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[reidsmemory]

the lakes

bradley bradshaw x fem!reader

summary: discussing summer break plans with the squad, you find out bradley doesn't have anything to look forward to. what's better than inviting your long-time crush to meet your family?

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, thigh riding, she falls first & he falls harder (yes God), no use of y/n

word count: 16.1k

a/n: if you get my 80s movie reference, i'll give you a big smooch!! sorry this took so long, but happy to have finished it. let me know what you think!

masterlist

your call sign: baby

When Maverick sat you all down a month ago to tell you that you had a whole week to spend however you'd like, you thought he was joking. After a few moments of silence, he laughed at your stunned faces and handed out the PTO forms.

"I know how hard you all have been working. I pushed for this. Even the top aviators in the world need a week off once in a while," he had said, arms crossed against his chest.

Hangman was the first to break the silence. "You're tellin' me Uncle Sam is just lettin' me disappear for a week?"

"Within reason," Maverick answered.

"Texas, here I come!"

"Please stay there," Phoenix muttered.

The room erupted into overlapping conversations after that.

As you walked out to the parking lot, you called your mom to tell her the good news. It seemed like the rest of the squad had the same idea, phones buzzing and held up to their ears as you left the base that night.

Phoenix was talking to her sister before she even reached her car; you could tell by how much she was rolling her eyes and laughing, all at the same time. Bob was smiling at something his mom said through the speaker of his phone, the boyish smile only really appearing when someone called him Bobby, and only his mom called him that. Fanboy was surely talking to his cousins, pointing into the air and gesturing faster than the words could form on his tongue. He once told you that they knew exactly how to push his buttons.

You laughed as your mom answered on the second ring. Then you asked if the family would be at the lake this year. You could hear the excitement in her voice as you told her the good news.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Bradley unlock his Bronco. No phone. No call. He climbed inside, rested both hands on the steering wheel for a second, then drove away.

Bradley Bradshaw hadn't been what you expected. Of course you had heard stories about him before arriving at TOPGUN. His past, his family, the tragedy surrounding them. But you also heard about the man he had become, someone people revered and counted on. You'd expected someone larger than life.

Instead, you'd met a man who smiled easily and carried grief so quietly that most people never noticed it.

While you had worked with Bob and Coyote before, you had never had to endure the wrath of Jake Seresin. It took all of five minutes for him to sink his claws into you.

"Baby?" he asked that first night at the Hard Deck, barely letting you finish introducing yourself.

"That's right," you replied, eyes narrowed, trying to see where he was going with this.

"Huh," he scratched the back of his neck. "It's just a little odd."

"Everyone calls me Baby. I don't really mind," you shruged, almost challenging the pilot to keep speaking, to say something he might regret.

"I don't know," Jake bit back, smile on his face growing and growing.

"You can call me Lieutenant, too. Your choice."

Bradley watched the interaction from a few feet away and instantly knew two things. One, Hangman was going to get punched if he wasn't careful. And two, he liked you. Liked the way you didn't back down.

From there, Jake had barked out a laugh, but moved on to his next target. Bradley watched as your shoulders relaxed. You sent a small smile over to Bob, joining him and nudging his shoulder as the two of you began talking.

Bradley liked the way you didn't shy away from Jake's challenge. But what struck him more was when he overheard you ask Bob about his mother, a detail about a knee surgery, and a solemn look on your face. Bob blinked.

"I can't believe you remembered that. It's been months!"

"It's your family," you shrugged like it was nothing but everything at the same time, and Bob just smiled.

"I'm gonna go grab another soda, want anything?" he asked, dusting off the peanut crumbs from his slack, but you just shook your head.

Observing the group, you locked eyes with the famed aviator. Sending him a small smile, Bradley couldn't help but wander over, beer bottle at his side, completely forgotten.

"You and Bob know each other?" he opened and you nodded.

"Worked with him for a few months earlier this year. Kind guy. Great WSO," you told him honestly.

Most pilots would've led with a great WSO. You'd led with kind. It caught him a little off guard.

"You pay attention to the little things, huh?" he questioned, although the smile on your face told him he already knew the answer.

"People like being remembered," you shrugged with a small smile.

That hit Bradley harder than he expected. You could tell by the way he swallowed, like he was trying to comprehend your words.

Over the next few weeks of training, Bradley started noticing things too.

How you never let Coyote refill his own coffee if you were already headed toward the pot. How you celebrated people, bringing in homemade cupcakes for Payback's birthday despite knowing him for less than a month. How you stayed late to help the engineers and crew members fold up tarps, even after days where Maverick pushed everyone to their limits. You always seemed to have more to give.

But the moment he stopped thinking of you as simply kind came after one particularly brutal day of training.

Hangman had taken one shot too many at Maverick. Bringing up his own father was the last straw.

Bradley hadn't trusted himself to stay on base much longer after that, leaving to get in his car before anyone could stop him. He sat with the engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles hurt.

A knock against the driver's window startled him.

You stood outside, hands shoved into the pockets of your pants. "Can I sit with you?"

He'd almost lied. The words I'm fine on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he'd unlocked the passenger door.

It was no wonder you noticed him spacing out right now, tapping his thigh lightly and sending a glance towards the WSO across the table.

"What about you, Rooster? Where are you going this week?" Bob asks in between bites of his sandwich.

But Bradley just shakes his head dismissively. From the corner of his eye he sees the way your head whips in his direction.

"Just gonna catch up on laundry. Have an oil change, too," he gives the excuse lamely, hoping everyone will skim over his words.

Of course, the squad erupts at this.

"Laundry?" Jake questions, brows quirked like he's trying to determine if the man is joking or not.

"You can't just stay here for the week," Phoenix voices now. "It's not even supposed to be sunny."

"I'm watching a new T.V. show. It'll give me time to do that."

"Rooster, you can't be serious," Reuben says, disbelief on his face.

"Come home with me. My parents love having guests. The rodeo's this week, too!" Bob offers, opening a whole can of worms.

Bradley wants to crawl into his own skin as his teammates offer their places for the break.

"I mean Texas might be big enough for the both of us," Jake says in an exaggerated southern accent that makes the table groan as he laughs.

"My sister and I are going to a music festival," Phoenix joins in. "It'd be nice to have a tall guy when weaving through the crowds."

"You guys, I'm perfectly fine staying home for a week. I'm serious. I've got a lot I'm going to do." Bradley put his hands up defensively, laughter in his voice.

"You could come with me to my family's lake house." Your voice is a little quieter than the squad is used to.

Ignoring the pointed look that Phoenix sends your way, you continue.

"It's like my entire family. We all get together one week during the summer; it's like a whole thing. You'll love it," you tell him.

When Bradley doesn't immediately dismiss you, Jake chimes in, "I think we have a winner, ladies and gentlemen."

As the squad goes back to discussing their travel plans, Bradley turns to you. "Are you sure? Wouldn't I be intruding?"

"No, no! Not at all," you wave your hands around frantically, making the man laugh a bit. "So many people are coming. And my family knows all about you."

"Me?" Bradley asks, hand coming up to point at his own chest.

From your other side, you hear Phoenix choke on her food.

"I mean everyone, y'know! The squad. I talk about it constantly. You guys," you try to not grimace as the words come out, and you swear Nat whispers smooth as you breathe out your explanation.

"Oh," Bradley says, almost disappointed at your clarification. "You're sure?"

You hum, "I'm sure."

જ⁀➴

Arriving back at your apartment, you all but flop onto the couch as Nat cackles from behind you.

"What am I going to do?" Your voice is muffled from its place in the smashed pillow.

"Baby, I have no idea," she laughs, sitting next to your slack form.

"I'm an idiot. An actual idiot," you lament, sitting up just so you can put your head in your hands.

"My family knows all about you!" Nat mimics as you groan loudly, slumping down onto the floor now.

"Kill me, just please, kill me now," you mutter.

Once her laughter subsides, Nat looks at your disheveled form. "Hey, maybe this is your chance."

You shoot her a look, fury and embarrassment in your eyes.

"Nat."

"I'm serious! This could be it," she tells you, grabbing the remote to pick out a movie.

"He doesn't like me like that. We're friends," you reason, hands digging further and further into your hair, creating a curtain around your face. It's optimal right now, wanting to hide from the world and all.

"Sure," Nat scoffs, kicking her feet up on the coffee table.

"Can you imagine how awkward the flight home would be? I'd have to drive back to California. I'd have to quit, too. Dishonorable discharge. Unable to keep it in my pants on my official record forever," you wonder out loud as your best friend just rolls her eyes behind you.

"Pretty sure Maverick already knows, so it might be there already."

"Not funny," you whack her thigh, making her cackle once more.

Had Maverick really seen you giving his Godson heart eyes? The thought alone is mortifying enough to have you fully lie down on the carpet.

"I wasn't trying to make a move," you explain. "He just didn't have anywhere to go. And that sad puppy look he gets was just so lethal."

"Barf," Phoenix says simply as your hands go up to your heart at the thought of Bradley's sweet, sad face.

"Like laundry? And an oil change?" you continue.

"Baby."

"It was depressing. I could tell he was just okay with it."

"Baby."

"I just couldn't let him," you whisper and the woman besides you gets quiet.

"I know."

You stew for a few minutes more, Nat kind enough to let you have some silence to collect your thoughts.

"Don't think so much," she finally says, pressing play on the movie.

"Do you know who you're talking to?" you ask, hands now covering your face.

Nat sighs, moving down onto the floor with you. "Just take it a day at a time. You'll be okay. Rooster will be okay."

"What if he doesn't like them?"

She just looks at you, lips pressed tightly together.

"What if it's too much?"

"You're not too much," she sees through you instantly, and all you can do is nod.

જ⁀➴

It's only been thirty minutes in the air, but you're already out like a light next to him. The sight of you slumped up against his shoulder almost makes him laugh. If it wouldn't disrupt your sleep, his phone would be out snapping a picture and sending it into the shared group chat.

Bradley still can't believe he's on this flight. On his way to meet your family.

Everyone else's offers seemed like they were out of pity. But when you spoke up, Bradley couldn't deny you.

It was beginning to become a sort of pattern.

From that night you knocked on his car window, Bradley was metaphorically opening up the passenger door to his life for you. You were so in tune with his emotions after that point, always looking out for him in ways that he'd never experienced

In moments that he thinks no one else is paying attention, you're there. It's blink, and you miss it, but somehow you always seem to catch on to whatever's going on in his head. They weren't big gestures, tiny even. The kind most people would've forgotten about within a few hours.

Bradley remembered every single one.

Tasked with grabbing drinks for the squad on your regularly scheduled Thursday pool night, you and Bradley were sitting up at the bar, waiting for Penny to finish the order.

Somewhere in the corner, Fanboy was already losing a game of darts despite insisting he was getting better. Jake argued with Coyote over something football-related while Phoenix rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. And Bob was documenting the whole thing, phone camera capturing pictures of the night, no doubt for a digital scrapbook he was putting together.

A group of men sat down at the bar a few stools down from you, and you really didn't think much of them at first. But then you heard it.

"So that's Maverick's kid, right?"

"Nah," another man answered. "Goose's."

"Oh."

A few seconds of silence fell over them.

"Damn."

Then there was a laugh.

"I heard his mom had a thing for aviators."

The group snickered.

One even muttered, "Didn't work out so well."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't shouted across the room. Most people probably didn't even hear it over the music.

But you watched Bradley's shoulders go perfectly still.

The smile disappeared from his face so quickly it almost looked like someone had reached over and wiped it away.

He excused himself with some mumbled comment you couldn't hear and started toward the back hallway.

You were already standing before you'd consciously decided to move.

"We'll be right back," you told Penny, eyes trailing after the man as she just hummed and sent you a knowing look.

By the time you reached the hallway, Bradley was leaning against the wall outside the restrooms, both hands pressed against his hips, staring at the floor. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

"You okay?" you asked softly.

He was already shaking his head. "I'm fine."

You hummed like you didn't believe him. After a second, you leaned against the wall beside him, leaving a comfortable few feet between you.

Silence settled between you. Music leaked through the walls in muffled thumps. Laughter was faint in the background, so far away from you now. The air was still, settling between the two of you.

"I hate saying that," he admitted quietly.

"Saying what?" You tilted your head at this.

"'I'm fine.'"

You looked over at him fully now. "So why'd you say it?"

He laughed once through his nose. "Because it's easier."

You nodded but didn't say anything, just let him sit in whatever he was feeling.

Another minute passed before he finally spoke again.

"They didn't even know her." His voice cracked on the last word.

Your chest tightened at this. His face was twisted now, jaw clenched and hands cracking his knuckles.

Without thinking, you reached over and rested your hand lightly against his arm, rubbing small circles into the warm skin with barely any pressure.

He closed his eyes.

"I just..." he swallowed. "I don't even remember her voice anymore."

The confession came so quietly you almost missed it. You didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything to say. So you stayed.

When Bradley finally opened his eyes again, he found you exactly where you'd been a minute before.

Waiting. Not pushing. Just waiting for him.

Without making it a big deal, you opened your arms. For a moment, he was too upset to understand what was going on, but with a look down at your face, he couldn't deny you any longer.

Almost falling into your grasp, his head bent down to the crook of your neck. He felt your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders as his went to snake around your waist. He waited for you to let go, to loosen your grip. But if anything, as the moments passed by, your hands only became more planted on his broad back.

Your head slips from its place on your palm, momentarily waking you up. The movement startles Bradley out of his trance. He goes to look at you, and sure enough, you've curled up into your seat, head leaning on your other palm. Your cheek is more smooshed now, and Bradley can't help but think about how adorable you look in this moment.

It makes him remember all the late-night conversations the squad has when at sea, trying to stay awake in the early hours of the night.

Everyone's laughing, somehow the conversation drifting from embarrassing callsigns to childhood stories.

"I swear after the third stall, my dad yanked me out of the driver's seat," Fanboy recalled, almost spilling his water as he doubled over.

"My granddad taught me. Old ranch truck. Thing didn't even have doors." Jake barked out a laugh at the memory.

"Explains a lot," Nat snorted, sending a look his way.

"It builds character!" he defended, which got a loud laugh from everyone.

