋆𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealous as hell!garrett, everyone’s kissing, lap dances, accidental hard launch, stripping adjacent, brief oral from the back, unprotected p in v, squirting, situationship, fingering, roughish, pet names (baby, babydoll, my baby, my girl + no y/n), language, w.a.m., bf/gf discussions + local briar man suffers while dressed like a sexy!cowboy 🍹🌊🦩🏝️

Garrett has watched seven girls come through that doorway already and he couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened because every time the door opened, he looked to see if it was you.

Every girl has done the same thing all night, dancing on laps, flirting, kissing whoever they’re standing in front of. The entire point of the challenge is getting reactions out of people.

Which would be fine, if you weren’t participating.

A handwritten poster board leans against the kitchen island with betting totals scribbled across it in black marker, names crossed out and rewritten every few minutes as people throw another ten dollars into the pot, slipping their ticket into the jar of their favorite “islander” to win.

Sixteen athletes, eight guys, eight women—an unsanctioned charity event between Briar’s sports teams turned too hot to handle.

Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.

Dean sits forward. Hunter starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.

The last time they’d all seen you, you were at the rink screaming at an official over a bullshit interference call before burying a shorthanded overtime winner.

Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you in Briar hoodies and workout gear, hair shoved underneath a baseball cap, showing up at the rink for morning skate. None of them were mentally prepared for this.

And neither was he. Garrett knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Garrett should’ve known you were going to play to win.

Garrett knew exactly what was about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.

He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.

His hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.

The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Garrett Graham was absolutely fucked.

You’re dressed like every college fantasy Dean has ever had in his entire life, and Garrett can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.

He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.

You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”

Garrett’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from the basketball team completely. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.

Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Garrett wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.

You walk over to Tucker and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.

You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.

“Well, Mr. Tucker,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”

You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath Tucker’s chin before lifting it lightly.

“Questionable,” you decide.

Tucker’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.

You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on Tucker’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.

The room breaks in applause as Tucker helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.

You make it three steps before stopping in front of Beau. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully.

The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.

“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.

“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.

Beau’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.

“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.

“Thank you, baby.”

The words mumbled past Beau’s lips and hit Garrett like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.

Hunter sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.

Garrett drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.

Hunter’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.

“Look at this asshole,” Dean chuckles against the rim of his drink and Davenport turns his head, smiling in agreement. Hunter doesn’t even deny it.

You stop directly in front of him, and Hunter’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.

You climb onto Hunter’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. Hunter lets out a rich laugh that makes Garrett want to throw his drink at the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Garrett before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.

You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.

“Such a fucking nerd, Davenport,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.

You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.

You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

The worst part was that Garrett had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.

The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.

He’d laughed, made some stupid joke, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.

Garrett drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.

“Can you believe this shit?” Logan sighs through a smile.

“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Dean lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Logan.

Garrett watches Hunter watch you walk away.

One of Hunter’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. Hunter licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.

The room feels ten degrees hotter. Garrett shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.

You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Logan, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.

Logan follows the ruler with his eyes.

“Talking in class?”

Logan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“No shame!” Dean adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.

You click your tongue and shake your head.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.

“Turn around,” you breathe, and Logan scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass. “One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.

Logan spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.

And Logan’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to his hair, tugging enough to pull a groan from his lips as his head tilts back.

He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Logan’s as you walk away. Garrett tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.

And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.

He remembers standing in the rink two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Garrett had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’

Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.

“Mr. Di Laurentis,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Dean cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.

Dean sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Di Laurentis.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”

Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.

Your back lands against his broad chest and Dean drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.

“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.

Dean’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.

You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.

You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Garrett’s thigh.

The contact lasts barely a second.

But Garrett still feels it.

That same hand slides away from Garrett, hooking loosely around Dean’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.

“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Di Laurentis’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Garrett. “It’s the class pet.”

The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Garrett’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.

Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Garrett is looking at you.

Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.

“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”

“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”

“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.

You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Dean and Logan snickering beside him, Di Laurentis shoving at Garrett’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.

But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.

Now he’s sitting here thinking about Dean’s picture, Logan’s kiss, Hunter’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Beau’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.

He’s spiraling.

“You’re up, Graham,” you whisper against his lips.

Garrett’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.

“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.

“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.

“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.

He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.

The challenge keeps moving as Garrett stands behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.

Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the challenge. Especially Garrett’s.

The first guy goes, and Garrett can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.

The captain of the Briar basketball team, Cash Suzuki, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Garrett sick.

He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Garrett’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.

He flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.

Garrett bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.

The crowd starts screaming when Tucker pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.

The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.

Hunter takes a page out of Tucker’s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.

Beau announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.

Logan’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.

Garrett drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Dean’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.

Garrett reaches for it without thinking it through, Dean’s hockey number on repeat unlocks the phone on the first try.

The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Dean took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Garrett has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.

Not because he doesn’t trust Dean to do it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.

The moment it’s gone, Garrett just stares at the screen.

“…She ruined me,” he mutters under his breath.

He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.

He really has lost his fucking mind.

“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Dean’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Garrett’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.

Logan claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “G, you’re up,” he smiles but Garrett’s already pushing off the kitchen island.

He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.

The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Garrett can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.

She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.

He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Garrett’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.

By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Garrett Graham is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.

He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.

Garrett glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Garrett Graham you know. This is not the Garrett Graham who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.

“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.

“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.

Garrett looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.

And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.

“G, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Logan shouts.

Garrett doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” Tucker and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.

Garrett stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.

The crowd erupts and Garrett winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.

“What the hell was that?” Dean shouts over the music.

“What?” Garrett laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”

“You’re not!” Logan yells from the kitchen.

“Virgin Mary over here.” Dean barks. “Graham, are you Catholic?”

“Fuck off,” Garrett chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.

You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.

For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.

You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Garrett finally feels like he can breathe.

“Babydoll?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.

“Garrett,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.

“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your teammates reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”

You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.

He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.

“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.

He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.

“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”

“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.

Garrett pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.

Garrett ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.

The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Garrett stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.

You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Garrett keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.

“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Logan says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Garrett barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Logan a look before immediately finding you again across the room.

“You did,” he says, and Dean laughs into his beer.

“Yeah, no shit,” Dean mutters, following Garrett’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.

He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.

Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Garrett loses his patience completely.

You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Garrett straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.

You make it a step before the captain of the basketball team walks in your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Garrett’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.

Cash gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.

“Nope,” Garrett sighs, already pushing away from the island while Logan turns his head toward him.

“Go easy on him, G. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Logan taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.

Garrett doesn’t answer because Suzuki made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.

“Hey, baby,” Garrett breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.

Garrett taps Cash on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, buddy.”

“You need somethin’, Graham?” Cash asks with an annoyed laugh.

“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.

“Sure,” Cash scoffs in reply.

“Have a great night, yeah?” Garrett smiles, clapping him on the chest this time, using the contact to push him away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.

Garrett’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.

“Still had it on,” he hums.

“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the hockey house all wrapped up in his arms.

“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.

“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.

“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Garrett’s voice barks across the party impatiently.

“You got places to be, Graham?” Dean asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Garrett’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.

The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and Hunter and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and Hunter’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.

“So Davenport and my girlfriend. We done here?”

Logan’s head snaps toward Garrett so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Dean whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. Beau physically chokes on his drink. Even Hunter’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Garrett doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.

Around them, Garrett’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.

The corner of Logan’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Garrett’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Dean snorts into his drink.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Dean hollers.

Logan lets out a laugh, but Dean’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”

“What?” Logan asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.

Dean stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”

“Oh? It’s gone? Garrett? Our Garrett?” Logan asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.

Dean slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”

Garrett’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.

He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Good guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.

Garrett glances over, catching the smile on your lips.

“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.

“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”

“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”

Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.

“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Garrett freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.

“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.

“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”

Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.

The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.

You whimper against his lips and he smiles against your mouth, kissing along your jaw to your ear.

“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.

He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.

And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.

Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.

“Of course, I will.”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.

“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m an idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”

“Well, I mean I don’t do boyfriends,” you answer with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.

“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”

“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.

“No.”

You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.

“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.

“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”

“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”

“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.

You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”

“You look so good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Couldn’t even tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”

You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”

“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.

“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.

“You look good, Garrett,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.

“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”

He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.

“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.

Your nails work through his dark hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.

He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.

“All yours,” you whisper.

“On your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.

“This body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.

You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.

He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.

“Garrett,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”

“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.

“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.

Garrett’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”

Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.

He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his rough hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.

Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.

Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.

“Need you to cum again, okay?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh for balance, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.

“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.

His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”

“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.

“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.

“That’s my girl.”

🍹🏝️ taglist on my pinned post 🦩 @rafesthroatbaby @liss2709-blog @sushi-girl04 @judesgfirl @cdiaz18 @abbottjunior01 @obsessedwrafe @vanillaiceyhot @maialopez23 @rexit-mo @georgiastars13 @princessaaa13 @dragonvalyria @livlovesfastcars @thebitchylibra @corvusmorte @st8rkey @imperfectlyperfect78 @winchestersbgirl @glitterandviolence13 @miramindlesslywriting @slut-4-rafey @emelia07 @maybankslover @archxve @jujuonthatbeat1357 @parker-barnes-af @aria1108 @magcon7280 @kristenm74 @dancerbailey3 @phoebesatoru @purplerainx1 @simp4f1 @at-arax-ia @just-hopeful @kkkkisworld @hearts4norris @styles-sturniolo @danis-angels @macbaetwo @tangledinmyfeelings

divider- @dollywons

[nchye]

Camera Slut

⋆˚࿔ smutty blurb, more are coming later. [fingering, squirting, recording, ambiguous consent!]

chye's grimoire (masterlist)

His thick, skilled fingers are buried deep inside your aching, dripping cunt, stretching you open as they curl and stroke with slow, devastating precision against that swollen, spongy spot deep inside. Every deliberate thrust sends sparks of overwhelming pleasure racing up your spine. The sensation builds heavier, hotter, a strange, insistent pressure that feels almost too much, foreign and dangerously intense in the heavy silence of the late night. In his other hand, Garrett holds his phone steady, the camera lens pointed directly at your spread pussy and flushed face, red recording light glowing softly. You know exactly what he’s doing, and the knowledge only makes you wetter.

“Garrett… stop,” you whisper shakily, your voice barely audible as you try to squeeze your trembling thighs together and push weakly at his muscular forearm. “It feels too weird… please, I can’t…”

“Shh, baby.” His large hand momentarily clamps over your mouth, silencing you with effortless dominance while his fingers keep working you. He leans in close, breath hot against your ear, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Eyes on the camera. You don’t decide when this stops. I do. Now be a good girl and take it quietly for me...”

