𝙴𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚢 𝚂𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝙶𝚊𝚜 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 ❀
𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓃 𝒟𝒾 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓈⁶⁶ 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇
8.4K words
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
Three minutes later it buzzed again.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Babydoll?”
Silence.
“Honey?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Dean.”
“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I've always cared about you—”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”
A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Dean—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”
His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”
He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
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