Bob smiled to himself before he started, "My mom wouldn't let me leave the church parking lot for like… three months."

"Church parking lot?" Coyote laughed. "Those things are always empty!"

"It was not empty," Bob defended. "Mrs. Henderson was there every Tuesday."

"So your first driving lesson was dodging eighty-year-olds?" Jake questioned, grin growing on his face.

"It was one eighty-year-old."

With that, the group is sent into another fit of laughter.

Innocently, Bob turned towards Bradley. "What about you, Rooster? Who taught you?"

His smile faltered. Just for a second. "My…" he started. The word caught in his throat.

You watched his jaw tighten. Watched him search for an answer that wouldn't invite more questions.

Before anyone could notice the pause, you leaned forward onto your elbows. "Okay, bigger debate."

Everyone looked your way.

"What's the worst car you've ever driven?"

Jake immediately pointed at Coyote, snapping his fingers. "The rust bucket."

"Oh absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes," the blonde sassed back.

Coyote looked personally offended. "It had personality."

"It had tetanus."

The conversation exploded all over again. Fanboy insisted his cousin's minivan counted. Phoenix claimed her first car's air conditioning only worked if she turned left.

Within seconds, no one remembered they'd asked Bradley a question.

Under the table, you rested your hand lightly against his thigh. Not squeezing or rubbing his leg. Just placed there enough to say, I know.

He looked over.

You were already laughing at something Bob had said, your hand gone as quickly as it had appeared.

No one else had noticed. You hadn't embarrassed him. You hadn't pitied him. You had simply given him an exit.

He wasn't sure how you always seemed to remember things either. The important things, that is. Birthdays, breakfast orders, favorite songs. Apparently not phone chargers, though.

Your phone is currently plugged into the seat with his charger. You smacked your forehead after rumaging through your backpack for a few minutes. Bradley just wordlessly handed you his as you sent him a sheepish smile.

Now his thumbs rub absentminded circles on the charging cord as he recalls a message you had sent him earlier this summer.

The squad had scattered for the weekend, each of them heading in different directions for the holiday. Bradley had spent the morning pretending it was just another Sunday, ignoring the date every time it flashed across his phone.

After a run and a shower, he'd wandered back into his apartment with a towel slung around his shoulders.

Picking up his phone, the notification center lit up as he tapped the screen to life.

1 Missed Call.

Baby.

A voicemail notification sat beneath it.

Bradley frowned. You rarely left voicemails, maybe the occasional unhinged and winded voice memo or badly typed out Siri text, but never really voicemails.

He pressed play.

"Hey!" Your voice crackled through the speaker, bright enough that he could picture the smile on your face. The mere thought made him grin. "Just calling to see how you are."

A pause came after, and he felt his face fall a bit.

"I know today can be… kind of weird."

He leaned his hip against the counter, towel forgotten. His sole focus now on your voice.

"I was just thinking about you."

Another small pause.

"And about your dad."

Bradley closed his eyes.

"I think he'd be really proud of you."

Your voice softened.

"I know I'm just stating the obvious, but… you can always talk to me about anything." A quiet laugh escaped you. "Or not talk. We can watch movies or complain about training or whatever you need."

Another beat.

"I'm proud of you too."

The message ended with a soft, "Okay… bye, Bradley."

Silence filled the apartment.

Bradley didn't move. After a long moment, he looked down at his phone. Then, without thinking, he pressed play again.

જ⁀➴

Day One

Lush green trees surrounded you both as you pulled up to the lake house. You had gotten Bradley to admit he had never been out to this part of the country before, but part of you already knew when his eyes went wide while driving down the roads of the small town.

The afternoon sun filters through the branches in scattering patches of gold. A wraparound porch overlooks the water; it glitters against the beating rays. Wind chimes sway lazily beside the front door, little potted plants scattered around the wooden planks. And somewhere farther down the shoreline, children shriek with laughter.

Bradley finds himself mesmerized. "Wow," he murmurs.

You smiled to yourself. "Told you."

Before he even gets the chance to cut the engine, the front door swings open, and a man is barreling down the driveway. You hop out of the passenger seat as Bradley puts the car in park, laughing a bit as you skip up to him.

Hesitantly, Bradley opens his own door and goes up to the pair of you.

"You must be Bradley," the man offers his hand out and Bradley smiles and grips it.

"Yes, sir."

He introduces himself as your dad. "Glad you could make it. Heard a lot about you."

"Dad." You slap his shoulder, shooting him a death glare that makes Bradley smile.

"Oh yeah?" Bradley grins, looking at you.

"Yes. Baby can't seem to shut up when it comes to you." The last few words are muddled with laughter as you push your father once more.

"Dad!" you repeat as Bradley almost chokes at the man's admission, suddenly feeling a bit nervous himself.

"What?" he says, offering you a clueless look, but Bradley can tell you don't buy it as you pinch his shoulder.

Bradley laughs as you yelp, your dad's hands going to tickle at your sides in retaliation. He had no idea you were ticklish.

"Oh, stop torturing the poor girl!" a woman, Bradley assumes your mom, calls out from the front porch.

Your head whips in her direction, and you take off to give her a bone-crushing hug.

"She's not going to want to spend her vacations with us anymore if you keep that up," your mom says, sending your dad a playful look as you nod alongside her. Bradley can't help but smile as he watches the dynamic play out in real time.

Your dad just rolls his eyes and turns to Bradley, "Come on, Brad, got some food on the stove for you two."

Bradley nods and follows your dad up the stairs to the porch. He smiles at you, raising his brows, a teasing look on his face. You smile too, but slap against his chest, turning from him quickly.

"Oh Lord, woman! What did I tell you about watching the toaster," you dad admonishes as you step into the house and the smell of smoke lingers in the air.

"My baby's here. I don't give a shit about the toaster," your mom explains as Bradley's eyes almost burst out of his head at her swearing.

"Well, you should! We're going to run out of buns," you dad shoots back, going to fan the smoke out of the house with a dish towel.

"Oh well fuck me, the buns!" she swears again, and Bradley sends you a look. It wasn't like he hadn't ever heard a curse word before, of course not. But seeing your mom swear like a sailor has him a little caught off guard. You don't blink at the interaction, telling Bradley that this must be a normal occurrence.

"Alexis, play my boat playlist!" your dad shouts out, moving on from the conversation entirely.

"Alexa, Dad," you say flatly as your dad snaps a finger at you.

"That's right. Alexa, play my boat playlist."

You and Bradley share a look that doesn't go unnoticed.

"Oh please, you two. Alexis, Alexa. Same thing," your dad sasses as Steely Dan begins to play through the small speaker.

"We didn't say anything!" you laugh, leaning into Bradley's space a bit more.

"Bradley, don't tell me she's corrupted you 5 minutes into the week ahead," your dad jokes as you scoff.

Bradley bites the inside of his cheek at the exchange, trying not to laugh.

"Of course he's corrupted, spends just about every day with Baby," your mom reasons.

"Oh great, another Baby. Just what we need," your dad tisks, throwing a grape in your direction.

You dodge the small fruit, pressing into Bradley's side now. "Really feeling the love, you guys," you tell them as they laugh.

"Oh, this is the best part." Your dad drops his phone and clips his sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt, moving across the kitchen to grab your mom's hand.

They begin to dance in front of you both, and Bradley knows he's grinning like an idiot now. He looks to his side, and you're already rolling your eyes at the sight, but a small smile tells him this must have been a regular occurrence for you growing up.

He's always wondered about your upbringing, knowing the silliness and kindness must have come from some sort of example. As he sits with you, watching your parents tease each other and you back and forth, he starts to understand.

જ⁀➴

"Alright, Bradley and Baby are in the basement. Huh, look at that triple B," your uncle says, laughing to himself a bit.

The family is gathered in the living room, little cousins sprawled out on the large couch and your aunts and uncles leaning up against the wooden walls of the cabin, all waiting to hear about room assignments for the week.

"The basement?" you question, almost everyone looking to you.

"Yes, little miss," your uncle confirms.

"But there's only one bed in the basement," you explain back, heart thumping wildly at the thought of sharing a bed with Bradley.

"It's either that or a sleeping bag on the floor," your uncle tells you as some of your family members laugh a bit at the look on your face.

"Mom," you plead, turning to the woman, but she just shrugs.

"Baby, it's okay," Bradley whispers to you, bending down close enough so you can feel the heat of his breath.

"Are you sure?" you say quietly, cringing at the thought of making him uncomfortable. But he just nods and gives your uncle a thumbs up, allowing him to move on to the next room.

Bradley catches your mom's eye as you turn back to your uncle, a small wink sent his way. He feels his ears burn as he looks away quickly.

Once the family is dismissed, Bradley gathers your bags from the car, not letting you help, and instead tells you to just lead the way to the room as he balances them in his hands.

The door squeaks open as you push it open, and it's exactly what Bradley expects. Soft blue bedding that had looked like it had been washed a hundred times, worn in the best way. A deep cherry red rug on the hardwood floor, patterned and rustic. And small little lamps and candles scattered across the room, setting a certain ambience. Framed family photos lined the dresser, the oldest sun-bleached from years spent near the window.

At the far end of the room was a sliding glass door, leading out to the lake. Bradley could see the moonbeams reflecting off the water, painting a beautiful picture.

"It's nice," he breathes out, placing the bags down.

You nod at his words, "Yeah."

Without another word, you begin to unpack, getting on your knees and unzipping your bag. Bradley joins you, a steady presence at your side.

Grabbing a pair of pajamas and your toiletry bag, you make your way into the ensuite to shower. Bradley insists you go first as he settles into the space.

As he sits on the bed, listening to the pitter-patter of the water flowing from the bathroom, he smiles to himself. He feels like he fits right into your family, from your dad's jokes this afternoon to your mom's teasing looks; Bradley's never quite felt this at home with people he's just met.

Your dad had told him about the elaborate plans for the week, handing him a beer as they walked around the property. Almost nightly barbecues, paddle boarding on the lake, the annual fishing trip. He had clapped Bradley on the back as he laid out the plans, a welcoming invitation.

After Bradley showers, he settles into the free space on the bed next to you. The only light in the room is coming through the almost see-through curtains by the glass door.

"Is it okay so far?" you whisper into the darkness of the room.

Bradley can make out the slope of your nose and the flutter of your lashes, though, staring at you as you lie side by side.

"More than okay," he speaks honestly, voice small, mimicking your softness.

"If it gets to be too much, you can tell me, and we'll leave early," you tell him, your voice a little shakier than before.

Bradley's eyebrows furrow at this, sensing a bit of insecurity in your words, something he's a bit unfamiliar with when it comes to you.

"Hey," his tone is warm, but firm, like there's no room for argument. "I'm having a really good time."

You nod, hair swishing against the pillow, but Bradley can still see how tense you are, even in minimal lighting.

"And miss out on all the embarrassing childhood stories? No way," Bradley lightens the mood as you giggle a little bit. His shoulders drop in relief at the noise.

"Okay, but you can't tell the rest of the squad. I'm swearing you to secrecy," you joke, relaxing into the bed as you talk with him.

"Okay," he laughs lightly, glad the edge in your voice is long gone.

"And don't let my uncles scare you. They'll try to tease you, but just bring up how they managed to set the grill on fire a few summers ago," you tell him, like you're giving him an expert's opinion.

"They what?" he laughs as you giggle once more, starting to tell the story.

Bradley looks at you as you speak, face flush against the pillow, making your cheeks look soft and round. Your eyes blink longer and longer as the minutes pass. And finally, your voice begins to trail off into mumbles as your body relaxes into the mattress.

"Goodnight, Baby," he whispers to himself, knowing you're too deep in your sleep to hear him.

The combination of your breath and the small waves outside the glass door let him follow you quickly.

જ⁀➴

Day Two

Bradley didn't know that breakfast could be so chaotic. More so than the lunch or dinner they had last night. He stands near the kitchen island, two plates in his hands, as your cousins weave through the adults to stuff as much bacon as they can onto their plates. The coffee pot that had just beeped two minutes ago was now empty, people grumbling about not getting their cup filled.

Still, he moves with intention, making sure to grab some strawberries before they all disappear, putting them on top of your pancakes.

Walking out to the deck, he sets the plate down in front of you.

Looking up at him, he just smiles as you nurse your full mug.

Before you can even say anything, voices cut through the silence.

"Oooh," your younger cousins tease, some of them making kissy faces in your direction. You promptly snatch a piece of bacon off one of their plates, turning the teasing calls into whines of protest.

The scene makes Bradley laugh as he sits down next to you.

"Is Baby really a good pilot?" one of the young boys asks, eyes starring right at Bradley who hadn't even taken a bite of his food yet.

"Yeah cause she always has those badges, but I think they're fake," another says, starting a chorus of laughter from the kids.

"I'm gonna take another piece," you threaten, hand already outstretched to grab more bacon, but the boy shields his plate defensively.

"She's the best pilot I know," Bradley speaks, commanding the attention of the boys.

One of them shoots him a look. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms, missing the way you watch him, all his attention on the kids across from you. "She's smart, fast too. She always looks out for her team, which is the most important thing."

"Baby smart?" another teases as you scoff, making them all laugh.

"The smartest," Bradley confirms. "She's saved my butt one too many times. Like the time we were flying in the Swiss mountains, I almost crashed because a flock of birds came my way, but she sped up ahead of me and scared them off with a flare."

"Really?" The question is more honest now, genuine curiosity at his words.

"Yep. Has she ever told you about the time we were flying over the Red Sea?" he asks as they all shake their heads. You watch with fondness as Bradley recalls the event, your cousins jaws dropping as they look at him.

Seeing him interact with them like this makes something in you ache. You'd never seen Bradley with kids before, but it seems like second nature to him. All of them hang off his every word; his storytelling is a little exaggerated, but still mostly true.

When he looks to you for confirmation of the account, you blink. Not sure what you're really supposed to say; his words drowned out a few minutes ago as you honed in on the easy smile he wore as he spoke and the veins across his arms as he moved them during the story.

Shooting up, you grab your still full cup. "Um, gonna get more coffee."

He sends you a look, but you've already booked it into the house.

The sound of laughter draws him back to the table, eyes tearing away from your frame, still clad in the sweet pajamas from last night that admittedly drove him a little crazy when he first saw them.