Your muffled, desperate whimpers only spur him on. He removes his hand from your mouth and keeps the phone angled perfectly, capturing every slick thrust as he drives his fingers deeper, faster. His thumb glides in firm, slick circles over your swollen, pulsing clit. The obscene, wet sounds of your pussy fill the quiet room, all of it being recorded in high definition.

The unbearable coil inside you finally snaps.

White-hot ecstasy explodes through your body. Your cunt clenches violently around his thick fingers as you squirt for the first time. Powerful, hot jets of clear fluid gushing uncontrollably out around his hand in messy spurts. It sprays across his forearm, splashes over his toned chest and abs, and completely soaks the sheets beneath your shaking ass. The pleasure is shattering, endless waves crashing through you as your back arches sharply off the bed, thighs quivering helplessly around his arm. You bite back a scream, but soft, broken moans still escape as your pussy keeps pulsing and squirting in a breathtaking flood, every glistening drop caught clearly on camera.

Garrett’s eyes widen in raw surprise, his breath catching as he watches you come apart so intensely while still holding the phone steady. For a moment he simply stares, transfixed, then a slow, filthy, cocky smirk curves his lips.

“Fuck, baby… you’ve never done that before,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and arrogant pride. He angles the phone closer, capturing the messy aftermath as he slowly pumps his fingers through every pulsing aftershock, milking you until you’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck. “Look at you, my pretty little camera slut, squirting all over my hand on her very first try.”

He finally eases his fingers out of your fluttering cunt and lifts them to his lips, licking your release off them with deliberate hunger while the camera keeps rolling. His dark eyes stay locked on yours, gleaming with smug possession.

His smirk deepens, voice low and commanding. “First time and you performed so fucking perfectly for the camera. Now stay quiet for me, baby… because I’m not done. I want this greedy pussy gushing again, all over my cock while we keep filming.”

Still panting and dazed, you manage a breathless, joking whisper. “I asked you to stop, you know…”

Garrett chuckles lowly, the sound warm and wicked as he leans down, brushing his lips against yours while keeping the phone angled to capture your flushed, fucked-out expression. “You know you could’ve said our safe word anytime, but you didn’t.” He nips your bottom lip, eyes gleaming. “Good girl. We’re watching this back together later… so you can see exactly how much of a camera slut you are for me.”

[toxicgetou]

garrett x reader (coded as plus size) + dubcon ?? (both are drunk but there are no graphic sex descriptions) + angst

the bridge.

it was a good characteristic to describe you, you would always be the bridge

some guy would touch your shoulder and ask if your friend was single, some were direct and others even pretended they found you interesting

it stayed like that from high school to college, you kissed a few times, not even more than the amount of fingers on one hand but you still did it, but what you had done in your whole life your friends did in a single weekend

the feeling of envy made you sad and ashamed, you did not want to feel like that, getting irritated while one of your friends was having fun but it was an uncontrollable feeling

you made many bridges for garrett graham, he was kind and the type to pretend to make conversation before asking, and even knowing that you were crazy about him

not because he was the captain of the football team but because he seemed to appreciate you in those two minutes before asking if your friend was single

so when on that night where both of you had already drunk too much and he asked if your friend lynn was single, you told him she had a boyfriend, he understood and pulled away but you added “but you know, i’m single!”

maybe out of pity or because he did not find a better option, you two climbed the stairs nearly falling over each other and ended up in his bed that night and it was great until the next morning

you woke up with the bed empty, but you did not mind, you smelled the sheets and felt his cologne almost as if he was still there, it did not take long before you drifted back to sleep until the door opened

you stood up smiling but it did not last when you saw the surprised look on his face

“oh hey, didn’t know you were still here” he says automatically before immediately shutting his mouth “no no, sorry, uh good morning” he drops his bag on the chair while squeezing his eyes shut, it sounded really asshole-ish

the excitement from the morning leaves your body, he barely looks at you while pretending to organize his things and you understand… he regretted it

your eyes feel heavy while you get up and search for your clothes, he is too nice to kick you out but not nice enough to pretend he likes you

you feel like throwing up, because he crossed the bridge and deeply regrets doing it and you regret offering yourself to him like that, stupid drunk girl

you leave and say nothing, you both erase that night with an eraser and at the next party he asks if amber is single and yes she is

you regret it every day, every hour, every minute and every second but you regret it even more when a pregnancy test comes back positive

[toxicgetou]

i want to scratch garrett’s back the way a cat scratches a scratching post

you doesn’t exactly know when it started, before it was only during sex

it was natural for your hands to rest on his shoulders and slowly slide down to his back, scratching as a way to release all the overwhelming stimulation

your nails dragged harshly against his skin while the movement of his hips became faster

he never scolded you, actually he encouraged it, something primitive inside him liked the marks, liked standing in the locker room and hearing someone comment on them, liked feeling the sting when the shower water was too hot

but eventually it stopped being only there…

you would be lying in bed resting and you would make him turn onto his stomach so you could scratch him

you would be in the shower and while he soaped himself up you would drag your nails across his back, the burning never bothered him

you start letting your nails grow longer and even wearing more nail polish, the scene becomes even prettier to look at

if you are stressed or sad he hugs you after taking off his shirt and lets you scratch up his entire back

one time you scratch your name into his skin and maybe he accidentally posts it on his instagram story… like he is not going to delete it but it was not intentional

you kiss every mark even knowing they will never stop appearing

he has a habit with you too, biting you, no matter where but especially your neck, there is always at least one bruise healing there

[toonice113]

College baby (ch.2)

Pairings: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader

Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.

⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ I'm so glad people are liking the series, like I said I will be writing this kind of in my free time so updates might not be super consistent (but also if I am in the mood I'll write and right now this seems to be the only thing I can manage to write), let me know if you have any ideas you'd like to see and I might incorporate them in somehow! Also we'll probably get to the show timeline in the next 2 or so chapters! (And I don't plan on making these series super long so idk how many chapters there'll be)

taglist is closed (for now) (sorry)

College Baby masterlist

Start of the spring semester - your apartment - early morning

"Alright, you're going to be fine, I'm going to be fine, we're all going to be fine" You say to Seb who stares at you with those wide curious eyes and gummy smile.

"You realize he's been to the daycare before and you have had college classes before as well right?" Dean gives you a weirded out look.

You narrow your eyes at him "What are you even doing here anyways?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not a deadbeat"

"Literally no one believes you're a deadbeat" You tell him picking up your tote and triple double checking for the 20th time this morning if you have everything.

"Okay, either way I wanted to drive you for your first day of school" He rolls his eyes taking the baby into his arms, Seb immediately becoming distracted by the chain under his shirt.

"You do realize I've had college classes before right?" You throw his words back at him making him scoff.

"Let's go" He turns to the door and then whispers loudly to your son "Your mom is not good at firsts, I should know, I've been there for a few of them"

"For fuck's sake Dean, I was not a virgin the first time we slept together!"

"I didn't say anything about that, get your head out of the gutter, I meant your first time skating, and your first time in New york, oh and get this… Your first time giving birth!" He makes jazz hands that get him a roll of the eyes and a push as you walk ahead of him through the door, he just laughs and makes sure the door is locked behind him.

Malone's - Later the same day

"I think I might just find myself a sugar daddy" You sigh stacking napkins, you're in the middle of a shift complaining to your co-workers and new friends, Hannah and Allie "I forgot how much I disliked school"

"You're halfway there" Allie shrugs "Your baby daddy is rich isn't he?"

"Filthy" Hannah adds nodding.

"Yeah but he's also… Dean" You say.

"Okay" Hannah drags on the word "And what's that supposed to mean exactly?"

"Well… we share a kid so anything else would only complicate things" You tell them.

"Okay but what if it doesn't?" Allie perks up "Like what if you two fall madly in love and it all works out and you end up being the perfect little family? You should always give love a chance"

"Or, we find out we don't work out as a couple and maybe we realize it too late and then we have a nasty split that leaves Seb in the middle of a custody battle" You shrug "It's too big of a chance to take, plus Dean Di Laurentis? Not a settling down kind of guy"

"But-" Hannah doesn't let Allie keep arguing.

"Listen, Allie is a romantic, she's going to keep arguing for you to give it a chance, so I'm going to play devil's advocate" Allie frowns "And say, if you think it is not a good idea then don't force anything, but if you choose to give it a chance, we'll back you up"

You're surprised and moved by her words, you have not known the two for that long but the best friends have basically adopted you in the short time you've been around "Thank you guys" You say "But Hannah, I'm not sure that's how devil's advocate works"

"Whatever" She shakes her head "You still got my point"

Hockey House - Wednesday night

The house is filled with chatter when you walk in, the guys have probably the entire hockey team plus a good amount of football players plus girlfriends in here.

"Hey! You're here" Logan greets you as you're setting your things on the table by the door.

"Yeah, something smells good" You say walking towards the smell curious on what Tuck's preparing for the group they've assembled tonight.

"Oh! Thank god you're here!" Beau exclaims, there's a crowd of around 10 guys in the kitchen, your son in a football's player you can't remember the name of arms throws himself your way the second he spots you, thankfully the football player has good reflexes and grips him tighter before safely passing him over.

"I am! What's all this?" You eye the kitchen counter while Seb slaps you with a wet 'kiss' that's more of a blubbering smack with his whole face "Oh thank you"

"Last night I couldn't sleep so I called my mom and she gave he all the baby pureed food recipes I ate as a baby and then I also got some more from a mom website so I thought we could run a taste test with Seb and find out what he likes" Tucker explains with an excited glint in his eyes "But we wanted to wait for you"

"Okay" You nod "And the party you have going on here?" You look at the full house.

"Oh, some of the guys on the team heard about it and were curious"

"And then Dean mentioned it and I might have invited my teammates" Beau adds.

"Cool" You resign yourself, at least you knew people would show up for your son if ever needed.

Some time later Dean has Seb in his lap while you sit infront with a spoon and the bowls, so far you've discovered he loves peaches, bananas and carrot and hates squash and apples.

"That looks like diarrhea" Beau grimaces at the bowl Tucker hands you next.

"It's literally just pumpkin" The curly haired chef narrows his eyes at the quarterback "And if your shit looks like that I think you should get checked up"

"Can we not talk about shit while feeding the baby?" Garrett complains.

You ignore them and give Seb a taste of the puree, he doesn't even give it a chance, as soon as it touches his pursed lips he slips his tongue out letting whatever little food had gone in out and squirming when you try to give him some more.