"She has the biggest crush on you," one of them tells him through laughter, a few of the girls shushing him.

"What?" Bradley asks, his heart leaping at the words. Sure, he had suspected something; you weren't the most subtle person, but hearing it out loud was entirely different.

He had confided in Jake before the trip about his suspicions.

"Baby?" the blonde questions, beer sweating in his hand.

"I don't know, man. I just shake the feeling," Bradley says in between sips.

"Took you long enough," Jake mutters as Bradley's eyes go wide.

He sits upright in the barstool, no relaxation in his posture at the revelation. "What do you mean? She likes me?"

Jake laughs at this. "You sound like a middle schooler," he says, wiping away the tears in his eyes.

"So you think, or you know?" Bradley asks for confirmation.

Jake puts the beer down, still laughing a bit. "Look, man, it's no secret Baby's got feelings for you. Just like everyone else can tell you like her, too."

"What?" Bradley almost stumbles from his seat at this.

"Oh, come on," Jake sighs. "Don't try lying to me now. I see the way you look at her during movie nights. That shoulder move last week was nice."

"Shoulder move?"

Jake just looks at him with a blank expression. But as the silence stretches between them, the blonde's face contorts into one of mischief.

"Wait, you seriously didn't realize you like her?"

Bradley feels like he's handcuffed to the table now at the turn of this conversation. "I mean, of course I care about her."

"But not how you care about Phoenix," Jake offers, helping him along.

"I guess not, no. I just thought," he takes another swig of his beer, wishing it was something stronger now. "I thought it was just her, y'know? Like she makes everyone feel like that?"

"Like what?" Jake asks now, genuinely curious.

"Like," he tenses, trying to find the words. "Like, they're going a little crazy at how sweet she is."

"Just a little crazy?" Jake teases, with a knowing smirk on his lips.

"C'mon, man, you know what I mean."

"Sorry, Rooster. I really don't."

Before he can become too absorbed in the memory, one of the girls chimes in.

"Whatever, he knows her breakfast order." The similar chorus of ooohs returns, and Bradley laughs, thinking of Jake's words now.

"Oh gosh, he likes her too!" one of the boys exclaims, throwing them all into a fit of kissing noises again.

By now, some of your aunts and uncles have made their way out onto the porch. He looks to them for help, but they all laugh at each other as he tries to get the kids to quiet down before you come back out.

જ⁀➴

The sun is at its peak, meaning it's finally time to swim.

Bradley walks out of the house in swim trunks, sandals on his feet as he tracks along the shoreline. His eyes search the family and immediately land on you.

Bent over, you're helping one of your baby cousins into her floaties. First, the giggles you share capture his attention. Next is your bikini.

Gingham - he recalls the pattern's name from a craft night you hosted a few months back - white and dark green. The strings tied against your shoulders have Bradley licking his lips slightly, suddenly parched.

Sure, he'd seen you in a sports bra and shorts before, your uniform for beach football. But this was something else.

Your baby cousin spots him, pointing a chubby finger in his direction. Turning your head, you beckon him over, and he quickly rids his mind of lewd thoughts.

"Bradley, can you paddle board with me?" she asks, voice shy and eyes not quite meeting his.

You hold a hand up to your chest in mock hurt. "Wow. Bradley shows up, and suddenly I'm chopped liver?"

She hides her face in her hands as you tickle her sides.

"Come on, before she gets me too," Bradley tells the young girl, stretching out a hand.

You shake your head as they walk off, Bradley looking over his shoulder at you, mouthing 'sorry' with an insincere expression.

With a paddle in hand, Bradley makes sure your baby cousin is situated on the board. Following your dad as he paddles down a part of the lake, he takes in his surroundings.

It's hot, the sun beating down on him, but the rays feel like a kiss on his skin, searing in the best way. He can't remember the last time he did something like this.

The water is cool when it splashes on his skin. Droplets run down his hands and arms as he paddles.

Birds chirp, creating a peaceful feeling. He swears he can hear the buzz of cicadas too, but isn't quite sure if they'd be out now.

"Sit down!" your voice rings out, getting his and many other family members' attention.

Paired up with one of your pre-teen cousins, the look on your face makes Bradley laugh. He hadn't gotten the chance to talk to the kid yet, as the young boy was throwing around a football on the lake line almost all of yesterday.

"What's going on?" the little girl speaks up, looking to Bradley as he watches the scene unfold.

"Looks like he's giving Baby a hard time," Bradley answers, pointing towards your paddle board. The boy is now rocking the board slightly as you grip the sides.

The rest of the family pauses as the two of you bicker back and forth, smiles on their faces at the antics.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asks smugly, rocking the board harder.

The look on your face is familiar to Bradley. He tries to remember where he's seen it before, recalling memory after memory of you.

But the tick in your jaw sparks in his mind; you'd only gotten this way when Jake had challenged you to a drinking game, saying you were probably one of those girls who couldn't hold their alcohol.

You had outdrank him and then some, victoriously singing karaoke at the Hard Deck while Jake vomited in the bathroom down the hall. While it had been a win, you were giggly and floppy for the rest of the night, hanging off Bradley and laughing at just about anything he said.

Suddenly, you handed your paddle to your uncle before bounding up and making your way to tackle the boy into the water.

Bradley could see your hands wrapped protectively behind the boy's head and back as you launched into the blue water. Laughter was ringing out from the family as you emerged, the boy gasping for air, not quite believing what had just happened.

Not letting you off the hook so easily, the boy splashed you viciously as you shrieked.

Soon, your other cousins were jumping in the water and joining in, the girl immediately going to your side and the boys teaming up with each other.

Sneaking off to the board, your cousin gets back on and begins splashing you with the paddle, sending waves of water to your face.

Bradley watches as you duck into the water. He can barely make out your figure in the deep blue, but spots you as you swim closer to him.

Whipping your hair out of your face, you place your hands on the edge of his board, looking up at him. His breath stops at the sight of the water droplets that have collected on your collarbones and the way your eyes plead from this position.

"Help me," you urge, pointing to his paddle.

Water drips from your eyelashes as you stare at the man. Something constricts in his chest at the sight.

Bradley looks to the young girl next to him. "What do you think?"

She takes a minute, looking at you as you send her a pout.

"Okay," she speaks, making you cheer and turn back to Bradley, who has already begun to paddle towards the pre-teen.

Making grabbing hands at her, your cousin plops into the water next to you, not wanting to get caught in the splashing war.

Soon he's splashing your cousin back, leading to protests from the young boys.

"Bradley, you're supposed to be on our team!"

"Traitor!"

"Baby's got him wrapped around her finger!"

Bradley opens his mouth to defend himself before giving up with a laugh.

You smile as the boys make their way over to the board, shaking it and sending Bradley off balance. A second later, he's slipping and toppling into the water as the boys cheer.

As he comes up, he shakes the water from his hair and looks in your direction.

You're a few feet away now, finally safe from the splashing. Your head is tipped back toward the sun, laughter spilling from you without restraint.

Bradley had seen beautiful women before, but he'd never seen anyone who looked so completely alive, like they loved everything around them.

That love seemed to spill out of you, catching on everyone nearby. Your cousins laughed because you laughed. Your uncles grinned as they watched the chaos unfold. Even your dad had abandoned his paddle just to shake his head with a smile.

He'd seen pieces of that warmth before, with the squad, at the Hard Deck, during long days at base, but here, surrounded by the people who had raised you, he finally understood where it came from.

જ⁀➴

Chopping up carrot sticks and celery, you try not to be distracted by the situation playing out in front of you.

Bradley, all 6'1 of him, is hunched over beads and strings on the living room carpet, surrounded by your cousins. His fingers move carefully as he threads the friendship bracelet.

He's talking softly with them, answering their odd questions and silly inquiries with a smile on his face. The sight makes your heart ache.

One of the girls taps him lightly on the shoulder, and he faces her immediately. She holds out her finished product and wrist, urging Bradley to tie it.

He fumbles a bit at first, big fingers and thin string not mixing too well. But after a few seconds, the knot slips on, and the little girl is clutching her wrist to her chest in admiration.

You can see how he leans in as she says thank you, nodding his head. And when she catapults into his lap for a hug, you see the hesitation as he wraps an arm around her. But eventually, he settles, tucking her into his side.

Ruckus in the form of little boys comes bumbling down the stairs, already throwing around a football despite the many protests from adults in the house.

The ball flys over the heads of some of the girls, nearly missing one. Just as you're about to tell them to take it outside, Bradley is hopping up from his spot, your baby cousin still attached to his side.

He grabs the ball from one of the boys and leads them out the front door, all of them bouncing with excitement at the thought of him playing with them.

Sure enough, Bradley maneuvers your cousin to sit up on top of his shoulders, like a little princess, as he throws a spiral down the driveway. Even though only one of the boys catches the ball, they all sprint back to his side, begging him to throw it again.

"Are you going to chop the rest of those carrots or stare longingly and make me do all the work?" your mother asks, cutting through your intense focus.

With a sheepish smile, you raise the knife and bring your gaze back to the cutting board. The sight of light green celery sticks and bright orange carrots is much better for your heart anyway.

જ⁀➴

Day Three

The smell of bacon still lingers through the house when your uncle claps his hands together. "Alright!" he calls. "Fishing crew, let's load up."

Excited cheers echoed through the living room as your younger cousins scrambled for shoes and tackle boxes they'd been pestering their parents to pack since sunrise.

Your aunt stretches from her spot on the couch. "Thank God," she sighs. "A whole morning of peace."

"Peace?" your uncle scoffs.

"They're your children today." Laughter rolls through the room at this, Bradley looking at you as they banter.

Your dad points toward the front door. "Boys only this year." A chorus of gasps and whines follows immediately.

One of the smallest girls crosses her arms so hard that Bradley thinks she might tip over. "I wanted to catch a fish." Her bottom lip begins to wobble.

But before anyone can intervene, you sigh dramatically. "Wow."

Every little face turns toward you.

"So," you say, looking around the room. "Nobody wants to play mermaids with me?"

Fishing was forgotten almost instantly.

"I do!"

"So do I!"

"I want to have a pink tail!"

You throw Bradley an almost imperceptible shrug, like problem solved.

He stares at you for a beat before shaking his head with a laugh. "I don't know how you do that."

You dust your hands together dramatically. "It's a gift."

The man smiles at you brightly, almost unable to contain himself.

જ⁀➴

Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, Bradley prepares to walk out of the bedroom when the door opens. Looking up instinctively, he spots you.

You step into the room in a teal bikini beneath an oversized button-down that does absolutely nothing to hide the color or your figure underneath.

His thoughts derail for one dangerously long second.

"Have fun," you smile, grabbing your sunglasses from the nightstand. bending over slightly, and Bradley's eyes catch for one dangerous second before he forces them somewhere, anywhere, else.

"You too," he says, glued to his spot by the door as you make your way around his body. You disappear up the stairs before he thinks of anything else to say.

જ⁀➴

Outside, aluminum boats rock gently against the dock. A pile of coolers, fishing poles, and tackle boxes lay out haphazardley. The young boys are practically vibrating with excitement at the next few hours to come, all of them making bets on who will catch the biggest fish.

Bradley lingers near the edge of the dock, unsure where exactly he was supposed to be standing. Everywhere he looks, fathers are kneeling beside sons, tightening life jackets or showing them how to bait hooks.

One little boy proudly held up a worm nearly as long as his forearm.

"Too much," your uncle laughs.

"Nuh-uh," he says with a toothless grin.

"Buddy, the fish isn't eating another fish."

Fathers automatically reach over to zip jackets or ruffle hair or wipe dirt off little noses without thinking about it.

It all looks so easy, but he feels his chest tighten before he can do anything stop it. Usually you're by his side in these moments. Soothing hand on his back or bumping knees with him under the table to knock him out of his trance. But your down the shore, he can see your figure clapping as one of the little girls dunks her head under the water.

A shoulder bumps lightly against his. "You ever gone fishing before?" Your dad stands beside him, coffee mug balancing in one hand.

Bradley looks toward the boats, rubbing the back of his neck. "Actually, no, sir."

Instead of surprise, or worse, teasing, your dad only nods once. Taking a sip of coffee, Bradley sees him start to reel up. "My old man started taking me every Saturday once I turned six. Rain, shine, didn't matter." Your dad chuckles at the memory. "Half the time we didn't catch a damn thing."

Bradley laughs at this too, some of the ache soothing away now.

"Did the same with Baby as soon as she turned eight. Took a few years of convincing."

"Really?" Bradley asks, not knowing that about you.

"Oh she hated it at first. Always too antsy to stay on a boat for more than thirty minutes."

They laugh at this. Bradley sure has experienced your more energetic side before. Boring movie nights always had you rocking on the couch and nudging him on accident. He remembers slinging an arm around your shoulder during the half way mark for Inception. You went frighteningly still for a few minutes before settling into the space.

Your dad looks out over the water for another moment before nudging him again. "Well," he gestures toward the boats. "We'll fix that today."

Bradley blinks, too caught up in the memory. "What?"

"Never fishing." A grin spreads across your dad's face. "Figure by lunch you'll know enough to outfish my brothers."

Loud protests immediately erupt from nearby. Your dad ignores them completely, keeping his attention on Bradley.

"Oh, and before I forget." He rests a hand briefly on Bradley's shoulder. "You don't need an invitation anymore."

Bradley frowns slightly, not quite sure what he means.

"We'll save the basement for you and Baby again next summer."

Bradley swallows at this, the extension making his throat feel sore and strangely tight. Your dad squeezes his shoulder once before walking off to argue with his brothers about bait.

Bradley stays where he is. Looking back out across the shoreline back to you. You're waist-deep in the water now, pretending to be some sort of sea monster while six little girls shriek and splash away from you.

One of them throws herself into your arms, and you catch her, laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world.

Bradley has spent years wondering what home is supposed to feel like. Standing on that dock, he thinks it might look a lot like this.

જ⁀➴

The guys are gone all day, even through lunch. The house is quiet and tidy, and you've had time to take a nice long shower and catch up on some reading.

Lying in bed, your head rests on the pillow as you flip to the next page. The book is interesting, but your thoughts wander when a whiff of Bradley's shampoo hits you as you shift in the bed.