"See" Beau points "Diarrhea"

"I'm actually curious about the taste" Nick, a football player says and you hand him the bowl with a disgusted look, you've tried not to make faces so Seb tries all the new flavors unbiased but he's already decided he doesn't like this one and the smell is quite frankly, nauseating. You all pause and look at Nick as he takes a big spoonful into his mouth, the regret is instant and he runs to the sink to spit out and rinse his omouth making you all laugh, Sebastian joining in.

"Okay this is the last one" Tucker hands you the bowl, this one's bright green and when you look up you can already see Beau making a face at it "It's broccoli"

"All right, open up Seb" Dean grimaces behind as your son tries reluctantly, surprising you all when he opens up his mouth for more, giving you a satisfied hum as he savors it, you offer him more half expecting him to throw it out but he eats it and claps his hands "Oh he likes broccoli"

"There's no way" Beau shakes his head "Give me some" He takes the bowl and spoons some up bringing it to his mouth, Seb screams then making grabby hands at the bowl clearly angry at Beau for taking his food "Yeah, no, all yours kid" The quarterback grimaces handing the food back to you as everyone laughs.

Hockey house - Thursday afternoon

Garret has been awkward around the baby ever since he was born, being an only child and not having any younger cousins he had never been around kids that small before. Today he's the only one in the house, Logan out with Jules, Dean on a quick trip to New York for a family emergency and Tucker probably still on campus. His plans? To melt into the couch while watching as many of the Jurassic park movies he can get through until he falls asleep.

His plans, however, get interrupted only a few minutes into the first movie when you burst in through the front door with the baby bag in one arm and the baby in the other.

"Tuck!" You call out.

"He's not here yet" Garrett lets you know from his spot on the couch.

"Shit" You curse contemplating your options before walking his way "Okay, I'm so late, Tuck agreed to watch him over and-" Your phone buzzes, Tucker letting you know he's late and will be there in 15 minutes "Oh, he'll be here in 15 minutes but I can't wait so can you just-"

Garrett almost jumps when you plop the baby on his chest "Uh-"

"Tell Tuck I said thanks and I'll Dean will be here in a few hours! Thanks G, bye!" You don't let him get any words out before you're gone.

The brunette blinks at the baby who stares back at him with a gummy smile devouring his own fist, drool spilling down into Garrett's chest. "Okay… um… no, yeah, we're okay" He sits up slowly making sure to keep Sebastian as safe as possible "Do you uh… you like Jurassic Park?" The baby makes a noise and slaps him on the chest "No… okay sure, no dinosaurs how about um… what the fuck do babies like?" He whispers to himself "Oh i meant frick, shit, no, I'm sorry, don't tell your mom"

He pulls out his phone and texts a 'hurry your ass home' to Tucker who replies with a thumbs up and nothing more.

For the next ten minutes Garrett awkwardly sits on the couch with the baby in his lap, his duck plushie clutched in the hand he's not chewing on as he stares curiously at the man holding him and every time the baby so much as shifts Garrett holds his breath, eventually Sebastian grows tired rubbing his eyes and settling into his uncle's chest, droopy eyes closing and soft snores escaping.

"Great, now stay like that until Tuck gets home and we'll be fine bud" He whispered settling back into the cushions and pressing play on the movie again.

Just a few minutes later, under the heat of the baby on his chest, Garrett falls asleep too.

It's not until hours later that he wakes, Sebastian now turned the other way around, eyes wide on the screen that's now playing cartoons but still on his lap and Dean, Tucker and Logan sit around him with plates of food with their attention also on the tv.

"Welcome back to the land of the living G" Dean greets him shoveling a forkfull of steak into his mouth.

"How long have you guys been home?" Garrett asks all confused "And why didn't you take your kid?"

"I tried" The blonde shrugs "But every time I got close to getting him off of you he'd cry so I just let him do his thing"

"Okay well, take him" Garrett motions to the baby that's now looking up at him with a smile, completely unaware of the awkwardness coming from the man holding him.

"Fine, look for yourself " Dean puts his plate down, by now Logan and Tucker are watching intently "Hey bud, come with daddy" The baby's smile disappears the moment his dad puts his hands under his armpits to get him up and instead he complains with a screech and flailing of his arms "See? Seb, son, we need to change your diaper at least before you leak all over uncle G"

Garrett grimaces at the sentence "Get him off please"

"I'm trying!" Dean argues picking Sebastian off finally, the baby wailing immeidately "Yeah, yeah, I'm such a bad dad for not letting you stay with Garrett even though your diaper is full and you can get a rash" He rolls his eyes "So dramatic, you get this from your mom"

Your apartment - Saturday afternoon

"So this one then?" You're on a facetime call with Allie and Hannah while trying on different outfits.

"Yeah, that one makes your boobs look fricking amazing" Hannah says, Allie agrees.

"Okay great, and then do we think hair up or down?" You're getting ready for a date, your first one since before having Sebastian, a date with a guy from the Tennis club "Wait, I think Dean's here"

Lo and behold, when you open your apartment door Dean stands there with a bright smile and a paper bag he lifts proudly "Uncle Tuck sent some snacks for Seb"

"God bless uncle Tuck" You say letting him in "Thank you so much for agreeing to babysit him tonight"

"I'm his dad" Dean deadpans "It's not babysitting, just taking care of my kid while his mom has a deserved fun night out, so you going out with friends? Hitting Malone's, someone's apartment, what is it?"

"See, most guys don't see it that way, especially on a Saturday night when they could be out partying" You point out "And neither, I'm going on a date"

Dean chokes on nothing "A date?"

You shrug "Yeah" And walk back to your room to finish getting ready and say goodbye to Hannah and Allie. Dean's already texting Beau about it.

"So… do I get to meet the date?" He asks trying to act nonchalant and failing.

"Well, I'm meeting him at the movie theater so no" You tell him putting on your shoes "But if it all goes well maybe next time"

"He's not even picking you up?" The blonde asks in disbelief "Who is this guy?"

"Goodbye Dean!" You ignore his questions and walk out the door.

The movie theater - Just a bit later

"Dude, I've always wanted to do espionage" Beau whispers loudly to Dean, both guys looking obvious as hell as they stand in the movie theater lobby dressed in black and with sunglasses even though they are inside, Seb sporting his very own little pair strapped into his dad's chest too.

"Lowkey, me too" Dean admits "Probably not for this but hey, we have to make sure she's not dating a complete douche"

"Look! There she is" Beau points at you, the two wait until you're walking into the room and follow a minute later, somehow managing to make it to their seats, three rows behind you without you noticing "Are you sure you won't just think whatever guy she dates is a douche anyways?"

"No" The blonde frowns "Only the ones who deserve the title" Beau hums unconvinced.

The movie, as it turns out, is an action one that has Beau hooked, but Dean can't stop looking at you and your date, noting every move he makes and scoffing at them. Then, something in the screen explodes loudly, Beau gasps, Seb wails in fear, that's when you turn around and notice them, Beau looks scared, Dean is trying to calm the baby down and you sigh offering your date an apology and telling him you have to go before walking up to Dean, taking Seb and walking out of the movie.

Dean immediately follows behind but you don't turn, too busy trying to calm your baby down until he stops you by your elbow, finally you look at him with anger "What?" You snap.

"I'm sorry" Is all he can say.

"Oh yeah?" You chuckle and that's when he understands how badly he fucked up "For what exactly? For bringing our seven month old baby into a loud action movie and scaring him to death or for ruining a perfectly fine date for me?"

"Everything"

"No Dean, I don't think you understand" You sigh, Seb's cries have calmed now and he tucks his little head into the crook of your neck as you continue to rock softly "That" You point to the movie room where you left your date "Is probably the only guy in all campus that's not repulsed by me being a mom and you've ruined it for me"

Dean's heart breaks a little at your words "No one is repulsed by you"

"You don't get it" You are about to cry out of frustration "You are Dean Di Laurentis, girls bow at your feet, you can have your pick every single night, you get to keep your perfect body. I don't have that Dean, guys won't even give me a second look, I can't just date around or sleep with someone because they all know I am Dean Di Laurentis' baby mama" He hates the way his name comes out of your mouth like it's venom "And if they do, they see someone with stretch marks, and loose skin and-" You choke on your words "You'll never get it Dean, how can you?" He says your name and you don't let him say anything more "Can you just drive us home?"

Now, Beau did notice you two leave earlier, but he didn't think you'd forget about him, I mean, surely you didn't just abandon him at the movie theater right? Well, now that the movie is over and he's done two laps around the parking lot with no luck finding Dean's BMW he realizes he's been left behind.

"Damn blind idiots" He mutters pulling his phone out to order an Uber "God how I hope they get their heads out of their asses and realize they love each other so they stop doing this shit"

Taglist: @caitsymichelle13 @laceyvt3 @alwaysclassyeagle @rd14 @noodlestheexplorer @hoetel-manager @cosmosnkaz @liss2709-blog @biologicallyyours @lightdragonrayne @ilovesharry @redvelvetcupcke1 @wiishies @hagarsays @jvlka18 @ficklepicklefandoms @adrianuskyy @purplerainx1 @bikinibottombedsy @lightdragonrayne @bearymuchso @importantduckhumanoidpatrol @latenighttalkinq @yatta-exe @slaylandoslay @afterhoursangell @kooquetre @cloudyzip @nikfigueiredo @traumaanatomy @ashloveshockey @suns3treading @whosmev @suziesluv @haylee04 @leaheclipse @itzrachel04 @idohknow @nightreader16 @naylanae-0308 @taania @naylanae-0308

[toxicgetou]

BSF!Garrett Graham who has known you since childhood, your mothers were best friends and soon you became best friends too

BSF!Garrett Graham who doesn’t understand why people think your relationship is weird

BSF!Garrett Graham who always kisses you… on the lips, and neither of you understands why that isn’t normal

BSF!Garrett Graham who kisses you every time he sees you, no matter where you are, he’s even done it right in front of a guy who was flirting with you, he’s your best friend, he can do that

BSF!Garrett Graham who doesn’t care when you do the same even while he’s talking to another girl, he appreciates the gesture even more

BSF!Garrett Graham who gave you your first kiss when you were teenagers and took your virginity after prom, and he did it like a king since you two were crowned

BSF!Garrett Graham who still sleeps with you to this day

BSF!Garrett Graham whose bedroom is basically half yours already, your clothes are in his drawers and whenever you can’t find some material from your course you don’t even bother searching because you already know it’s there

BSF!Garrett Graham who gets insanely jealous of the guys who manage to catch your attention and makes a point of fucking you hard afterwards, just to remind you where you belong

BSF!Garrett Graham who encourages your mother’s dream of having him as her son-in-law

BSF!Garrett Graham who never asked you to be his girlfriend because you wouldn’t accept it… or would you?

BSF!Garrett Graham who dedicates every single one of his goals to you and makes you come the same number of times as the goals in the match

BSF!Garrett Graham who tattoos your name right above his heart and if someone questions what his future wife would think about it, he simply says: she can’t be jealous of my girl (this man is never marrying anyone but you)

BSF!Garrett Graham who always rescues you if a date gets weird and if the guy crosses the line he has absolutely no problem threatening him

BOYFRIEND!Garrett Graham who asks you to be his girlfriend and you FINALLY say yes, his friends throw a celebration party and you’re crowned king and queen of Briar

BOYFRIEND!Garrett Graham who fucks you while wearing the crown

BOYFRIEND!Garrett Graham who comes the hardest when he remembers that now he’s your boyfriend, and you are completely his

[kaiwithlove]

۶ৎ paper rings, picture frames & dirty dreams. | j. logan

welcome to the dollhouse, dear reader!

short summary: where john logan wants to propose. unfortunately, the engagement ring is expensive, your future apartment is expensive, life is expensive, and he's slowly losing his mind. pairing: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader word count: 6.2k warnings: angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, secret engagement planning, financial insecurity, discussions of money, reader thinking logan is cheating, emotional repression, crying, proposal anxiety, mild swearing, mentions of grief/loss of a parent, lots of kissing, dean di laurentis being aggressively unhelpful, garrett and tucker being the voices of reason for once, paper ring proposal, excessive use of "babe", tooth-rotting fluff at the end, reader is referred to as a she & as a woman, let me know if i missed any! all characters in this story are adults. english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors. a/n: full disclosure, i was bawling my eyes out writing this. i love logan so much. also, dean deserved at least three separate concussions for his behavior in this fic. also, i was very inspired by this. what's kai listening to: paper rings by taylor swift.

18+; mdni. likes, comments and reblogs are always and forever appreciated <3

The place was perfect.

You stood in the middle of the empty apartment, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the marble of the breakfast bar, the pretty little notch in the kitchen island you couldn't wait to turn into a coffee bar. You could almost see it, almost smell the coffee brewing as the early morning sunlight filtered into room, caressing Logan's face with its golden fingers as he made breakfast. You could almost feel the way his mouth would curl against yours in a soft smile as you kissed him good morning, could almost hear his voice—

"Babe?" Logan's footsteps were soft against the hardwood floors as he rounded the corner with the realtor who was showing you the apartment. His dark hair was falling onto his forehead, blue eyes immediately finding you standing in the middle of the empty room. "What do you think?"

You meet his gaze, melting into him as he wraps an arm around your waist—casual, sweet. You loved that about him, loved that he wasn't a grand gestures, in-your-face romantic. He was steady, calm, the harbor in a storm. "I love it, Logan. It's beautiful."

He smiles at you, squeezing your waist before turning back to the realtor, Anna, taking off to follow her as she continued with the tour of the house. The property was honestly lovely—the kind of apartment you could see yourself living in after the two of you graduated college in a few months.

Senior year had been blissful, to say the least. After you and John finally—finally—began dating toward the end of your freshman year, life at Briar had transformed into something you never would've pictured for yourself. Weekends spent with the boys at the Hawks House, hanging out with Hannah and Allie on game days, parties that somehow always ended with you and Logan sneaking off to the firepit to sip beer and look at the stars. It was honestly hard to believe that you had been dating for only a couple of years—it felt like a lifetime.

And now, with finals, and graduation, and Logan being a shoo-in for the Bruins alongside Garret, you were excited to start the rest of your lives together. Most conversations these days between you and Logan were about apartments, where you guys would live after graduation. You were excited to move out of New Hastings and into Boston, where you'd been offered a job that was honestly, your dream since the day you walked into Briar U.

As Anna wrapped up the tour, you slipped your hand into Logan's, his palm rough, calloused against yours. Anna smiled as she handed you one of the brochures for the apartment. "So, the apartment would be around $3,900 a month. Utilities are not included, of course. I'll need the first and last month's rent if you decide to take the unit. The amount for the security deposit, as well as my fee is at the back of the brochure. If you have a few minutes, I'd recommend taking a walk around the block, familiarizing yourself with the neighborhood. I think you'd really like it."

You felt Logan's arm tense. Not too much—slight enough that you were sure you'd imagined it at first. But then, as you slipped the brochure into your purse, walking down the stairs, you noticed the slight crease in his brow, looking down at his phone. "Is everything okay?"

His gaze snapped up to yours instantly, his face softening the way it always did when he looked at you. "Of course it is, babe. Wanna take a walk around the block, see what's around?"

The two of you stepped out into the evening sun, hand in hand. The apartment was located in Beacon Hill, in a charming old brownstone. The cobblestone streets were lined with little luxury boutiques, antique stores, and gorgeous art galleries.

You passed several such stores in blissful silence, glancing idly at the displays in the windows, until—

"Oh, my God."

Logan was nearly yanked off-balance as you stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry store, mouth agape, staring at a pair of gorgeous diamond earrings. You turned to Logan. "These are exactly like the ones my mom had when I was a kid!"

Logan's face softened immediately. "Yeah?"

You turned back to the window display, pressing closer to the glass, close enough that your breath began to fog up the pane. The earrings were beautiful—simple diamond studs surrounded by a delicate halo of smaller stones. They were elegant, timeless.

"When I was little, my mom had a pair exactly like these. She wore them everywhere. To work, to date nights with my dad, even grocery shopping." A laugh escaped you, your gaze still fixed on the display, unable to tear your eyes away. "I used to sneak into her room and try them on when she wasn't looking."

Logan smiled faintly. You missed the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. "They're nice."

"Nice?" you repeated in mock offense. "John Logan, these are stunning."

"Right." Logan cleared his throat. "Stunning."

You finally dragged your attention away from the display to look at him properly. You couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he hadn't been himself lately.

It had been happening more and more often—little moments where he seemed to disappear into his own head, where his smile seemed forced, where his eyes got this distant, faraway look in them, like he wasn't quite in the moment with you.

The crease between his brows was back.

Before you could even open your mouth to ask him about it, his phone buzzed, startling him. His hand immediately to his pocket, pulling out the lit up screen. Logan angled it away from you before you could even catch a glimpse of the caller ID, but you could see the look on his face—something between panic and relief.

Logan cleared his throat. "Sorry babe, I gotta take this."

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to ignore the sickening sinking feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah." The words spilled out of his mouth a little too quickly. Almost as if he could see the wheels in your head turning, Logan curled the corner of his lips into a smile—that familiar smile that usually settled every worry in your chest.

This time, it didn't.

Logan didn't seem to notice. "I'll be right back," he said, stepping away before you could say anything else, already lifting the phone to his ear.

You watched him retreat down the sidewalk, broad shoulders tensing underneath his jacket. You watched as his free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot at the top of spine like he always did when he was stressed.

Your stomach knotted itself further. Maybe it was hockey, maybe graduation, maybe apartment hunting. God knew the two of you had enough going on lately to make anyone lose their mind.

But somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else.

You forced yourself to let it go, instead you turned back toward the jewelry store window. The earrings sparkled underneath the warm display lights—and before you could talk yourself out of it, you were reaching for the door handle.

A small bell jingled overhead as you stepped inside. The store was lovely. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting soft light over glass display cases. You felt like a kid in a candy store.

A saleswoman was by your side almost immediately. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed impeccably in black. "Welcome, dear. Can I help you with anything?"

You smiled, pointing toward the window. "Could I see those diamond earrings, please?"

"Excellent choice," the woman said, her face brightening.

A few moments later, she was placing them carefully on a velvet tray. Up close, they were even more beautiful. Gently, delicately, you lifted one. The diamond caught the light, scattering a million tiny rainbows across the glass.

Your mother's face flashed through your memory—helping you zip up your prom dress, teaching you how to curl your hair, laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks at Thanksgiving dinner. A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the earrings and everything to do with the woman who raised you.

"Would you like to try them on?" the saleswoman asked.

You swallowed the lump of emotions in your throat as you nodded, lifting the stud to your ear. The woman stepped forward, helping you fasten them.

Slowly, you turned your head to the side, glancing in the mirror. Your face immediately cracked into a smile. "Oh."

"I take it that's a yes?" the saleswoman laughed.

You turned your head to the other side, watching them sparkle. They really were almost identical—close enough that your mom would've loved them. Without thinking too hard about it, you asked, "How much are they?"

The saleswoman named the price.

They were expensive—definitely expensive. But not impossible.

You'd been saving aggressively ever since accepting your job offer in Boston. Between that and the graduation gifts from family, you could afford them quite easily.

You looked at yourself one more time, thinking about your mother, about all the milestones waiting just around the corner—graduation, moving to a new city, a new life. "Can I give them gift wrapped?"

The saleswoman smiled knowingly. "Of course."

Twenty minutes later, you stepped back onto the sidewalk carrying a small, cream-colored shopping bag tied with a pink satin ribbon.

The evening sun was beginning to dip lower between the brownstone buildings. Down the block, you could see Logan, still on the phone. His back was turned you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, the other pressed tightly to his forehead.

Your smile faded. The call had clearly lasted longer than expected.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up, his entire expression changing the moment he saw you. The tension vanished, the crease on his forehead smoothening out. His smile returned, easy, warm, and familiar.

But this time, you were almost certain it wasn't real.

His gaze dropped to the shopping bag in your hand. Something flashed across this face so quickly you nearly missed it. It wasn't annoyance, wasn't surprise—it was something heavier.

Before you could figure out what it was, it was gone, and Logan was walking toward you. "Ready to keep walking?"

You slipped your hand into his, the shopping back swinging lightly from your wrist. "Yep."

Logan squeezed your hand—one, two, three times.

Together, you continued down the cobblestone street, neither of you noticing that the things you weren't saying were beginning to pile up between you.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining things.

Logan had a lot on his plate—he really did. Graduation was only a few months away now, and the Bruins had practically been circling him for over a year now. Between practice, games, classes, apartment hunting, and preparing for an entirely new chapter of your lives, it would've been strange if he wasn't stressed.

That was what you told yourself, anyway.

It was becoming a lot harder to believe, now that three weeks had passed and nothing had changed. In fact, if anything, you were afraid they'd gotten worse.

The first thing you noticed were the late nights. Logan had always been the kind of person who could fall asleep practically anywhere—on the couch, during movies, in the passenger seat of your of your car on the trips home for Thanksgiving.

But now? You woke up at two in the morning to find his bed empty.

The first time it happened, you found him sitting at the table in the Hawks House' kitchen, his tired face bathed in the blue light of his open laptop.