The past few days have been great, especially last night at dinner. You could tell Bradley was finally settling into the chaos of your family.

During the day, it seems like you're always looking for each other, either to share a smile during the sweeter moments or a stunned look when your cousins say something outrageous. It's a pastime at this point, not much different from when you were in California.

But instead of heading home to your own bed, alone with your thoughts, you instead lie across from Bradley.

The first night you had been too exhausted to really care, but that second night you were up for hours. It was hard trying to fall asleep when your longtime crush was inches away from you, close enough that you could hear his breath and the little hums he let out every so often.

The creak of the door has you looking up from your book. Sure enough, Bradley comes into the room, a little sunburnt, but you think you see a tiny smile on his lips.

"Hey," he says, setting his bag down on the floor and sitting on the bed, body facing yours.

"Hi." You shut your book and move to get up, but his hands find your shoulders and push you back down lightly.

"You look comfy," he teases, lying next to you.

"What can I say, a whole afternoon without any boys bothering me has been nice," you joke, bringing your hands under your cheek as you press against the pillow.

"Do I bother you?" His eyes find yours, and you can feel your cheeks heat up a bit at the attention.

"Only a little," you speak, voice softer now, and Bradley just hums with a small smile on his face as you roll your eyes.

The only sound in the room seems to be the crinkling of the sheets as Bradley moves closer to you. His eyes still haven't left yours, and you're beginning to feel the effects in full swing, tummy fluttering and thighs smushing together.

"D'you have fun?" you ask, trying to alleviate some of his focus.

He nods, bringing his hands up behind his head. His biceps are on full display now, and you urge yourself to look down instead. But when your eyes trail to his stomach, you see a tiny sliver of skin poking out from under his shirt. Did he always wear his shorts that low on his waist?

"It was really good," he finally tells you. "Your dad, he's really sweet. I can see where you get it from."

"Oh," you say without thinking, it's more of a noise that escapes you than an actual word.

Bradley smiles at this. His eyes track yours, spotting them looking all the way down at the edge of the bed near his socked feet. It almost makes him laugh.

"Are you going to stay in for the night? Want me to grab dinner and bring it down here?" he says, referencing the loud footsteps above that have just started.

You shake your head. "No, no. I was just waiting for you," you confess, heart beating a bit faster than normal.

"Oh." It's Bradley's turn to let a soft sigh escape him at your words.

He wants you to look back at him, but knows you won't. Instead, he shifts closer.

"Tired?" he questions, just trying to get you talking again.

You hum. "Yeah, I don't think I've played mermaids in years."

Bradley laughs at this, and finally your eyes find his again. You start to laugh, too. It's always like this. One of you starts, and the other joins.

"I missed you today," he confesses, and you feel your breath catch. "Didn't really realize until your dad started telling stories about you growing up."

You don't really know what to say to this so you just keep watching him, wondering if he'll continue.

It feels like he's getting closer, like his nose might bump yours if you move even an inch. You see his eyes jump down to your lips, and you try not to react.

"Baby," he says, voice softer than you've ever heard it before.

A shout of your name rings out from upstairs, drawing your eyes up towards the ceiling and away from the man in front of you.

"We should probably," you start, rolling out of bed.

You swear he groans, but maybe it's just the age of the house. Settling, or whatever they call it.

જ⁀➴

Day Four

Bradley's gotten used to waking up with you by his side. The first morning was a little jarring; he'd found you on his chest, wrapped around him tightly. But the second morning, he expected it. By the third, he had started to brush your features and lightly stroke your hair to wake you up.

But today, he doesn't awaken to the sound of your soft snores or to a kick to his shin.

Instead, the sheets are cold, only a little warm spot near the middle of them indicating your presence. He looks to the bathroom, but the light is off, and the door is open.

A yelp and the sound of glass from upstairs have him jumping out of bed in just his boxers.

Rounding the staircase, he spots you bent over with a grimace on your face.

"Hey," he says, and sees that it startles you a bit as you nearly fall forward.

"Did I wake you?" you ask, hands picking up pieces of glass.

He ignores the question completely, taking in the little details. Your feet are bare, and he sees shimmers too close to your toes. The coffee machine is whirling on the counter, not loud enough to wake anyone yet. And there are goosebumps on your skin; he wants to run his hands up and down your arms until they disappear.

"Are you okay?" His hand sweeps to find the small of your back, warm and solid against the bit of skin.

"Yeah," you answer, still picking up little shards.

"Stop picking it up," he tells you as his other hand goes to wrap lightly around your wrist.

"I got it." You shrug him off, twisting your arm out of his grasp.

He huffs from behind you. "You're going to cut yourself."

"I'm fine," you insist, almost having all the pieces off the ground now. But you don't get to finish, as you feel his hand snake around to your hips as he lifts you off the floor.

The hold is awkward, but you can't help but lean into it as you feel Bradley's bare chest up against you.

Setting you down on a countertop, he goes to grab the trash can and signals for you to dump all the glass you've collected into it.

When you try to hop off the smooth surface, his hands are on your thighs. "I just wanted to make some coffee," you mumble and Bradley can see clearly just how sleepy you still are.

Sure, you're not burrowing into his chest or grabbing at his waist like you have been the past few days, but your eyes are still a little puffy, and your hair is tangled. He can't help but rub a hand up and down your back soothingly. And when he feels you melt into the feeling, he brings himself closer between your legs, his other hand coming up to help your head drop onto his shoulder.

From the top of the staircase, your dad snaps a picture on his phone as your mom whispers into his ear, both smiling.

જ⁀➴

Sitting at the dinner table, your knees knock into Bradley's every few minutes. And each time it happens, you look to him but get no reaction. Instead, he just sifts through the puzzle pieces like he isn't driving you up the wall.

"Baby! Brad! Can you go into town? We're out of buns," your mom calls from the kitchen, your dad piping in from a distance, saying 'I told you so' as she throws a dish towel at him.

"Already?" you ask, looking in her direction as she tosses a pair of keys at you.

Pushing up from the table, Bradley is hot on your heels as you slip on a pair of sandals and lead him down the driveway to the old truck. Sticking his hand out, you plop the keys in his palm without a word. He's mildly surprised at your actions, but doesn't say anything to burst the bubble.

Driving on the windy roads, Bradley looks to you occasionally. Your feet are out the window, and you have sunnies pushing your hair back. It's hard for him to pull his eyes away from you.

You hum along to the radio, knowing almost every classic rock song that comes on. He smiles when you exaggeratedly sing along to the Eagles, hands going up to your heart and feet swinging in the breeze as the 70s guitar strums.

"What?" you say, looking at him as he grins.

"Nothing," he says back, not even trying to hide the amusement on his face.

"Whatever," you roll your eyes, "This is my Great Balls of Fire."

He laughs at this. "Oh, is it now?"

"Yes," you say with certainty, hand moving to turn up the volume in the old truck.

Bradley watches as your hips move in the seat, shoulders bouncing with the beat.

"Let's hear it then," he says, holding out an invisible microphone, and you send him a glare.

Still, you grab the object and sing along with the man on the radio. You've pulled your feet in by now, only to really bounce around in your seat.

After a few seconds, Bradley joins in, and you send him a smile. The wind whips through the car, and he can't help but laugh at the freedom of the moment.

Pulling into a parking spot outside a small pharmacy, he takes the keys out of the ignition, but you both continue to sing as you walk down the main strip of town.

You're dancing a little bit still, and Bradley holds his hand out to twirl you down the sidewalk, sending you into a fit of giggles.

"Baby! You're home!" A voice calls out from behind you, and you wave at the group of teenage girls.

Further down the strip, another voice calls out, this time belonging to an older woman. "Look at you! All grown up."

You smile and call out a greeting at her as she continues along her way.

Bradley realizes, somewhere between the pharmacy and the bakery, that everyone knows your name. And you know theirs too.

As you pass the bar, a few men call for you from the patio. "Tell your dad he still owes me twenty bucks!"

You laugh and nod, promising them you will.

Bradley takes this all in; everyone vying for a bit of your attention makes him want to wrap an arm around your side, fingers twitching at the thought.

The bell on the door of the general store rings, and you, of course, say hi to the people in almost every aisle. Finally finding the buns and picking up a pack of candy for yourself, you make your way to the register.

"15.89, Baby," Mrs. Ruth, the cashier and owner, tells you. But before you can swipe your card out of your wallet, Bradley is handing her a twenty-dollar bill.

"Bradley," you admonish, but he just shrugs, taking the change back and slipping it into his back pocket.

While he's distracted, you grab the bag, and he nearly lunges at you.

"Let your husband carry the bag, Baby," Mrs. Ruth says, making your neck snap in her direction.

"He's not my—"

"Great idea," Bradley cuts in, taking the bag from your grasp in the moment of weakness.

"Hey!" you say as Bradley waves to the older woman and holds the door open for you. She's already chuckling under her breath as you jump up to grab the bag from him, and he dodges you once again.

"Come on, Baby. We might be missing some Fleetwood Mac," he tells you and suddenly the bag doesn't seem as interesting as you rush him back to the car.

જ⁀➴

Day Five

Storm clouds roll across the sky early in the morning, grey skies and booming thunder canceling wakeboarding plans. Bradley expects whines and complaints from your cousins; instead, they're all heading down to the basement game room.

The older kids are crowded around a game of Monopoly, assigning roles via a raise of hand.

The pre-teens are split into two groups. The more hyper of the bunch is playing Twister while the quieter group sets up Clue in the corner.

The littles are coloring with markers and crayons all over the floor. Surely it's a tripping hazard, but they all seem to have a system, handing each color off seamlessly.

The adults are upstairs, some of them taking the time to pack up before they all leave tomorrow. Others are on the couch, playing cards in their hands and poker chips out like a challenge.

Bradley sees you curled up next to your mom, both of you sharing a hand and sending a glare your dad's way. It's almost scary how similar your expressions are.

"Come here, Bradley," your dad says, making room for him on the couch.

"Go Fish!" one of your uncles yells down the basement staircase, causing a horde of children to come running up, two steps at a time.

Bradley looks to you, and you just smile.

"Annual game," your dad offers, and he hums.

"Bradley's playing?" one of the pre-teen boys asks as your aunt doles out cards.

"Sure am," he says, not catching the look the boy sends you as you wink.

"Alright, it's just like simple Go Fish, but we've got a few family rules. You'll catch on, though, honey," your aunt says as she hands him his cards.

Not wanting to ask too many questions, especially not after seeing how serious everyone got, he just nods.

"I'll go first," you say, starting the game and sending subtle looks to the people closest to you.

A few minutes pass, and Bradley feels like he's getting the hang of things. Every so often, someone calls out a rule, and he has to adjust, but still, his hand isn't too big, and maybe he's a little distracted by the grin on your face every time he meets your eyes.

"I don't think I'm doing this right," he confides in your dad as his hand grows bigger by the minute. You have to shoot your dad a glare as you see sympathy overtake his features at Bradley's confused voice.

More and more rounds pass like this, something weird with the sevens, and then an odd stacking rule that never seems to work in his favor.

He catches your cousin, the same one you pushed into the lake earlier this week, looking at you expectantly. Furrowing his brows, he watches as you mouth something at him.

"Hey," he says, putting his stack of cards down on the table. "What was that?"

You look at him innocently, but your poker face has never been too great. "What?" you ask, biting your cheek harshly to contain your smile.

Some of your aunts begin to laugh lightly, trying to hide it with coughs. Your uncles are all looking at the ceiling. All of them.

"Family rules?" he questions, jaw ticking with amusement.

"What about them?" you reply, not cracking quite yet, but Bradley can tell you're close to laughing, eyes crinkling familiarly.

He scoffs, looking around for support. Finally, he looks to your dad. He sees you shake your head and whips a finger at you, making half the room laugh.

"Sir," he pleads, blocking you from your dad's line of vision.

The older man sighs, defeated. "It was Baby's idea. Told us all this morning."

"I knew it!" Bradley jumps up from his seat and barrels towards you.

You shriek as his hands grasp at your sides, tickling you mercilessly. "Bradley!"

"Family rules?" he asks again as you continue to laugh and writhe around. Soon your cousins are up and joining him, little hands coming to tickle the bottoms of your feet and underneath your arms.

Your laughter increases tenfold and is joined by many other little laughs.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you beg, eyes squinting shut and chest heaving.

Your laughter finally dissolves into breathless little hiccups as Bradley relents, holding both hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright," he laughs. "Mercy."

"I said I was sorry," you wheeze from where you'd ended up sprawled across the rug, hair sticking to your cheeks.

"You lied to me."

"But it was pretty funny, right?" you ask. His hands come back to your sides, and you back track immediately. "Not funny. Not funny."

Bradley looks around and notices everyone is laughing and smiling. A few of the little ones are still lying down on top of you, one on your stomach as you stroke her hair and another curled up into your shoulder. The sight tugs at Bradley's heart.

One of your aunts calls for help with dinner, and a few of the older kids are hopping up to meet her in the kitchen. A few of the other kids go back to their games, saying something about having a drawing contest.

Bradley offers you a hand, pulling you to your feet, and steadying you with a hand at your waist when you stumble slightly over one of the discarded pillows.

"Thanks," you murmur.

"Anytime."

Only then do you realize how close you've ended up. His hand is still resting lightly against your side. You're close enough to see the tiny flecks of hazel hidden in his brown eyes. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

Your breath catches.

"Will you come help us with a pillow fort?" one of the little girls asks, tugging on your sleeve, giving you the perfect opportunity to scoop her up and use her as a human shield.

"Let's go," you say quickly, not sparing another glance his way.

He watches you disappear down the stairs, the little girl balanced on your hip like she'd always belonged there.

Only when you're out of sight does he let out the slow breath he'd been holding. "Jesus," he mutters under his breath.

જ⁀➴

Piling into the living room, everyone settles down after dinner and stove-top s'mores. Your dad controls the remote, scrolling slower than anyone wants him to. "I don't want to miss anything!" he defends when one of his brothers reaches for it.

Somehow, you and Bradley end up in the middle of the couch. You catch the teasing look in your mom's eyes when you look around the room and shake your head.