When he noticed you, he slammed it shut so quickly that you jumped. "Jesus, Logan."

"What're you doing awake at this hour?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"I could ask you the same thing."

You could've sworn he looked almost guilty as he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just couldn't sleep."

At the time, you'd accepted the explanation... until it happened again. The second time, he was sitting on the balcony, the third time, in the living room. The fourth time he was on the living room couch, claiming he was reviewing paperwork for the Bruins.

Every answer felt reasonable, but every answer somehow made you feel worse—because none of them explained why he looked so nervous, so guilty every time you caught him, or why he hid whatever was on his laptop, or why his phone suddenly never left his side.

You noticed the last part one Thursday afternoon, when the two of you were sprawled across the couch, your head in his lap, his fingers twisted in the ends of your hair as he watched a hockey game.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Logan lunged for it so quickly you were nearly thrown off his lap. The movement was so abrupt that both of you froze.

A tense silence settled over the room. You had that feeling again—that strange, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like the day he got that phone call outside the jewelry store. It was stronger now, more potent, almost tangible.

Logan stared at you, forcing a laugh. "Sorry, babe."

Nothing—no explanation. You tried not to think about it, but once the thought entered your head, it became impossible to ignore, because there other things, too. Tiny, insignificant things that probably meant nothing... except they didn't feel like nothing.

You started noticing how often he stepped away to answer incoming calls, how frequently he angled his phone away from you. How many texts arrived late at night. How distracted he became whenever you asked him if everything was okay.

One evening, you were brushing your teeth in his bathroom when his phone lit up on the counter.

You weren't trying to snoop—genuinely. Your eyes simply caught the notification as his phone screen lip up with an incoming text. Your chest tightened—no name, just an unsaved phone number.

The screen darkened before you could read the message. Your fingers itched to reach out and hit the power button, to see what the text was, but no. You trusted Logan—you trusted him with your life.

A moment later, Logan entered the bathroom, almost as if he heard the distinct ding of the incoming text from where he lay on his bed. His gaze immediately found the phone, then you.

The tension in his shoulders materialized instantly. "What?"

You flinched at how sharp the word came out. "Nothing."

His face softened immediately. He stepped inside, reaching around you to pick up the phone, planting a soft, gentle kiss on your temple. "I'm sorry, babe."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, but the damage was already done. That night you lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling. Try as you might, you couldn't fall asleep.

It was ridiculous. Logan loved you, you knew that. You'd never doubted it for a second, not once in almost three years.

John Logan wasn't a cheater. He wasn't.

So why did it suddenly feel like he was hiding something? The question followed you everywhere—to class, to work, to lunch with Hannah and Allie.

Which, unfortunately, spending time with Hannah and Allie only made things worse, because apparently, you were terrible at hiding your emotions.

"You okay?" Hannah asked, setting her coffee down.

You looked up from the drink you'd absentmindedly been stirring. "What?"

"You haven't heard a single thing we've said for the last ten minutes," Allie frowned. "Is everything okay with you and Logan?"

You immediately forced a smile, even as the concern in her voice made your stomach twist. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay."

The silence stretched as neither of them looked convinced. Then, Hannah's eyes narrowed. "Oh, my God."

"Hannah, no—"

"You think Logan's cheating on you."

The words came too fast out of your mouth. 'I do not."

Allie and Hannah exchanged a look that you could read all too well. It was a look you knew meant they didn't believe you.

"Oh, my God," Allie echoed.

You groaned. "I don't think he's cheating."

"Okay," Hannah said slowly. "Then why do you look like you're about to throw up every time somebody says his name?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nothing came out—because saying it out loud would somehow make it real. It would make the the late nights, the secretive phone calls, the hidden laptop screens, the weird tension, the distance, the uncertainty—all of it would become far too real.

Suddenly, your coffee tasted like battery acid. Allie's face softened. "Oh, honey."

"I know how this sounds," you whispered, wrapping both hands around your cup. "I know Logan would never—"

The words caught in your throat. Would he?

The awful little voice in your head whispered something ugly—you'd trusted people before, you'd been wrong before. And lately, every time you looked at Logan, it felt like he was standing just a little bit farther away than he used to. Not physically, but emotionally, like there was an entire conversation happening inside his head that you weren't allowed to hear.

The thought made your chest ache, because the worst part wasn't the possibility that he was cheating.

The worst part was that for the first time since you'd fallen in love with John Logan, you weren't completely sure what was going on inside his heart.

John Logan had never thought buying an engagement ring would make him feel like he was losing his mind.

And yet, somehow, here he was—three P.M. on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by his teammates, staring at a spreadsheet. A fucking spreadsheet. He stared at the screen, already able to feel a headache building as he fiddled with an old receipt from Malone's.

"You know," Dean said from where he was sprawled across the couch, "most people use computers for porn."

Logan didn't even look up. "Shut up."

"No, seriously. Every time I see you lately, you're glaring at that thing like it personally offended your family."

Across the room, Tucker glanced over from his phone. "What's on it?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie," Garrett said immediately.

Logan finally looked up only to see that all three of them were staring at him, judging him. And honestly, fair. He'd been acting like an asshole for weeks. He knew that, but the worst part, he couldn't seem to stop.

Every time he thought he had things under control, something happened that sent him spiraling all over again—like the earrings.

Jesus Christ, the earrings.

He'd watched you walk into that jewelry store and nearly had a heart attack—not because you'd bought something, but because you'd looked so happy, so excited. He couldn't forget the way your entire face had lit up, and

all he'd been able to think was that the earrings probably cost more than the ring he could currently afford. The thought had followed him home, into bed, into practice the next day, into every waking moment since then.

Logan rubbed a hand across his face. "I need a drink."

"It's three o'clock," Tucker pointed out.

"I need several drinks."

Dean sat up. "Okay, that's it."

Logan frowned, his fingers folding and unfolding the scrap of paper he was still holding on to. "What?"

Dean pointed at him. "You've been weird for a month. Like, you look like you're about to be executed."

"Pretty fucking accurate," Garrett snorted.

Logan glared at both of them in vain—neither of them seemed even remotely intimidated.

Eventually, Garrett sighed. "Dude."

The single word carried enough weight that Logan meet his watchful eyes, studying him carefully. "You gonna tell us what's going on?"

The silence stretched out between them. Logan looked away first, and that, unfortunately, that answered the question.

Three seconds later, Dean practically launched himself off the couch. "Holy shit."

Tucker sat up straighter, meeting Dean's widened eyes. "Holy shit."

Garrett groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake., what?"

Dean pointed toward Logan. "He's proposing."

Logan froze as the room fell silent, Garret's jaw dropping, Tucker's eyes widening. Then—

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT."

"Keep your voice down, Di Laurentis!" Logan snapped, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face.

Dean looked personally offended. "No."

"Tucker?"

"Nah, dude."

Logan looked over at Garret, who was already laughing. "Come on man, you too?" he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. This was a mistake—a massive mistake.

"I don't even have a ring yet." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Immediately, all three guys went quiet.

Garret frowned. "What do you mean?"

Logan let out a slow breath. If he was already talking, he might as well finish. "The ring I want is too expensive, and every cheaper option feels wrong." Neither of them seemed particularly impressed, but Logan pushed forward anyway. "She deserves something nice."

"She deserves you," Tucker said.

Logan ignored him. "She loves jewelry." The memory of the earrings flashed through his head again—the way your eyes had lit up, the excitement in your voice, the sheer joy.

Dean groaned. "Oh my God." He was looking at Logan like he was an idiot—all three of them were. That annoyed him, because he was already very well aware of the fact that he was being an irrational idiot. "You think she cares about how much the ring costs?"

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Before he could force his brain to string the words together, Garret beat him to it, staring pointedly at the piece of paper Logan was still messing around with. "She'd say yes if you propose with a Ring Pop."

"That's not the point," Logan sighed.

"That's exactly the point."

The front door opened before Logan could argue, the sound instantly drawing everyone's attention. A second later, a lilting, beautiful laugh floated into the house—a sound Logan would recognize anywhere. Your laugh.

His stomach tightened, eyes immediately looking for you as Hannah and Allie entered the house. You followed close behind, and immediately, every ounce of progress he'd made disappeared. Because there—shopping bags. Everywhere.

Bright little logos, gold embossing of luxury brands, of little boutiques, of department stores. Logan could feel his pulse spike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean tensing, muttering under his breath, "Oh, for the love of God."

Logan shot him a warning look. Dean rolled his eyes so hard Logan was almost genuinely impressed.

He saw your sift through the room, landing on Logan, and for a moment, a flash of emotions flickered across your face—relief, followed by uncertainty, then settling into something colder, emptier, something that made his stomach drop.

"Hey." Your voice was soft, polite and distant.

Logan hated it with every ounce of his being. "Hey, babe."

You smiled, the look never reaching your eyes. A moment of tense silence enveloped the living room. Logan could feel every single pair of eyes zeroed in on the two of you, and apparently, you could too, because you shifted uncomfortably. "I think I'm gonna put my stuff away."

Before Logan could respond, you disappeared up the stairs. The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's eyes trained on Logan until Dean let out an exasperated sigh, smacking the back of his head.

"Ow!" Logan groaned. "What the fuck?"

"Go."

Logan was up on his feet immediately, slipping the folded paper object into his back pocket before Hannah and Allie could get a good look at it.

And for once, nobody argued. Nobody joked about him being whipped, nobody teased him for being wrapped around your finger—because even they could feel the tension, the distance, the way something had shifted between the two of you.

Logan found you in your bedroom, the shopping bags sitting on the floor next to the bed. You stood on the far end, unpacking them carefully, methodically, like you were trying really hard not to think about something.

The look on your face made his chest hurt. "Babe?"

You glanced up, eyes sliding over his face before going right back to what you were doing. "Hi."

The polite distance in your voice was killing him. Logan stepped closer, words tangling in his throat. He needed to explain, needed to tell you. Except, as it always did in any important moment, his words failed him.

You stared at him expectantly for a moment, then sighed. "I got you something."

"What?" Logan blinked, confusion clear on his face as he accepted the small box you were holding out to him. His emotions knotted tight in his throat as he opened it, because something made you think of him.

Inside, on a delicate velvet cushion, sat a Bruins keychain—a simple, unremarkable trinket that brought him to the forefront of your mind while shopping. Undeniable proof that you were thinking of him, even when you were out with Hannah and Allie, even when you were clearly vexed with him.

His throat tightened. "Babe—"

"I thought you'd like it," you said softly. The smile that accompanied the words was small, sad.