You send him a shy smile as you settle down, thigh to thigh. But you only get a few minutes to feel awkward as you feel his arm wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into his hold as the movie starts up.

Your fingers trace the denim on his shorts, then move to play with the hem of his shirt, anything to distract you from the large hand that's running up and down your shoulder.

The movie is funny, but something you've seen a million times. You're unable to distract yourself for more than 5 minutes, almost knowing the dialogue by heart.

Your knees curl up to your chest, and one of Bradley's hands goes to bring them over his lap. The position is more comfortable than you want to admit.

The sound of his heartbeat begins to lull you, eyes becoming heavier with each blink.

Bradley can feel you finally sink into his hold, hand skimming the skin between the waistband of his shorts and the bottom of his shirt, completely innocent in sleep. Your head is tucked into his chest, and he can feel your soft hair tickling him every so often.

When a small snore comes from you, he finds himself looking down at your peaceful figure. A few of your younger cousins laugh at this, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from you.

"Are you in love with Baby?" one of them asks, and the whole room freezes.

"You look at her the way mom and dad look at each other," another adds on, not helping the thumping of his chest. He's sure the fast beats are going to wake you up any moment.

The room is quiet, and he doesn't quite know what to say.

"Watch the movie," your dad tells them, snapping a finger in their direction, effectively rescuing him.

But when he looks at the man, he's already sending Bradley a knowing look.

જ⁀➴

The movie had ended hours ago, and you were back to sleeping at his side in your room, but Bradley can't help the flow of thoughts that run through him.

Pushing away the covers, he pads over to the sliding glass door, carefully opening it and heading out to the shoreline, leaving you behind as you doze off peacefully.

Flopping over to the other side of the bed, your hand goes to grab Bradley, but you are met with empty sheets. Unable to find him in your unconscious state, you groan lightly as you lift your head from the pillow.

The curtains are slightly open, giving away where the man is. Grabbing the first thing on the floor you can reach, you pull the fabric over your head and go outside.

You find Bradley standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out into the distance of the lake. The clacking of rocks under your slippers alerts him to your presence.

"Can't sleep?" you ask, bringing up a sweater paw when you yawn.

Bradley looks down at you, in his old college hoodie, and sighs. "No," he says breathlessly, not taking his eyes off you.

You turn to look up at him with a confused face. "Everything okay?" you ask, and you swear he huffs as he looks back out to the lake, making you increasingly anxious.

"I shouldn't have come out here."

You freeze at the words, already feeling your throat constricting.

"I knew this was a bad idea, and I did it anyway," he continues, voice heavy.

You knew it would end up like this. Your family was a lot; you were a lot. He'd gotten a front-row seat to it all this weekend, and it had driven him away.

God, you were so stupid. Maybe if you had been better about your boundaries, he wouldn't have felt like this. Or maybe if you had told your family to chill out a little more when he was around, he wouldn't have felt so regretful.

You thought it was going well. You thought he liked them. That he was having a good time.

Especially the past few days, you hadn't been able to turn a corner without him being right there next to you. But maybe that was his way of telling you it was too much.

He had offered to bring you dinner that one night in your room. God, you should've known then that he was tired of it all. Or maybe it was the constant push and pull from your younger cousins, always on top of him like a new plaything.

But maybe it really had been you. He'd seemed frustrated yesterday morning, now that you think of it. Done with your clumsiness and idiocy.

And he had seemed pretty annoyed at you earlier when you played that prank on him. Face heating up with embarrassment. Why hadn't you noticed that sooner?

You feel a tear roll down your cheek as you recall the events of this week. "Oh, Bradley, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you. I just didn't want you to be alone this week."

Your voice is meek, and Bradley whirls around to face you. He sees the tears forming, a few already slipping, and curses internally.

"Hey, hey, no. That's not what I meant," he tells you, hands going to cup your cheeks and push away the wetness.

"No?" you ask, not able to look at him just yet as you feel the tears well up.

"No, no, Baby. I just, I should've known that this week would make me fall even more in love with you."

You pause at that, blinking away your tears. Your hands come up to his bare chest to steady yourself at his confession.

"What?"

"I'm such an idiot. I mean, I didn't believe Jake when he told me." Bradley sees your brows knit in confusion and shakes his head. "Never mind, I just mean, I've been in love with you for a long time. Since the voicemail. No one's ever cared about me like that before."

The silence between you grows as you try to process his words.

"But I get it," he says finally, reading your face with a grimace as you stay quiet. "I know that's just how you were raised now. I don't expect anything to change."

Your neck snaps up at him at that, hands tightening around his torso. "What? No."

"No?" he asks, confusion on his face.

"I'm not like that with everyone. Only with you. It's different with you," you confess.

Bradley feels his heart leap at this. Only you playing on repeat in his brain- well, that is until your next few words.

"I love you too, Bradley."

At your confession, he moves to kiss you, hands cupping your jaw. Your face is cold compared to his warm hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as his lips press against yours.

He pulls away slightly, the sight of your breathlessness from the kiss making him want to dive right back in. But before he does, his lips hover near yours. "Just for me?" he asks, confirming your feelings.

You nod, chasing his lips and giving them a soft kiss. "Yes. Only you."

He pressed harder against you at this, one hand coming down to hold steady at your hip and bring your body flush to his. The kisses become sloppy, tongue and teeth melding together as you stand on the shoreline.

His hands skim your lower back, and itching to be under the familiar sweatshirt. You nod, hoping he'll pick up on your signal. Quickly, his hands find your bare back, running up and down the smooth skin.

The feeling has you moaning into his mouth, and Bradley takes full advantage of it, sucking your tongue firmly as your eyes flutter.

His hands come down to your ass, picking you up and settling you around his waist. "This okay?" he asks, already walking back towards the sliding glass door to your room.

When you kiss him again, he laughs into your mouth.

"I need words, Baby."

When you look at him, his stare is intense, making you swallow.

"Yes, it's okay."

He smiles at this, giving you a chaste kiss. "Good job, Baby." The praise has you squirming in his hold as he opens the door.

Gently, he places you down in the middle of the bed. He thinks you look angelic like this, hair all fanned out against the pillow and body soft against the blue quilt.

He doesn't realize he's staring until you reach for him.

"Bradley?" Your face is twisted, a crease in your brows that he wants to smooth over and a pout on your lips that he wants to kiss.

"I'm good, Baby. Just been thinking about this for a long time," he admits, feeling his ears go a little red at the thought of all the times he's imagined you like this.

"Oh," you say, nodding, and Bradley thinks it's the sweetest thing. Words have escaped you a few times on this trip, and he loves the little face you make when you can't think of anything to say.

He climbs over your body, making you lie back once more. His fingers come to the bottom of the sweatshirt, playing with the light fabric as his mouth comes down to kiss your neck.

The tickle of his moustache is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Especially when it's accompanied by searing kisses and little nips to the sensitive skin.

His hands are glued to the pinch in your waist, thigh slotting between yours, pressing up against your heat. Your hands find his hair, tugging lightly once as his teeth scrape up against your jaw. The movement seems to affect him greatly as he groans into your skin and grinds down onto your thigh.

He's hard against you, and with him being only in his boxers, you can feel almost everything.

Bradley continues like this for a bit, kissing and grabbing at your soft skin as long as you let him. When his kisses begin to trail down your neck to your chest, he looks up at you.

Before he has the chance to detach himself from your skin, you speak, "Yes, please. It's okay."

He smiles at this; you can feel it against your sternum. Still, his fingers move to push up your sleep shirt and his sweatshirt, taking it off you completely.

For a second time, he just stares at you. Your nipples peak underneath the cool air and Bradley groans when your tits bounce as you move slightly against his thigh.

"Fuck, Baby. So beautiful, y'know that?" he says, but doesn't really give you any time to answer as he dives in to kiss your lips.

You moan against his lips when you feel his hands play with your nipples, rolling the sensitive skin in between his fingers.

Running a thumb over the peak of your left tit, he pinches tightly at your right. The difference has your hips canting up against him.

His lips travel down your body again, this time quicker and more sloppy. When he reaches your breasts, he presses them together in his hands, bringing your nipples as close together as possible. The push isn't uncomfortable; rather, it has you whining, waiting to see what he'll do.

He brings his face near the cleavage, kissing and sucking marks into the soft skin. Then his palms press against the flesh again, harsher. Opening his mouth, he sucks down on your left nipple, his nose rubbing up against the right one.

At first, his mouth is firm against you, like he's trying to take as much of you into his mouth as he can. But as he moves to your other breast, his tongue teases the sensitive skin, rubbing little circles and only coming down to suck for a second or two at a time.

"Bradley, stop teasing," you whine, pulling his hair again as a drop of spit lands in between your breasts.

"Sorry, Baby. Sorry," he tells you, capturing your lips in a kiss and letting your tits bounce back to their natural position. "Just so pretty."

He's maneuvered himself over you fully now, his length pressing up against your heat. Only a few layers of fabric separate you.

His kisses are sloppy, teeth tugging on your lips every time you press into him or pull his hair. Your legs have wrapped around his waist, wanting to feel him against your most sensitive parts.

When you go to pull at his boxers, he puts some distance between your bodies. Not too much, but enough so that he can look at you.

"Baby, I want to, of course. I just don't have a condom." His face looks pained as he explains this to you.

You capture your lip between your teeth before speaking, even the words seem dirty, and you haven't said anything out loud.

Sensing your internal turmoil, Bradley kisses you softly. "What's wrong?"

You open your mouth and then snap it shut promptly, making him tilt his head at you.

"I'm on birth control, so I'm okay if we..." you trail off, eyes on the ceiling, not wanting to look at the man above you as you tell him this.

His hand comes to your jaw, bringing your focus back to him. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," you squeak out, and Bradley laughs.

"Baby, you don't need to be embarrassed. You want this, right?" he asks, needing your express approval.

You nod. "I know, it's just," you sigh, wanting to hide from his piercing gaze. "It's you. I've thought about this, too."

He grins at your words, leaning down to kiss your cheek softly.

"So cute, God. So fucking cute," he murmurs into your skin as you blush.

His hands push down your shorts and underwear in one swoop, tossing them off the bed and leaving you completely bare. He doesn't kiss your cheeks for long; instead, dragging you to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees.

"Oh, Bradley," you say, breath knocked out of you a bit. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to," he tells you without missing a beat, kissing softly at your inner thighs, making you jump. "Is that okay?"

You nod, lashes fluttering quickly. "Yeah, yes."

"Good." He noses at your thighs again. "Been wanting to taste you this whole week."

With that, he kisses your heart softly. One big hand goes to push your thighs up and away, putting you on full display to him. The same arm pushes against your thighs, keeping you open while he kisses and licks you.

His other hand caresses the skin around your ass, palming and squeezing the muscle there.

Bradley's tongue draws little circles around your opening, leaking more and more the closer he gets.

Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm skin there.

Finally, he presses fully into you, nose bumping your clit while his tongue fucks into your slit. You moan at the feeling, bringing a hand up to your mouth after hearing the loud sound, but Bradley grabs your wrist away and places your hand on the back of his head, urging you to push into him.

"Fuck, Bradley," you whine as your hand tangles in his hair, using it as leverage as you rub against his face. When you do, he moans, and the vibrations send a tingling sensation through your body.

His arm presses even harder against your thighs, bending you open as he licks into you fully. Abandoning your opening, his lips trail up to your clit and begin soft sucks as you whine underneath him.

Pulling away slightly, he speaks, "Yeah, Baby, feel good?" The timbre of his voice hums against you, and you can't do anything but nod and whine out for him.

Again, he returns but sucks harder and in rhythm now, making you push your hips against his face. His free hand grabs your ass, pulling you back against him, making a sloppy wet noise resound in the otherwise quiet room.

You feel a familiar coil wind up in your deep tummy. Tugging his hair, you try to warn Bradley to come up, but he keeps close against you.

"Bradley, please," you try again, but he just keeps helping you cant your heat against his face.

With a whine, you cum against his face, and it's only then that he stops his assault on your clit and goes back to licking at your opening.

Kissing up your body, you can feel the sticky trail he leaves on your skin. Finally, his lips find your again, and you moan at the taste of yourself against his tongue.

"Taste perfect like I knew you would," he says, kissing all over your face.

You tug him back down and go to push down his boxers.

"Yeah? Ready, Baby?" he questions with a smile, helping you back to the middle of the bed as he lies back against you.

"Yes, need you," you confess, and the smile on his face drops and is replaced by something much more intense. He nods, taking his length in his hand, rubbing against your sensitive opening.

Pushing the head in has your eyes blown wide. Bradley's watching your every move, every slight change in your expression. When your lips part as he pushes further in, he has to will himself to not spill into you right away.

"Good? Feeling good, Baby?" he checks in before pushing further.

You wrap your legs around him, helping him slip in even more. The movement has you both moaning into each other.

"Can I?" he asks, voice a little whiny. You nod vigorously, and he kisses your lips as he pushes up against you. Your heat now full, and your brain mushy.

He takes a minute to adjust to the feeling, warm and pulsing around him. Bradley kisses up and down your neck as you whine against him. It isn't until you rock into him that he pulls out slightly before pushing back in.

"Oh, God," you gasp at the feeling, and Bradley can't help but agree.

"I know, I know. I'll go slow," he assures you, kissing your hairline as he pulls out once again.

After a few strokes like this, he finds a good rhythm. Hips now chasing into you with a mission.

Your hands claw at his back as he fucks into you, wanting to bring him even closer if it's possible. Your tits are already rubbing against his hard muscles, giving you a satisfying feeling as your nipples press harder and harder as Bradley moves above you.

"Yeah, Baby, yeah. Feels so good, you feel so perfect," he breaths into you, head ducking into your neck to suck marks and lick against you.

"Bradley, don't stop. Please," you beg, feeling him shift and hit the deepest spot.

"Right there? Yeah?" he asks, hips moving faster now as you moan openly.

His hand snakes near your tummy, going to find your clit. Once his thumb reaches the bud, your back arches off the bed, trying to push off.

"It's okay, it's okay. I got you," Bradley tells you, voice strained but still steady and there for you.

He doesn't let up on any front, even as you squirm below him. His thumb works steady circles into your clit. His mouth kisses your neck and jaw. His hips snap against yours in a way that makes your head spin.

All the while, Bradley watches you. Watches your breathing pick up with every thrust. Watches how you grab for anything to ground you: sheets, his hair, and his favorite, his back. Your nails digging into him more and more as the seconds pass. Bradley watches as your tits rub against him, squishing up against his broad chest. Everything he sees is ten times better than his imagination.

When your mouth opens in a soundless cry, he knows you're close. Dipping down, he captures your lips in a kiss, humming against you. With this last gesture, he feels you clench against him before releasing.

He's quick to follow. "Inside? Is that okay?"

"Yes, yes," you say breathlessly, a little too fucked out to say anything else.

Feeling a warmth in your tummy and seeing Bradley shudder above you makes you gasp. It's your turn to take his face in your palms, placing a searing kiss on his lips.

Both of you are still, trying to regain your breath as you come down from the high.

Bradley pulls out slowly, kissing your cheek as he does so, and lies next to you. His arm goes to wrap around you, bringing your body into his.

"You okay, Baby?" he asks as you hum against his chest. He chuckles at this, bringing a hand to brush through your hair softly.

"Did you mean it?" He almost misses your question, a little dazed himself.

Sitting up a little, he takes a look at you. "What?"

You bite your lip, something Bradley knows you only do when you're deep in thought or embarrassed about something.

"You really love me?"

He almost breaks at this; your voice is so small and scared.

"Of course. Of course I do. I love you so much, sweet girl," he says, lying back down and pressing kisses to the crown of your head.

You finally settle beside him, your hand coming to wrap around his waist. "Thought I was dreaming," you admit, and Bradley laughs at the sleepiness of your voice.

"No, not a dream," he says, but he feels your deep breaths against him and knows you're about to sleep. "Come on, got to clean you up before bed."

You groan, but are lifted from the bed and into the ensuite, where Bradley begins to kiss all over your body as he drags a warm washcloth against your most sensitive parts. The attention and softness has you slumping into his figure as he laughs.

"It's okay. Goodnight, Baby."

જ⁀➴

The cars are all lined up in the driveway, trunks open and stuffed to the brim with suitcases and duffle bags.

Your baby cousins are all crying into their parents' shoulders, saying they don't want to go home yet. Bradley can't help but feel the same way.

This week, Bradley learned more about you than he even hoped for. Every memory he was taking away would be touched golden, not just from the summer sun, but from your kindness.

A hand claps on his back, and Bradley turns to face your dad. With a hand outstretched, your dad scoffs, instead bringing him into a hug.

"See you next summer, Brad," he says simply, giving the younger man a smile while Bradley's jaw clenches.

You watch from a few feet away, but don't say anything. Instead, you turn to your mom, giving her a hug as she gets teary eyed.

"Mom," you say, laughing a bit at her big feeling.

"Oh, what? I'm going to miss you, Baby. Come visit us more often," she tells you, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on your shirt. "Bradley can come, too."

She whispers the last part and you can't help but smile.

"Mom," you chastise, voice having no weight to it.

"He was looking at you differently this morning. You better call me when you get home and tell me what happened last night," she says, knowing only what a mom could.

"Oh my, God," you laugh as she brings you into one more hug.

"Ready?" Bradley asks as you walk over to him, his hand finding the small of your back easily now, like it's second nature.

You smile at him, leaning into the touch. "Yeah, let's go home."

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Dean x Graham reader NEEDS a part 2

Ask and you will receive, anon

Summary: Dean has to deal with you after karaoke night

Warnings: mention of drinking and drunk behavior, Dean being consent king, nudity,

When you came back from karaoke night, Garrett tucked you in on the couch like your mom used to when you were little. He left a glass of water and some Advils on the table for the morning, then took care of Hannah who had disappeared upstairs. 

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep, but the couch wasn’t comfortable and you felt hot in your clothes. You looked around for your bag, forgetting it was in Garrett’s room. After a few minutes, you abandoned your quest and took off your jeans. 

Much better. 

Half an hour later, the door opened and the sound of it closing stirred you from your light sleep. 

‘’Tuck?’’ you asked, not seeing well in the darkness of the living room. 

‘’Wrong guy.’’ 

A smile curled on your lips at the voice and your heart jumped in your chest even though you were still hazy from sleep and alcohol. 

The hardwood creaked as Dean stepped closer. 

‘’Hey babydoll,’’ he whispered, crouching down beside where you lay curled under Garrett’s old flannel blanket. ‘’Had fun tonight?’’ 

You nodded. ‘’Did you like my song?’’ 

Dean took his time trying to muster an answer. ‘’It was…entertaining.”  

Then, Logan came home, forcing you and Dean to part. You weren’t doing anything incriminating, but Logan had suspicions about the two of you. He saw his friend’s hand on your hip in the kitchen and the way you looked at Dean. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Once in his room, Dean peeled off his clothes and brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed. 

Karaoke nights were always a wild ride. From Tucker and Birdie’s deafening Bohemian Rhapsody duet to music students acing the highest notes, and inevitable drunk emotional breakdowns, there was never a dull moment.

But the one performance stuck on Dean’s mind was yours. He could replay it all in his head perfectly; you standing on that karaoke stage, completely fearless — and completely tipsy —, singing your heart out while dragging half the bar into it. He won’t be able to hear that stupid song without thinking of you. 

Which was a very annoying problem. 

Because that song was on the radio all the time. Because you were Garrett's sister and he would absolutely murder him if he knew his pants felt tight after your little number.  

Dean groaned and flopped on his stomach, forcing his mind to stop thinking about you. 

Just as he succeeded in making his dick go down, his door creaked open. Dean sat up quickly, seeing you in your underwear and the top you wore at Malone’s. 

‘’What are you doing here?’’ he hissed. 

You ignored his question and jumped on Dean’s bed. He caught you, causing you to giggle. 

‘’Hi.’’

‘'Hi,” he repeated, still holding you. ‘’Where’s your pants?”

You shrugged. ‘’It’s hot,” you replied, reaching for the bottom of your top to pull it off but Dean stopped you. 

On another night, he would have let you take off whatever you wanted — shirt, panties, everything —, but not when you had this much to drink. Dean wouldn’t take advantage of you. 

‘'Can we not do that tonight?”

You whined. ‘’But it’s hot.”

‘’It’s the alcohol talking. Let’s get you back to bed before G hears you and plots my death.”

Dean stood and you pulled off your top and threw it in a corner. 

‘’Ugh, fuck me…” He groaned at the sight of your topless self. Those perfect tits he loved to play with. 

Dean felt his body react and quickly opened his drawers to find a shirt for you. ‘’I’m gonna ask this nicely, please put a shirt on.” He handed it to you, but you shook your head.

‘’No.’’ 

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘’Yes.’’

‘’No."

‘’Baby..."

You crossed your arms over your chest in a surprisingly stubborn display of drunken determination. 

Dean blew out a slow breath toward the ceiling. ‘’You're impossible.’’

Another giggle left your lips and you began humming to another Sabrina Carpenter song. 

Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair as he stared at you, his half naked, stubborn little problem. You were glowing in the dim bedroom light. Tipsy. Bare. Unbothered. And he was this close to losing every ounce of self-control he had ever had.

Without asking again, he slipped the shirt over your head gently. You resisted slightly at first but soon gave in as the cool fabric settled on your skin. The shirt was inevitably big on you, which only made Dean feel worse because now all he could picture was how cute — and sexy — you looked in his clothes. 

You didn’t fight him anymore once dressed. The shirt smelled like him.

‘’Alright, my battle is done.’’

Dean pulled his comforter and got underneath, then tapped the space next to him. If Garrett got mad in the morning, he’ll say you were looking for a shirt and you were too drunk to go back downstairs. 

‘’G’night,’’ you mumbled, pressing close against Dean with sleepy warmth. 

‘’Good night,’’ he said back, pressing a gentle kiss at the top of your head.

══════════════════

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[gojosconsort]

⊹　 　 005. CHAPTER FIVE　　　⊹ 　 　 　worst muse ever　◞♡　and other problems

⌗　 GOJO SATORU　/　五条 悟 gojo satoru x f!reader　·　w.c: 5,500

◞　in which you’ve always been the queen of chaos, but this time you really outdid yourself. after finally working up the courage to confess to satoru that you like him, you somehow end up on a double date with him, suguru, and a girl you don’t know. you’re already counting down the minutes until this nightmare ends but satoru has very different plans.

◞　content + warnings 18+ only. minors do not interact. sexy things happening (handjob), risk of voyeurism/getting caught, jealousy, miscommunication, mutual pining, heavy teasing, and banter.

◞　author’s notes eyyy i gave up on proofreading and tumblr deleted my draft so i'm kinda overstimulated right now... enjoy <3

⌗ links　masterlist　·　ao3

the pizzeria is loud and warm and smells like melted cheese and you’ve officially decided this is the worst night of your life, which is saying a lot considering the last few weeks.

satoru is across from you, next to his date—rio, apparently, the girl form the hallway with her shiny hair and soft laugh, the kind of girl who hides her giggles behind her hand every time satoru says something that isn’t even that funny. 

suguru is beside you, close enough that his knee bumps yours every time he reaches for another slice, which is nice. objectively. if you think about it, suguru is nice, and he looks good, and any normal person would be more than happy to have his attention.

you are not normal tonight. you’re too busy watching satoru laugh with someone else to enjoy any of it.

the car ride here had already ruined your mood. satoru had made everyone listen to rio’s favorite song on repeat, and you’d spent the entire drive staring out the window, thinking about how three days ago you almost told him i like you, and instead you ended up here, watching him lean in close to show her memes you’ve seen a hundred times and wondering if he shows the same memes to every girl in his life while considering opening the door and flinging yourself out of the moving car just to escape the agony.

now there’s a giant pizza in the middle of the table that you’ve barely touched, while satoru’s already halfway through his third slice. rio keeps smiling and saying things like, “satoru told me you guys have been friends forever, that’s so cute,” in a sweet voice that makes you want to crawl under the table and disappear.

“oh, has he?” you mutter, picking at the crust of your pizza. “we actually met because he stole the last muffin in the cafeteria during orientation week.”

“he does that,” rio laughs, resting her hand on satoru’s arm again. “he stole my parking spot the day we met.”

“of course he did,” you say, forcing a little smile. “very satoru. but really it worked out fine, because satoru’s lactose intolerant, and i’m pretty sure that muffin from orientation ruined the rest of his day. so, don’t let him anywhere near your tiramisu later unless you want to spend the movie listening to him complain.”

“wait, you’re lactose intolerant?” rio asks, turning to satoru.

“she’s making it sound way worse than it was,” satoru says, stealing another bite of your pizza. “i’m not that lactose intolerant. i had, like, one bad night. one time. and she’s never let me live it down.”

“you cried,” you deadpan. “and texted me at two in the morning saying you were dying.”

“i said i felt like i was dying.”

“you sent me a picture.”

“i absolutely did not—”

“you were on the floor, satoru,” you cut in, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead in an overdramatic impression. “‘i’m on the floor. i think this is it. tell my story.’”

rio lets out a slightly nervous laugh, unsure if she’s allowed to find this funny. suguru, however, laughs beside you.

“he’s always been a little dramatic,” suguru agrees.

satoru turns to rio, propping his chin on his hand. “don’t listen to her. she’s just trying to change the subject because she talks in her sleep.”

“i do not.”

“you absolutely do.”

“i don’t!”

suguru smiles into his drink. “that’s kinda cute, actually.”

“you’d think so until you actually hear her,” satoru says, pointing at you. “remember that camping trip last summer? i woke up in the middle of the night thinking someone was outside the tent but turns out she was just talking in her sleep and drooling all over her sleeping bag.”

“oh, you mean the trip where you woke up clutching a flashlight like your life depended on it because you were scared of some birds?” you fire back. “you mean that trip?”

suguru snorts. “he was scared of birds?”

“oh, he was terrified,” you say, glancing at rio. “milk and birds are very sensitive topics for satoru.”

“says the girl who still sleeps with a teddy bear every night.”

rio covers her mouth, failing to hide her laugh. “you still sleep with a teddy bear?”

“yeah, and it only has one eye,” satoru adds.

“it has both eyes!”

“one of them is a button.”

“because i had to sew it back on after you kicked him off the bed!”

“it was an accident!”

“sure. an accident. you’ve never liked him in the first place.”

“i don’t hate him! didn’t i apologize to the bear? you made me apologize to him!”

“because you ripped his eye off!”

the table goes quiet for a beat. not the comfortable kind. the kind where you suddenly notice the clatter of the kitchen somewhere behind you and the scrape of someone’s chair two tables over. 

rio and suguru exchange a look across the table.

“…you guys have a lot of history,” rio says carefully.

“we really don’t,” you say at the exact same time satoru says, “we really do,” and you both look at each other for a second.

“seriously?” you mutter.

“what?” he replies, all innocent.

the table falls into an excruciating silence. suguru suddenly seems deeply fascinated in the condensation running down the side of his glass, while rio suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

finally, rio clears her throat. “i’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

“i’ll walk with you,” suguru says way too fast, already sliding out of the booth. he shoots satoru a very clear fix this look before the two of them disappear toward the front of the restaurant.

the second they’re gone, you turn on satoru. he reaches across the table and casually steals another slice of your pizza.

“what are you doing?”

“eating pizza,” he answers with his mouth full.

“satoru.”

“mhmm?” he leans back, one arm draped along the top of the booth, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who’s supposedly here on a date with someone else.

“you’re doing this on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“you brought up the teddy bear.”

“you said that i’m scared of birds.”

“because you brought up the sleep talking!”

“because you started with the lactose intolerance!”

“because you stole my muffin three years ago!”

“which,” he says, pointing the crust at you, “was clearly the best decision i’ve ever made.”

you let out a laugh. “what is your mission here? to embarrass me in front of suguru?”

“oh please. like i have nothing better to do.” he takes another bite. “what about you? telling rio i cried on the bathroom floor?”

“you did cry on the bathroom floor.”

“i was in pain!”

“you texted me i think this is how i go.”

“i thought it was!”

“you also asked me to clear your search history.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “can you please stop bringing that up?”

“never.”

he sighs, then takes another bite of your pizza. “anyway… what’s with you tonight?”