Logan hated it, but more than that, he hated the realization that he'd brought that expression on your face. Because the weeks of stress, of secrecy, of acting like a complete asshole had clearly taken a toll on your relationship, and now—now you were looking at him like you weren't sure what to do with him anymore.

Logan cleared his throat. "I think I owe you an explanation."

You met his eyes, and for the first time all day, he saw something other than distance—hope. It was tiny, fragile, almost undetectable, but it was there.

"Okay," you whispered. The word had barely left your mouth when his phone rang. Logan froze. No. No, no, no.

He glanced down at the caller ID, his heart sinking, and sure enough, it was the jeweler—the custom jeweler he'd been working with for weeks, the one he'd been desperately waiting to hear from.

Before his very eyes, your expression changed. The hope vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference as before. Logan's pulse quickened. "Babe—"

"It's fine."

"I just need a minute."

You waved your hand dismissively, stepping back to create physical space between the two of you. "It's fine, Logan."

His phone continued to ring as he realized this was all his doing. All this distance between the two of you was his creation. The realization hit him like a punch in the ribs, gutting him almost as thoroughly as you brushing past him with the words, "I'll see you downstairs."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

His phone rang again, demanding his attention once more. Logan stared at the screen, then out the bedroom room at the empty hallway you'd disappeared into, and for the first time in weeks, a terrifying thought entered his mind: maybe the ring wasn't the thing he should've been worried about losing.

The call lasted several minutes—several long, agonizing minutes.

Logan barely heard half of what the jeweler was saying, his mind barely registering the words. Custom setting. Center stone.

Any other day, it would've been exactly the conversation he'd been waiting for, but instead, all he could think about was the look on your face when you walked out of the room.

By the time he hung up and headed downstairs, he felt sick.

The house was louder downstairs, Dean arguing with Garrett about something while Hannah laughed. A hockey game was playing on the television like background noise.

Life was continuing exactly as normal, which somehow made everything worse—because nothing felt normal.

Logan found you sitting alone in the lawn chairs by the firepit in the backyard. The sun was beginning to set, painting the yard pink and gold.

You were curled up on the chair, knees tucked against your chest. For a minute, he stood there, just outside your line of sight, wondering how he'd managed to screw up so fucking royally.

The floorboard of the back stoop creaked beneath his weight as he took a step toward you. You lifted your head, your face closing off the second you saw him—and that was the moment Logan truly knew that whatever was happening between the two of you wasn't something he could smooth over with a kiss and an apology. "Can we talk?"

You stared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "Sure."

He lowered himself into the chair next to you, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settling between the two of you—the kind that hadn't ever existed before.

Finally, you spoke. "Are you cheating on me?"

The question hit him so hard he physically recoiled. "What?"

Your laugh was humorless, boken. "I asked if you're cheating on me."

"Babe—"

"Because I don't know what else I'm supposed to think anymore." The words were spilling out faster now, like they'd been trapped inside you for weeks. "You won't talk to me. You leave the room to answer phone calls. You hide your laptop every time I walk in."

Logan's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept going.

"You barely look at me lately." Your voice cracked—just slightly, just enough that the sound tore straight through him. "And every time I ask what's wrong, you tell me you're fine."

And suddenly, Logan could see it, could see the weeks of secrecy, of distance, of unexplained behavior through your eyes. God.

Of course you'd think that.

Your eyes were shining now. "You know the worst part?" you whispered, looking away. "I would've rather had you tell me the truth."

The sentence shattered something inside him, because you genuinely believed it. You genuinely thought there was another woman. That after everything—after three years, after every promise, every late night conversation making plans for your future together, you thought he was capable of hurting you like that.

And it wasn't because you didn't trust him, but because he'd given you every reason to question him, to harbor these thoughts.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

"Baby, no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No."

You blinked. "What?"

"No." The words stumbled out of his mouth broken, desperate. "I'm not cheating on you. God, no."

You stared at him, hurt and uncertainty written all over your tear stained face. He'd done that. He'd put that doubt there. The realization made Logan drop his head into his hands.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then everything he'd been carrying for months finally spilled out, summed up in eight simple words. "I was trying to buy you a ring."

Complete silence. Logan turned his head toward you to see your brows furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

Logan laughed, a miserable, exhausted sound. "The phone calls, the laptop, all of it. I wanted it to be perfect. The proposal, the dream, everything."

He could see your mouth parting slightly in surprise, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out anymore, couldn't stop the tears blurring his vision as he continued in messy, unfiltered sentences. "You love beautiful things,"

"Logan—"

"No, listen. You do." A helpless smile tugged at his mouth. "You stop at every jewelry store window."

You laughed softly despite yourself. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

A tiny ember of warmth flickered between the two of you, then disappeared. Logan swallowed hard. "The earrings."

Your smile vanished. "The earrings?"

"That day in Boston. Babe, you were so happy."

You stared at him, completely lost, and suddenly Logan felt absolutely ridiculous, but he continued anyway, pushing through the discomfort of laying his heart bare, because where else would he be safe if not with you? "I couldn't stop thinking about how much you loved them."

"Because they reminded me of my mom."

"I know," Logan's voice dropped. "I know, babe. That's what made it worse. Because all I could think about was that if those earring made you so happy, your engagement ring should make you even happier."

He laughed shakily. "And every ring I could afford felt wrong. I kept looking at our apartment options, at budgets, at our future."

His eyes met yours, voice choking as a single tear finally escaped the confines of his long lashes. "I want to give you everything, my love. I want you to have the life you deserve."

"John."

"And it's—it's killing me that I can't do it. It was killing me that I couldn't afford the ring I wanted for you."

You hand flew to your mouth, the tears in your eyes mirroring his.

"And then I started thinking maybe I should wait." Logan shook his head. "But I don't want to wait."

A tear slid down your cheek. "John."

He barely noticed. "I want to marry you."

The words landed heavily between you—simple, honest, terrified.

Logan looked away, unable to hold your gaze anymore. "I know its stupid. I know how insane I sound." Silence, for a moment. Then, quietly: "But you deserve so much better than what I can give you right now."

The sound of your chair scraping as you stood up made Logan finally lift his eyes up off the floor. You crossed the space between the two of you without hesitation. Your hands found his face—warm and familiar and feeling like coming home.

"So let me get this straight." Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes. "You thought I cared more about a ring than I care about you?"

Logan winced. "When you put it that way—"

"John Logan." The fondness in your voice made his heart stutter. "I like jewelry. I like sparkly necklaces and expensive dress. I like shiny things—but none of those things are you."

His breath caught in his throat as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "I don't care about a large sparkly diamond."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

'You d—"

"I'd marry you with paper rings, John Logan," you whispered, as his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to him like you'd disappear if he let go. "I'd marry you with a twist tie. I'd marry you with nothing at all. You're the one I want, and nothing's ever gonna change that."

Logan's vision blurred again, because suddenly, all those nights, all those spreadsheets, all the fears—they all felt so small compared to this, compared to what he had with you. Compared to the certainty in your eyes—the certainty he'd been too stupid to trust.

Something in Logan's chest stuttered, because suddenly, he remembered the folded receipt, still sitting in his pocket. He'd been folding and refolding it between his fingers while Garrett and Dean gave him hell earlier, creasing the paper absentmindedly, and before he could think, his hand was moving.

You frowned as he dug into his back pocket. "What're you doing?"

Logan looked down, letting out a watery laugh.

"Jesus." Carefully, he pulled out the crumpled strip of paper. The receipt had been folded and twisted so many times that it barely resembled what it once was.

Except somehow, he'd managed to fold it into a ring.

A crooked, terrible ring—the saddest excuse for jewelry in human history.

You stared. "Oh my God."

Heat flooded Logan's face. "I was nervous."

A laugh escaped you. "What does that have to do with—"

"I don't know." He was laughing now, too, half-hysterical, half-relieved. "I just kept folding the damn thing."

The ring sat trapped between his fingers, somehow more important than any diamond he'd spent months obsessing over. There was no diamond, no grand romantic gesture. Just you—just the love of his life.

Logan knelt, and despite all the words spilling out of him only moments before, the only word that parted his lips was, "Please."

"Are you serious?"

Logan's voice shook. "I don't have the ring yet. I don't have the proposal I wanted to give you. I don't have it all figured out right now. But I know I want forever, and I don't want it with anyone but you."

A tear tracked it's way down your cheek. "John."

"I know it's not much, but—"

"It's perfect."

"It's literally made out of a receipt."

You laughed through your tears. "So?" The sound nearly stopped his heart. "So was our first grocery list."

Logan laughed—a real laugh this time, the first one in weeks. "Please, babe? Will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, you big idiot, of course I'll marry you."

You stared the paper ring from his hand as though it were made of diamonds, holding out your hand for him to slide the ring onto your finger.

It fit terribly. You loved it.

And just like that, every spreadsheet, every budget, every sleepless night, every fear he'd carried for months disappeared.

Because standing in front of him was the woman he'd been trying so desperately to impress, the woman who loved sparkly things, who deserved the world.

The woman wearing a paper ring like it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd ever owned.

💌: from kai, with love <3

[buckpunny1]

the lie | dean di laurentis

what happens when it turns out the man of your dreams is secretly only with you to make his ex-fling jealous?

Warnings: angst with a capital A! ambiguous ending, some swearing. wc: 1.6k. unedited

If someone had told you six months ago that you’d currently be dating the Dean Di Laurentis, star of the Briar University hockey team and well-known playboy, you would’ve probably laughed to the point of tears.

Oh, how things can change so drastically.

You’d met at a frat party, bumping into each other on accident. The alcohol held loosely in his grip sloshed out of the Solo cup upon impact, sending lukewarm beer down the front of your top.

“Oh, fuck! I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Dean seemed apologetic, but the way his eyes subconsciously trailed down your now soaked top (and the black bra clearly visible) were anything but sorry.

You were starstruck as you let out a meek “It’s fine!”, scrambling to find napkins to wipe yourself down and appear decent again.

“Hey, wait, I think I have an extra top upstairs. You can change into that if you’d like.”

“Do I want to make a guess as to why you have women’s clothing in your room upstairs?”

His sly smirk in response was all the answer you needed.

“Nope, never mind. I’m just going to head home and take a shower or something. It was nice to meet you.” You whipped around, intent on making a beeline for the front door.

A strong, large hand wrapped around your wrist before you could go far. “Hold on!” You turned around slowly, skepticism clear on your face. “It’s actually just one of my sister’s shirts- she left it here the last time she came to visit. Would you please come change so I can get to know you better?”

You paused, thinking over both options. If he was just looking for a quickie, he found the wrong girl. On the other hand, you were covered in sticky beer and every crevice of your body smelled like it.