“what’s with me?”

“yeah. you’ve been taking shots at me all night. i thought i was doing you a favor setting you up with suguru.”

you let out a bitter laugh. “who even is rio? do you even know her last name?”

“of course i do,” he says, pausing for half a second. “it’s a very pretty name.”

“oh really?”

“yeah. way prettier than yours.”

“so what is it then?”

“that’s not the point.”

“wow.” you shake your head. “you’re on a date with a girl whose last name you don’t even know.”

“why do you care? you’re here with suguru.” he watches you and then that dangerous grin spreads across his lips. you already hate that grin. “oh my god.” 

“what?”

“you’re jealous.”

“i am not jealous.”

“you absolutely are.” he leans in, lowering his voice, the noise of the restaurant suddenly feeling very far away. “wanna know a secret?” before you can stop yourself, you lean in a little too. his smile only gets wider. “i think i’m into it… seeing you all worked up over me.”

“i am not worked up.”

“your ears are red.”

“it’s warm in here.”

“it’s really not.”

“satoru—”

“you could just say it, you know,” he says, and the teasing falls away a little. “instead of doing all this. you could just tell me.”

“tell you what?”

he opens his mouth—

“got ‘em!” suguru’s voice cuts through the moment like a bucket of ice water. he slides back into the booth beside you, way too cheerful. “movie tickets secured. four seats, back row. there’s an aisle in between, but it should be fine.”

you quickly look down at your glass, tracing patterns in the condensation. across from you, satoru leans back against the booth like nothing happened.

suguru glances between the two of you. “…you guys good?”

“great,” you say.

“perfect,” satoru says at the exact same time.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

the theater is already mostly full by the time you make it inside. the four of you walk down the aisle with popcorn and drinks in hand. you go in first on purpose. your plan is simple: you, suguru, aisle, rio, and then satoru. because that is how a double date is supposed to work, and it would put a very sensible amount of distance between you and satoru for the next two hours.

suguru starts to follow you in. and then satoru steps around him, drops into the seat right beside you, swings his long legs out, and settles in like he’s been there the whole night.

suguru blinks at him. satoru looks up at him and says nothing and does not move even an inch. there’s a long pause. then suguru sighs like he has decided this particular hill is not worth dying on tonight, and slides into the next seat over. rio settles beside him. 

you stare at suguru. he gives you a helpless shrug that very clearly says this one’s on you.

you turn to satoru. “you’re sitting next to me.”

“yeah,” he says. “that’s usually how sitting works.”

“that’s not how a double date works, satoru.”

“i don’t know. seems fine to me.” he glances down at your empty hands. “where’s your popcorn?”

“i was going to share with suguru before you decided i was not going to sit next to him.”

“oh.” he doesn’t look sorry at all. he simply holds his bucket out toward you. “here.”

you stare at the popcorn. then at him. he raises his eyebrows, waiting like this is a completely reasonable solution to the problem he created.

you take the popcorn. because you’re not arguing anymore, and also because you’re a little hungry.

“there you go,” he says.

the movie’s only been on for about twenty minutes when you reach into the tub and your fingers brush directly against his. his hand is already in there, waiting, not even pretending to be subtle.

you pull back quickly. “sorry.”

you wait a minute and try again. his hand is still right there.

“you’re doing that on purpose.”

“doing what?” he asks.

“putting your hand exactly where i’m about to put mine.”

“i’m just eating popcorn.” he tilts the tub toward you. “here. plenty of room. go ahead.”

you stare at him. he stares back, the picture of pure innocence. 

you wait. you watch him pull his hand back, rest it on his knee. you count to ten in your head, then reach in again—

his hand dives in at the exact same moment, fingers bumping into yours. he makes a small, thoughtful hum like oh, what a coincidence.

“satoru—”

“hm?” he’s already popping the stolen popcorn into his mouth, eyes glued to the screen.

you turn back to the movie, arms crossed. fine. you are a grown adult. you can ignore him. you don’t even want popcorn anymore. you’re just going to sit here like a mature, unbothered adult and watch the film.

you last exactly three minutes.

this time when you reach in, his hand catches yours completely. warm fingers curl loosely around your entire hand inside the tub. he doesn’t even pretend it’s an accident.

you freeze.

the movie keeps playing. someone says something dramatic on screen. you have no idea what.

“satoru,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“let go.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

“you are holding my hand.”

“our hands happen to be in the same place, yeah.” he tilts his head toward the screen. “good movie, by the way. you should watch it.”

“i hate you,” you whisper.

“no you don’t,” he replies softly. his thumb slowly strokes across the back of your hand—warm, slow, and so deliberately gentle it makes your breath catch.

you keep staring straight ahead, heart hammering against your ribs. something explodes on the screen. someone wins something. you have completely lost the plot. the only thing you can focus on is satoru’s hand curled warmly around yours inside the nearly empty popcorn tub, his thumb lazily tracing the side of your palm like he has all the time in the world.

you are gripping a mostly empty container in a crowded theater, desperately trying to look like a normal person watching a movie and not someone on the verge of a complete breakdown.

then he shifts in his seat.

the tub in his lap tilts slightly, and suddenly you feel it—hot, hard, and unmistakably pressed against the back of your fingers through the thin cardboard. 

your face burns.

satoru’s free hand grips the armrest a little too hard. you catch it from the corner of your eye. he tries to play it cool, but you feel the way he subtly adjusts his hips, trying (and failing) to ease the pressure without drawing attention. the movement only makes it worse. the thick outline drags heavier against your knuckles.

your face burns hotter. you don’t dare move. not even to pull your hand away. the theater is dark, but it suddenly feels blindingly bright, like every single person around you can sense exactly what’s happening under that stupid popcorn tub.

you should yank your hand back. you should. but then your fingers move—accidentally, of course—pressing more firmly against the thick shape of him. he’s so hard it makes your stomach flip. 

for a second he’s completely still, then he lets out a shaky exhale that sounds suspiciously like a laugh he’s trying to choke down. “fuck… you’re really gonna do this to me right here?” he whispers. 

his fingers tighten around yours, the ones still laced together. then, without warning, he pushes your intertwined hands down harder against his cock. the move is bold. greedy. he rocks his hips up just enough to grind the heavy length against your palm, letting you feel every inch of how badly he’s losing it.

he bites down on his lip, head tipping back against the seat. his breathing is no longer steady. neither is yours. he guides you again, pressing your palm down harder, encouraging you to rub along his full length from base to tip.

you’re pretty sure you’re two seconds away from actually dying in this theater seat. “satoru… we can’t do this here.” the words come out weak, almost breathless. even you don’t fully believe them.

“why not,” he whispers right against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “been so fucking hard for you the whole evening… you have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

your pulse is racing. you swallow hard, eyes darting toward the rows around you. “someone will see,” you whisper.

satoru doesn’t even hesitate. with his free hand, he reaches behind his neck and tugs off his oversized black sweater. the thin white t-shirt underneath rides up, flashing a tempting strip of toned, pale skin and his lower abs before it settles back down and then he drapes the sweater over his lap.

he grabs your hand again—still intertwined with his—and guides it right back under the soft black material. he presses your palm firmly against the burning outline of his cock.

“better?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, voice teasing even as it trembles with need. “no one can see now… so touch me. please… i’m dying for it.”

this is a horrible idea.

the thought screams in your head as your fingers stayed glued to his cock under the heavy fabric of his sweater. the movie is still playing, some loud action scene flashing across the screen, but all you can focus on is the very real possibility that this entire theater is about to call the police. or worse… that suguru and rio, who are sitting just two seats over to your left, might glance over at any second and see exactly what’s happening under that black sweater.

“satoru, this is insane. suguru and rio are right there—”

he doesn’t let you finish. his hand tightens over yours, guiding you again, pressing your palm fully against his throbbing cock and dragging it slowly up and down his length. the heat under the sweater is ridiculous. he’s impossibly hard, twitching every time your fingers move.

“should i touch you instead?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “but you have to keep quiet for me.”

the suggestion sends a fresh wave of heat through you. you know you should say no. you know this is risky and stupid and completely insane… but the thought of touching him again makes your mouth go dry.

instead of pulling away, your fingers curl tighter around him.

satoru lets out a shaky exhale as he guides your hand lower, helping you cup the heavy, throbbing base of his cock. your face burns, but you don’t stop. you want this. even if your heart is racing like it’s trying to escape your chest.

under the thick cover of his sweater, you start to stroke him slowly, feeling the full, heavy length of his cock twitch against your palm. satoru’s head tips back again, eyes closed as he bites down on his lip to stay quiet.

he shifts lower in his seat, hips tilting toward you. with one hand, he unbuckles his belt and pops the button of his jeans open, then tugs the zipper down just enough. 

the moment your fingers wrap around him, skin to skin, satoru’s whole body tenses. he’s burning hot, velvet-smooth, and achingly hard. thick enough that your fingers don’t quite meet as you curl them around his shaft. you feel him throb in your grip, a bead of wetness already smearing against your palm.

you’ve drawn him before—multiple times, in secret, late at night when your mind wouldn’t stop thinking about him, you drawn him in his dorm room, in class. you knew the shape. the length. the way the head flared. but this… this is completely different.

he feels impossibly hot in your palm, almost feverish. the skin is silky-smooth and velvet-soft over steel-hard thickness. he’s even bigger than you imagined when your pencil was moving across the page. your fingers don’t quite close all the way around him, and the weight of his heavy cock resting in your grip makes your thighs press together.

you feel the prominent vein running along the underside pulsing against your fingers as you stroke him slowly. every throb makes him twitch in your hand, jumping slightly like he’s overly sensitive. the head is slick already—smooth, swollen, and leaking steadily. when your thumb brushes over it, you smear the warm, slippery pre-cum across the tip, and satoru’s breath stutters hard.

“shit…” he hisses quietly, head falling forward. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted your hand on me like this.”

every slow stroke makes him leak more, coating your fingers and making the glide smoother and wetter. you keep stroking him under the sweater, a little bolder now. your fingers slide up and down his thick length, twisting slightly around the head on every upstroke just the way he seems to like. the slick sound of your hand moving over his pre-cum-coated cock is muffled by the sweater and the loud movie, but it still feels dangerously loud to you.

satoru’s breathing is ragged against your ear. every time you squeeze a little tighter or brush your thumb across the sensitive underside of his head, his cock twitches hard in your grip and he lets out a choked sound.

all the while, your mind is spiraling. you can’t stop imagining how this dick would feel inside you. you picture it stretching you open, that heavy, blunt head pushing past your entrance, forcing you to take every inch while he whispers filthy things against your neck. 

you imagine the way he’d throb deep inside you, the drag of those veins against your walls, the way he’d bottom out and grind against that spot that makes your back arch. you’d probably cry. you’d probably beg. 

your mind is spiraling out of control.

you can’t stop imagining dropping your head into his lap right here, right now. you want to take him into your mouth so badly, to taste him and feel that thick cock sliding over your tongue as you sink down until he hits the back of your throat. you want him to grip your hair and push deeper, fucking your throat while he tries desperately not to moan loud enough for the whole theater to hear.

the fantasy makes you clench around nothing. your hand moves a little faster, slicker, tighter.

“fuck, just like that—” he groans under his breath, barely keeping his voice down. “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep—ah—squeezing me like that…”

he’s panting now, body tense and trembling as you work him closer and closer under the cover of his sweater. it doesn’t take long. a few more firm strokes and then his teeth sink hard into his bottom lip, muffling the groan that tries to escape.

“fuck—i’m—”

thick, hot ropes of cum spill over your fingers, pulse after pulse, messy and endless, flooding your palm and dripping down between your fingers. satoru’s cock twitches in your grip with every spurt, leaking more and more hot cum and quickly soaking into the front of his boxers until the fabric is warm and drenched.

when it finally starts to slow, your hand is dripping with his cum. some of it has even leaked down onto his balls and the waistband of his boxers, making everything under the sweater a complete mess.

“…shit. look what you did to me.” a soft, dazed chuckle escapes him. “made such a fucking mess.”

satoru slumps in his seat for a moment, still catching his breath, his cock softening but still twitching. he lets your fingers run over his softening cock—slow, gentle strokes along the slick, sensitive length. even soft, he feels heavy and warm in your hand, the skin slippery with his own release.

then he turns his head, lips brushing your ear again. “let me return the favor.” and then he catches your wrist and brings your cum-covered hand to his mouth. his lips part, and he slowly sucks your fingers in, tongue gliding over them as he licks his own release off your skin. eyes on you as he watches your reaction.

the theater suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.

when he pulls back, a string of saliva and cum connects his bottom lip to your fingertip for a second before it breaks. he glances down at his own messy hands, the evidence of what you did to him still dripping slowly over his fingers.

“you on birth control?” he asks.

you shake your head, cheeks burning. “no…”

“okay,” he says, clearly running through his options. “bathroom?”

you freeze not sure what he suggests for a second. satoru leans in closer and presses a soft kiss just below your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

“let me take care of you. i can still make you cum on my tongue.”

your brain goes blank. before you can even spiral further, before you can decide between dying of shame or dragging him out of the theater yourself, the credits start rolling across the screen and the lights begin to slowly brighten.

before you can spiral into a full panic attack or seriously consider dragging satoru out by the collar, the credits start rolling and the theater lights begin to slowly brighten like a cruel spotlight on your sins.

“fuck,” satoru mutters beside you, quickly stuffing himself back together. “the movie’s over already?”

oh my god.

you just jerked off your best friend in the middle of a double date. in a movie theater. while suguru and rio were sitting two seats away. what would your grandma think of you? you are going straight to hell. there’s no coming back from this. they’re probably already reserving your seat next to the guy who invented pineapple on pizza.

suguru stands up on the other side of the aisle and looks over at you with a casual smile. “great movie, right?”

you don’t remember a single second of it.

“yeah! super… space-y.” you’re on your feet before your brain even gives the order, clutching your bag to your chest. “it’s really hot in here, right? i’m gonna head out first—”

suguru’s hand gently catches your wrist. “hey, you good?”

“totally! one hundred percent. never better.” you nod way too many times, smiling so wide it hurts.

he glances down at your hand—the one still glistening with the evidence of your crime—and his brow furrows slightly.