The gross feeling of the beer stuck to your skin won out. “Fine, I’ll change. But no funny business. I mean it.”

Dean grinned like he had you right where he wanted you. In a sense, he truly did. “Of course, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

The two of you ended up talking until the early hours of the morning, ceasing conversation only when everyone else had gone home and the other guys were passed out in various spots around the house. True to his words, Dean never made any sexual advances toward you, remaining respectful and listening intently to what you were talking about.

Late night talking turned to coffee dates, which turned into lunch dates, ultimately ending in multiple dinner dates before you finally decided to call yourselves a couple.

Dean, surprisingly, was everything you wished for in a boyfriend. He was chivalrous, kind, and put you first before everything and everyone else. You’d agreed to just keep the relationship light and fun, leaving the serious parts for a later time if you got there.

The pair of you were rapidly approaching the month mark of being together, and everything thus far had been amazing.

“Why hello there, gorgeous.” A pair of arms wrapped around you from behind on the quad, pulling you backward into them and placing kisses down your neck. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Dean, stop.” You giggled, squirming in his hold from the ticklish sensation. “You knew I’d be here! It was your idea to meet for lunch.”

“And what a fantastic idea it was.” He grabbed your hand, leading you over to a picnic table nearby, sliding food across the table before sitting beside you on the bench and throwing an arm around your shoulders.

As the two of you ate and chatted, you scanned the courtyard, people watching. There were a group of freshmen discussing their days, another couple making out on the opposite end of the quad, and at another table you could see Hannah and Allie, talking in hushed whispers.

You locked eyes with Hannah, grinning and sending her a wave. She sent a small wave in greeting back, Allie turning to see who she was looking at. You waved at her as well, expecting the same in return. Instead, you got a scathing glare and a small frown in response before she whipped her head back around.

Huh, that was weird. Allie and Hannah were besties, but you also occasionally hung around them. You’d always had good times together, which made Allie’s sudden change in personality even more confusing.

“Well, that’s odd.” You told Dean.

“Yeah, sure.” He responded, but his voice sounded distracted. Upon looking at him, you noticed he wasn’t staring at you- he was looking intently at Allie

“Everything okay?”

“What?” It was as if your question snapped him out of a daze. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Just had my head in the clouds, I guess. Want some more fruit?”

“Sure,” you responded, growing more suspicious at his suddenly flippant attitude.

As the two of you finished lunch, you couldn’t help the sudden lump in your throat. Something odd had happened, and you were determined to find out one way or another. Even if that meant doing some deeper digging.

The night of Logan’s fundraiser rolled around quickly, a rare night off for you while Hannah and Allie took the shift at Malone’s. You were still there, just in front of the bar rather than behind it.

You’d seen Dean once or twice while you hung out with Dexter, but only fleeting moments, never once being able to sit and talk to each other.

“You and Dean seem pretty cozy.” Dexter teased, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own.

“Yeah, I guess you could say so.” You couldn’t seem to wipe the giant, lovesick grin from your face.

“You know, I was wondering how long this act between the two of you was going to last.” Birdie chimed in from his spot at a nearby table.

“What do you mean?” you asked, smile slipping slightly from your face.

“I just mean you’re a great friend, is all. Dean and Allie had a good fling going before she broke it off. He was really heartbroken for a while.”

Dexter came to your defense quickly, questioning, “And what does that have to do with Y/N?”

“Oh, c’mon, guys, you can cut the act when it’s just us. The whole hockey team knows.”

“Knows what?”

“They know about your little arrangement so he can get Allie back. It’s all ‘Allie this, Allie that’ when it comes to him in the locker room. It’s totally working, too; she hasn’t been able to stop watching the two of you like a hawk for the last month. They’ll be back with each other by the end of the weekend, I guarantee it. You’ll be off the hook soon.”

At the dumbstruck looks on your and Dexter’s faces, Birdie froze.

“…oh shit, you weren’t in on it?”

You turned, seeing nothing but red as you searched the crowd for the one person who’d know could tell you where Dean was.

“Beau,” you shouted, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. “Where’s Dean?”

“Oh, um,” he stuttered, clearly surprised by your sudden fury. “I’m not sure. Last I saw him, he was on stage announcing the raffle winners.”

He took in your expression, asking hesitantly, “Did…did something happen?”

“How long have you known?”

He winced. “Since the beginning.”

You released his jacket as if he’d burned you, whipping back around and searching for Dean, eyes wild.

“Wait, Y/N, I’m sorry! We can still talk about this!” His words were useless to you, only adding to the fire burning deep in your stomach.

You’d caught him saying something about the photo booth, heading in that direction to see. As you approached, you noticed Dean’s familiar sneakers under the curtain.

Along with another pair of shoes facing him.

You tugged the curtain open, freezing as your worst fear came to life right before your very eyes. Dean and Allie were making out right there in the booth, closer than you ever thought possible.

They broke away at the sudden interruption, Dean’s eyes widening as he noticed the reason for the distraction.

“Oh, shit, Y/N, wait!”

Not a chance in hell you were going to wait for him. You took off toward the front door, pushing your way out with force as tears streamed freely down your face in heavy sobs.

“Baby, please! Wait!”

“What the fuck do you want, Dean?” You screamed, shaking off his hand on your shoulder as you gasped for breath.

“I am so, so sorry. You weren’t meant to see that in any way.”

“Oh, so if I hadn’t seen it then that would’ve been fine? Give me a break.”

He winced at your sharp tone. “No, absolutely not. I know I’m an asshole, okay? I just didn’t know what I wanted. What Allie and I had was great, but I really care about you and would never want to hurt you like I just did.”

“Yeah, caring about me, my ass. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. I wish I had never, ever gone out with you in the first place.” You seethed.

“Look, why don’t we go inside and talk about this?”  He noticed the gathering crowd around you, some whipping their phones out to record the spectacle. “Come on, honey.”

“I hope you figure out what you want, Dean.” You shook his hand off your arm, beginning to walk away. “It just won’t be with me.”

As Dean watched you walk away, silent sobs making your shoulders shake, he couldn’t help the way his heart shattered. He really had grown to feel for you over your time spent together, feeling more guilt with every meeting at the idea of breaking your own heart the way he just did. All this time, he had convinced himself that Allie was the woman he wanted.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

a/n: guys this broke my hearttttt :( been debating whether to just leave this as an angst- lmk if anyone would like a part two.

[sunbaby01]

Mine

Or when Dean denies being jealous and Beau tests that theory

Suggestive towards the end <3

It all stemmed from one single throwaway comment.

“God baby, we’re so lucky we’re not jealous people” Dean said scrolling past some couples TikTok.

Beau practically snorted as you chuckled to yourself.

“You’re one of the most jealous people I know” he pointed at him.

“That’s bullshit-“

“Dean, honey“ you placed a hand on his arm.

“What? It is!” He said in denial

“What about when someone did a heart on her coffee so you went to the next shop instead and bought the same drink, sans the heart?”

“Just had a feeling it would taste better”

Your eyes flicked between the pair.

“Okay, sure. So you weren’t jealous when that guy held the door open for her” Beau held a second finger up.

“He was staring at her ass” he retaliated.

“I don’t think he was baby” you spoke up, only to shut your mouth immediately and mime throwing away a key when Dean looked at you utterly betrayed.

“You tripped him up- fine. The TA called her sweetheart and you disrupted a whole lesson”

“That- okay, I have nothing for that one but that’s not the point” he sat forward.

“Face it Beau, I’m not a jealous person. A little protective? Sure. But jealous? You’re losing it” he ran a hand through his hair.

Beau hummed, “we’ll see”

—————————

You were getting ready for the game when a knock thundered on the door.

“Beau?” You asked as he let himself inside.

“I’m literally a genius. Like a literal genius. What’s it like knowing someone so smart?”

“Uhhh..scary?” you watched him hype himself up around your living area.

He dropped his bag onto the sofa and ripped open the zip pulling out a Hawks jersey.

“Thanks I guess? I’ve already got Dean’s ready but it’ll be good to have a spare-“

“No, no, no” Beau chuckled and turned it round.

Logan

22

“Beau” you warned.

“He’s not a jealous person right? So he’ll love to see you supporting one of his best friends” he threw the jersey at you.

“It’s literally just a number on a jersey” you held it up.

“Yes, and Dean is literally just a man. A man whose number you won’t be wearing” he said like it made perfect sense. In his head, it did.

“You’re going to break him” you sighed, jersey in hand.

“I know”

“He’s gonna snap”

“Hopefully”

“You’re an ass”

“Absolutely”

—————————

Considering the jersey was made of the exact same material, it felt wrong against your skin. Like it knew the numbers on your back were 22, not 66 like they should be.

You trailed behind Beau as you got to your seats, not first row but close enough to be seen.

“Oh no” Allie took one look at the jersey and smirked.

“Oh yes,” Beau honestly look thrilled. More excited to see Dean’s reaction than the actual game.

You just sighed.

Suddenly the cheers started and out came the team skating their laps. Dean stopped at the glass by your section tapping his stick ok the glass at you and flashing a wink. You smiled and blew him a kiss, he of course caught it dramatically.

But then Dean’s eyes scanned over you, squinting at the jersey as if something didn’t sit right.

No A, he noticed. Probably a shop error.

He shook it off, winked again and started to skate away till Beau’s voice cut through the crowd.

“LOGAN!! BIGGEST FAN OVER HERE” he shouted through cupped hands, then tugging you around to show the back of the jersey.

“Shit, Deanie doesn’t she look cute” Logan said, smirk in his voice.

Dean stopped, turned around and saw the bold unmissable 22 on your back.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Shit he was about two seconds away from climbing out the rink skates and all to take that off you.

Honestly, the only thing stopping him was the look on your face. You looked mortified.

Between your and Beau’s reactions he could tell whose bright idea it was - it clearly wasn’t you. He swallowed down the rage and skated to the team ready to start the game.

To you that was worse.

Quiet Dean was lethal Dean.

He thought he was doing quite well in the first and second period, sure he’d ended up in the penalty box and he’d checked Logan accidentally a few times but, it’s hockey, these things happen.

For once, Dean Di Laurentis was itching to get off the ice. As soon as the second period finished he practically flew off.

You looked on as he spoke to the starry eyed worker. Two seconds later he looked smug as shit. 2 minutes later said worker appeared next to you.

“Dean said this is for you” he thrust a bag into your hands.

“He didn’t-“ Allie snorted.

Oh he absolutely did.

You pulled the jersey out the bag, 66 staring back at you and couldn’t help but blush. And then came the note.

Babydoll,

You’re a cutie all the time but if I see you in another man’s jersey I’ll do more then check him next time :) 66 is your number and you’ll be keeping it on for the rest of the night, including later.

I love you xx

Your skin heated.

You took Logan’s jersey off chucking it at Beau’s face, ignoring the muffle underneath it.

Dean skated back over to you watching as you slipped his over his head.

“Better” he mouthed, his eyes flared glancing down then back up and he pointed to his heart.

“Mine”

[sunbaby01]

Mine

Or when Dean denies being jealous and Beau tests that theory

Suggestive towards the end <3

It all stemmed from one single throwaway comment.

“God baby, we’re so lucky we’re not jealous people” Dean said scrolling past some couples TikTok.

Beau practically snorted as you chuckled to yourself.

“You’re one of the most jealous people I know” he pointed at him.

“That’s bullshit-“

“Dean, honey“ you placed a hand on his arm.

“What? It is!” He said in denial

“What about when someone did a heart on her coffee so you went to the next shop instead and bought the same drink, sans the heart?”

“Just had a feeling it would taste better”

Your eyes flicked between the pair.

“Okay, sure. So you weren’t jealous when that guy held the door open for her” Beau held a second finger up.

“He was staring at her ass” he retaliated.

“I don’t think he was baby” you spoke up, only to shut your mouth immediately and mime throwing away a key when Dean looked at you utterly betrayed.

“You tripped him up- fine. The TA called her sweetheart and you disrupted a whole lesson”

“That- okay, I have nothing for that one but that’s not the point” he sat forward.

“Face it Beau, I’m not a jealous person. A little protective? Sure. But jealous? You’re losing it” he ran a hand through his hair.

Beau hummed, “we’ll see”

—————————

You were getting ready for the game when a knock thundered on the door.

“Beau?” You asked as he let himself inside.

“I’m literally a genius. Like a literal genius. What’s it like knowing someone so smart?”

“Uhhh..scary?” you watched him hype himself up around your living area.

He dropped his bag onto the sofa and ripped open the zip pulling out a Hawks jersey.

“Thanks I guess? I’ve already got Dean’s ready but it’ll be good to have a spare-“

“No, no, no” Beau chuckled and turned it round.

Logan

22

“Beau” you warned.

“He’s not a jealous person right? So he’ll love to see you supporting one of his best friends” he threw the jersey at you.

“It’s literally just a number on a jersey” you held it up.

“Yes, and Dean is literally just a man. A man whose number you won’t be wearing” he said like it made perfect sense. In his head, it did.

“You’re going to break him” you sighed, jersey in hand.

“I know”

“He’s gonna snap”

“Hopefully”

“You’re an ass”

“Absolutely”

—————————

Considering the jersey was made of the exact same material, it felt wrong against your skin. Like it knew the numbers on your back were 22, not 66 like they should be.

You trailed behind Beau as you got to your seats, not first row but close enough to be seen.

“Oh no” Allie took one look at the jersey and smirked.

“Oh yes,” Beau honestly look thrilled. More excited to see Dean’s reaction than the actual game.

You just sighed.

Suddenly the cheers started and out came the team skating their laps. Dean stopped at the glass by your section tapping his stick ok the glass at you and flashing a wink. You smiled and blew him a kiss, he of course caught it dramatically.

But then Dean’s eyes scanned over you, squinting at the jersey as if something didn’t sit right.

No A, he noticed. Probably a shop error.

He shook it off, winked again and started to skate away till Beau’s voice cut through the crowd.

“LOGAN!! BIGGEST FAN OVER HERE” he shouted through cupped hands, then tugging you around to show the back of the jersey.

“Shit, Deanie doesn’t she look cute” Logan said, smirk in his voice.

Dean stopped, turned around and saw the bold unmissable 22 on your back.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Shit he was about two seconds away from climbing out the rink skates and all to take that off you.

Honestly, the only thing stopping him was the look on your face. You looked mortified.

Between your and Beau’s reactions he could tell whose bright idea it was - it clearly wasn’t you. He swallowed down the rage and skated to the team ready to start the game.

To you that was worse.

Quiet Dean was lethal Dean.

He thought he was doing quite well in the first and second period, sure he’d ended up in the penalty box and he’d checked Logan accidentally a few times but, it’s hockey, these things happen.

For once, Dean Di Laurentis was itching to get off the ice. As soon as the second period finished he practically flew off.

You looked on as he spoke to the starry eyed worker. Two seconds later he looked smug as shit. 2 minutes later said worker appeared next to you.

“Dean said this is for you” he thrust a bag into your hands.

“He didn’t-“ Allie snorted.

Oh he absolutely did.

You pulled the jersey out the bag, 66 staring back at you and couldn’t help but blush. And then came the note.

Babydoll,

You’re a cutie all the time but if I see you in another man’s jersey I’ll do more then check him next time :) 66 is your number and you’ll be keeping it on for the rest of the night, including later.

I love you xx

Your skin heated.

You took Logan’s jersey off chucking it at Beau’s face, ignoring the muffle underneath it.

Dean skated back over to you watching as you slipped his over his head.

“Better” he mouthed, his eyes flared glancing down then back up and he pointed to his heart.

“Mine”

[toxicgetou]

garrett x latina!reader

after you two start dating garrett’s performance improves 100%

even though tucker’s cooking is great, the boys still ate way too much processed food

like they genuinely did not understand how you did not consider a jelly sandwich a proper lunch

so after you banned him from replacing meals like that he learned how different the food from your country was

from breakfast to dinner, everything is different, flavorful and nutritious

he can train better and even his studying becomes more productive, and he actually starts getting excited to try every new dish

you were never a huge fan of cooking but you like doing it now mostly because garrett helps you and always washes every dish you use

logan, tucker and dean start asking to try it too and garrett may or may not get jealous

[harringtonsb1tch]

A.M.ature Mistakes | Garrett Graham x reader

Summary: you miss your boyfriend's championship game because of a little mix up. now you need to make it up.

warnings: mildly suggestive. not proofread.

divider by @uzmacchiato

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you exclaimed, hauling yourself out of bed. It's 8 PM. The championship game was supposed to start at 5 PM, and it usually only lasted 2 hours at most, so it was most definitely over by now. 

You reach for your phone, and your heart sinks. There are 17 missed calls from Garrett and 44 texts, all saying something along the lines of “Where are you?” “Baby??” “Hello?!” There were also multiple missed calls and texts from Allie, Hannah, and Dean, all asking where you were and when you’d get there.

Tears gather in your eyes as you quickly get up, putting on the first pair of jeans you saw with one of Garrett’s hoodies and sprinting out of the house. While driving there, you try your hardest not to freak out, but there was really no reasonable excuse for why you had missed the game. At 3 PM, you lie down for a nap and tell yourself you’ll sleep for one hour, then get ready and make your way over. Apparently, in your exhaustion, you had set your alarm for 4 AM instead of 4 PM and had ended up sleeping through the game. 

Ignoring all speed limits, you make your way to the stadium as soon as possible, and your heart plummets when you see that most of the cars are already gone. Rushing out, you head inside and find your way to the locker room. You cross a couple of guys from the team on the way out and avoid their gaze as much as possible, since you don't want to hear shit about not being there for your boyfriend if your absence is noticed. 

Inside, the locker room was empty, save for Garrett. He was seated on the bench, untying his skates when you walked in. He looked…sad and defeated. Your heart cracked in two. Maybe the game hadn’t gone well. 

“Baby…?” you whisper.

Garrett looks up then and rushes towards you, enveloping you in a hug. “God, thank God you’re okay,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “I got so scared that something happened to you.” 

You rub his back. “I’m okay, baby,” you reply. “I am so, so, so sorry for missing the game. How did it go?” 

He pulls back, still holding onto your hands. “We won,” he says with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

You furrow your brows. “Then why do you look so sad?” you ask softly. 

Garrett averts his gaze, looking down for a second before looking back up at you. “Because my girlfriend wasn’t there to see me play. I was so excited for you to be there,” he says quietly.

Your heart breaks. You squeeze his hands. “I am so sorry, baby.  I didn’t mean to miss the game,” you repeat apologetically. 

“So…” Garrett leads you to sit on the bench. “What happened?” his thumb runs over your knuckles since he could see the guilt on your face, your fear that he would be disappointed. 

You look down as you speak. “I was just so tired from my shift this morning that I lay down for a nap at 3 PM, and I set my alarm for an hour later, but I set it for 4 AM instead of 4 PM accidentally.” 

He looks at you incredulously. “So…you missed my championship game because you…slept through it?” 

You nod guiltily. You open your mouth to explain yourself more, but before you can get a word out, the unexpected happens: he laughs.

You look at him, shocked. 

“That’s the most you thing you’ve ever done,” he laughs. 

“Wait, so you’re not upset?” you question. 

“Of course, I am! My girlfriend slept through the most important game of the season!” 

“But then why are you laughing?” 

“Because it's just so ridiculous,” he splutters, regaining control finally as he stops laughing. 

He takes a few deep breaths to calm down, then looks at you as the apology rises to your lips once again. “I don’t want another apology, baby,” Garrett says before you can say anything. 

“But I feel bad,” you reply. 

“You can make it up to me.”

“How?” you ask immediately. 

He smirks suggestively, and you swat his chest. “Graham!” you chastise, and he laughs at the deep red flush of your cheeks. 

“What?” he questions innocently. “I did just win a whole season. Don’t I deserve a little something from my girl?” 

You roll your eyes but lean in. “You’re ridiculous, captain,” you murmur against his lips before leaning in. You cup his jaw and kiss him deeply.

His arms wrap around your waist as he pulls you onto his lap, your thighs settling on either side of his. His hands rest on your thighs, rubbing up and down as he kisses you back, slipping his tongue past your lips. His mouth claims yours in a heated kiss as his large hands squeeze your thighs. Eventually, the two of you pull away from the kiss for a lack of breath, but you don’t stop kissing him, instead pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, forehead, nose, chin, and jaw, each one like a little loving apology being pressed into his skin. 

Garrett closes his eyes as he savours your affection, one hand coming to rest at your waist now as the other comes to cup the back of your head, almost guiding you to where he wants your kisses. You end with a final kiss to his lips before you rest your forehead against his. 

“Have I made up to you, captain?” you whisper.

He smiles cheekily. “I think I’m gonna need your lips somewhere else to be fully forgiven, angel.” 

[aisatsaa]

Waiting for Tenzin

[toxicgetou]

tumblr writers I AM BEGGING

in the books garrett basically creates a “rule” on campus that nobody can hook up with hannah, the context was changed in the show but it is still SO delicious to me

I AM BEGGING for someone to write this, preferably with all the boys involved because i want to feel the tension of the reader finding out and him not being sorry at all