“you’re… sweating?”

your soul leaves your body.

“the movie was really unnerving,” you ramble, the words tumbling out in pure panic. “very tense. lot of, um, stakes.”

suguru blinks. the movie was really not that unnerving. but before he can point that out, you pull your wrist free and continue your desperate escape, squeezing past the last few people in the row like a criminal fleeing the scene.

︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵

you’re pacing a small circle outside the theater entrance, arms wrapped around yourself and your brain is going about a thousand miles an hour. your hands are still sticky. gross. warm. you can literally feel satoru’s cum drying between your fingers and it’s making you lose your mind even faster.

okay. okay okay okay. what the fuck was that. what just happened in there.

when did agreeing to this stupid double date turn into fighting over the popcorn tub only for satoru’s thick hard cock to suddenly be right there pressing against your fingers and then he was guiding your hand around him and you were actually jerking him off in the middle of the theater and he came so much all over your fingers and then he licked his own cum off your skin like it was the most normal thing in the world and—

this was supposed to be a double date.

a normal, safe, four-person group thing. you, suguru, satoru, and whoever the girl was he was supposed to bring. instead you ended up jerking your best friend off in the dark while your other friends sat two seats away completely clueless. 

you’re a horrible person. 

you’re a menace. 

you’re never showing your face in public again.

your face feels like it’s on fire. your thighs keep pressing together because you’re still stupidly wet from everything that happened and that only makes you spiral harder.

what is happening with satoru.

why did he want to sit right next to you. why is he always orbiting you like this and making your life ten times more complicated than it needs to be. didn’t he bring a girl he was supposedly into? then why the hell did he spend the entire movie glued to your side like he couldn’t breathe without touching you. why did he sound so desperate when he whispered please like that. why did he look at you with those stupid pretty eyes right after he came all over your hand like he was two seconds away from dragging you into the nearest bathroom and dropping to his knees to return the favor right there on the dirty floor.

you’re so fucked. you’re actually so fucked.

“hey.”

you jump so hard you nearly drop your bag. satoru is right beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets, hair slightly messy from the wind.

“what are you doing out here, it’s freezing.” without waiting for an answer he’s already tugging his black sweater off over his head and holding it out to you.

“i don’t need it,” you say.

“you’re literally shivering.”

“i’m fine.”

“take the sweater.” he doesn’t even argue. he steps closer and drapes it over your shoulders himself. it’s still warm from his body and it smells like him—clean, a little sweet, dangerously comforting. you hate how much you notice.

you clear your throat, trying to pull yourself together. “where’s suguru? and rio?”

satoru shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “they left.”

“left? like… together?”

“yeah. i think they like each other.” he glances at you sideways, a small smile tugging at his lips. “looks like we both got ditched by our dates. tragic.”

“oh,” you mumble. then, because you feel like you have to, “i’m sorry about your date.”

“what date.”

“rio? the girl you brought?”

“i didn’t even know her last name,” he says with zero shame. “met her at the vending machine outside the athletic building a few days ago, asked if she wanted to come. that was the whole thing.”

you stare at him. “satoru.”

“what?”

“you brought a literal stranger to a double date and now she left with suguru.”

he rocks back on his heels, grinning like none of this bothers him in the slightest. “i mean, good for them. sounds like they’re having a much better night than i was—sitting there for two hours trying not to lose my mind next to the girl i actually like.”

you blink. “…the girl you like?”

satoru rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little shy for once. 

“yeah,” he says, quieter this time. “i like you. like… a lot. have for a while now.” he lets out a soft laugh. “if you didn’t already figure it out from the whole ‘coming in two seconds the second you touched me’ thing… well. now you know.”

he steps closer, those bright blue eyes locked on yours. your heart races.

“and i think you like me too,” he adds, voice softer now.

you clutch the front of his sweater, mind still reeling.

“satoru…”

he tilts his head and watches you carefully. “i really want to kiss you right now,” he says, “but we’re standing in a shady movie theater parking lot and two people over there are staring at us. plus you made me cum before i even kissed you, which feels kinda backwards and ungentlemanly… so instead, i’m gonna ask you something.”

your heart races so hard you can barely breathe.

“what?” you whisper.

satoru smiles.

“will you go out on a real date with me? a proper one. just us. no strangers or best friends two seats over, and definitely with the right order of events this time.” his grin turns wicked. “talking… then kissing… then making you cum.”

“oh my god, satoru, stop,” you groan, covering your burning face with both hands. his words shoot straight between your legs and you hate how much you like it.

he laughs—that bright, carefree sound you’ve always been weak for—and gently pulls your hands down from your face.

“can’t help it. you do this to me.” his thumbs moves softly over your knuckles. “but i’m serious. let me do this right. one date. just you and me. no running away this time.” 

he leans in closer, voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone again.

“and then… i can finally kiss you. taste you. make you feel as good as you made me feel in that theater.”

you bite your lip. “…okay,” you say softly, a shy smile breaking through. “yes. i’ll go on a proper date with you.”

satoru’s whole face lights up. he steps closer, cups the side of your face with one warm hand, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. then he tilts his head and whispers right against your ear, “good. because once i finally get you alone, i’m gonna bury my face between your thighs and eat that pretty pussy until you’re shaking and crying my name. gonna make up for coming so fast earlier… and then fuck you slow and deep like i’ve been fantasizing about for way too long.”

you shiver, a tiny helpless sound slipping out. he pulls back with a satisfied smirk.

“alright,” he says, pulling out his phone like he didn’t just melt your brain. “i’m calling us an uber. our original driver apparently left with my fake date.”

he winks at you, tapping on his screen, while you stand there, face burning and legs barely working, on ther verge of passing out right here on the sidewalk like a victorian maiden who saw an ankle.

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◞　author’s notes well… that escalated quickly lmaooo. i didn’t initially plan to write smut with this one but oh well, satoru wants what he wants or something like that. anywayyyy thank you so much for reading!! this story is a mess but i’m having way too much fun writing it. see you in the next chapter 🥰🥰

© gojosconsort. do not repost, copy, translate, or claim as your own.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Dean hooking up with Garrett's sister at his and Hannah's wedding. This could be fun

I've been working on this one for almost two weeks. It's finally out!! I can't believe I wrote 8k...

Summary: The wedding bells are finally ringing — Hannah and Garrett are getting MARRIED! For the occasion, everyone reunites at a breathtaking lakeside venue in Massachusetts, just a stone's throw from where their story first began. Friends return, old memories resurface, and for one unforgettable weekend, Briar's favorite alumni are back together. Among the guests is Garrett's younger sister, who spent the last three years living her best life across Europe. She never expected to see Dean again — not after the week you shared together

Warnings: 18+, smut, p + v, secret relationship, drinking,

—

‘’Logan and Grace are going to go in first. Then, Allie and Tucker,’’ the wedding coordinator explained. ‘’Don’t forget, bridesmaids come in from this side and groomsmen the other.’’ 

They nodded, following the instructions and walking slowly and elegantly. 

‘’Best man and maid of honor, you'll be last before the bride— where is the bride?’’

Everyone looked around for Hannah, then turned to Garrett because he of all people should know where his future bride was. 

Truth was, he hadn’t seen Hannah in a few hours. Her parents had arrived in the morning along with other members of her family. Then, it was Allie’s turn, and although they had seen each other the night before, they had a lot to talk about.

‘’I’m here,’’ Hannah called with you in tow, making your brother sigh with relief. ‘’The strap of my dress broke so we had to sew it back on.’’ 

The two of you went to the back of the aisle while Garrett returned to his place at the altar.

The wedding coordinator smiled. ‘’Crisis averted. Shall we continue? Best man and maid of honor, you'll be the last ones down the aisle before the bride. Dean, once Garrett's in position, you'll take yours beside him.’’ 

Dean gave a curt nod. 

He hadn’t changed much since you last saw him. His hair seemed a little longer and his shoulders wider, but he still looked as handsome as you remembered. Especially in gray. It matched his blue eyes well. 

Tearing your eyes from him, you busied yourself by smoothing the wrinkles from Hannah's dress, adjusting the water bottle in her hands that served as a bouquet before stepping off to the side. It looked ridiculous, but her flowers won’t get here until tomorrow morning so Allie improvised and gave her a water bottle instead. 

You felt a nudge. Dean was waiting and offering you his arm. You apologized quietly and took it. 

The second your hand slipped into the crook of his arm, Dean straightened and you began walking side by side down the aisle — not as a couple, not even close —, but there was something undeniably intimate about it. 

With calm eyes looking ahead and a soft floral dress ending just above your ankles, you began walking. Every step brought you closer to your brother standing tall at the altar, but all you could focus on was the feel of Dean’s bicep under your hand. 

‘’How’s Florence?’’ the latter asked quietly. 

‘’Good,’’ you replied carefully. “Quiet. Beautiful. A little too easy to get lost in.”

Dean hummed softly, like he was picturing it. “Sounds like you picked the right place, then.”

You glanced up at him, but his eyes stayed forward, focused on the path ahead. Dean’s arm stayed steady beneath your hand as you walked, like he wasn’t thinking about it at all. Like this was just another role to play.

But you were very aware of it.

The warmth of him. The solid press of muscle under your fingers. The way he matched your pace without effort.

‘’You look good in that dress, by the way.’’ 

You almost stopped walking right there, taken by surprise by his compliment. It wasn’t just any compliment though. It lingered — heavier than it should have, carrying something unspoken beneath it.

The wedding coordinator watched carefully from the front, then lifted a hand. ‘’Perfect. Stop there!’’

You both came to a halt, still arm in arm. 

‘’Dean, you'll step over to Garrett once she reaches her spot. Maid of honor, you'll line up with the two bridesmaids. Your spot is at the front."

You nodded.

‘’Perfect,’’ the coordinator said, making a note on her clipboard. ‘’Now let's practice the bride's entrance.’’

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

For the rehearsal dinner, the wedding party had gathered around a long table in the property’s large backyard. The sun was about to set over the lake, giving a beautiful golden hour ambiance, which was perfect to take pictures for the wedding album.

Three years had gone by since you all sat down together. Life had pulled everyone in different directions — different cities, different countries. Sunday dinners like this didn’t happen as easily anymore.

But somehow, the chaos was exactly the same.

‘’Because G has banned me and Pricilla from his house. You know I would never miss your birthday, Hannah,’’ Tucker defended.

You glanced at him, a soft smile on your lips. ‘’Priscilla? You got a girl, Tuck?’’ 

Logan laughed, shaking his head between bites. ‘’Priscilla is Tucker’s golden lab.’’ 

You blinked. How did you not know Tucker got a dog?

You knew he had moved back to Texas and opened a gym, but somehow a whole dog had completely slipped under your radar.

‘’That dog got mud all over my couch the last time you came over,’’ Garrett added. 

‘’And the carpets…and the entrance wall,’’ said Hannah. 

‘’And Priscilla is very sorry about the mess,’’ Tucker apologized, completely unbothered. ‘’She’s better behaved now.’’

Garrett rolled his eyes.

‘’Can I see her?’’ you asked. 

Tucker pulled up an album from his phone and handed it over. ‘’This was when Dean visited last month. He took her on a run every morning. She loved him. Refused to leave the guest room for hours after he left.’’

You raised an eyebrow as you looked over the screen. ‘’You? Dean Di Laurentis? You went to Texas?’’ 

That was unexpected. Dean had always been a city person. The kind who preferred penthouses to ranches and clubs to open fields. You had difficulty imagining him in cowboy boots and a plaid shirt. 

You swiped to the next photo: Priscilla in a truck bed, a purple bandana around her neck, someone’s hand scratching her belly. You recognized Dean’s signet ring instantly. Swiping again, a short video of Dean in athletic shorts, shirtless and sweaty, likely coming back from a run. Tuck called for his dog, but the latter stayed by Dean’s feet. 

‘’She’s very cute,’’ you said, handing the phone back. 

You couldn’t risk staring at Dean’s naked chest too long.

Tucker slipped it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. ‘’She knows it, too.’’

‘’She also knows she can get away with murder,’’ Dean pointed out. ‘’Last Christmas, she stole an entire loaf of garlic bread off the counter.’’

‘’It was artisanal,’’ Tucker defended. ‘’My girl has expensive taste.’’

Garrett scoffed. ‘’She ate the plastic bag too.’’ 

Laughter rolled through the table, and something in your chest tightened.

When you left for Europe, you had assumed keeping up with your friends through social media, texts and phone calls would be enough to stay in the loop. Apparently, it wasn't. There was so much you had missed…

‘’Enough about that dog,’’ Allie decided, setting her empty glass of wine down. ‘’Now that Hannah and Garrett are tying the knot…who is next? I saw this gorgeous dress on 5th Avenue and I need an occasion to buy it.’’ 

Hannah laughed, shaking her head at her best friend. 

Garrett’s eyes turned to Logan. ‘’My bet’s on Logan. No pressure though,’’ he added. 

Allie made a disapproving sound. ‘’Your money’s already lost Graham because Logan doesn’t want to get married. Grace told me.’’

Grace narrowed her eyes at Allie and Logan was quick to defend himself. ‘’That’s not what I said.’’ 

‘’I said I didn’t see the point of spending so much money on a wedding. I’ve seen the prices and it’s insane shit. Right now, our priority is to get a house,’’ he explained, covering Grace’s hand with his. 

Beside him, Grace nodded. 

‘’We all know Dean’s never settling down, so that leaves you,’’ Allie continued, shifting her eyes to Tucker and then to you. ‘’And you.’’ 

‘’Tucker caught Dean’s college habit, so marriage is probably not on his mind,’’ Logan teased, only to receive a piece of bread thrown at him. 

‘’And my sister is not seeing anyone,’’ Garrett said, his eyes falling on you. ‘’She would have told me, right?’’ 

Before you could say anything, Allie did. 

‘’You don’t know that,’’ Allie said smoothly. ‘’She might have a mysterious Italian man she didn’t tell us about.’’

The table went a little quieter.

There had been an Italian man in your life, but that boat sank into the Mediterranean sea before it even left the port. His name was Edoardo. He was tall, handsome and worked as a chef at a high-end restaurant. You kept him from your friends due to that relationship not being serious enough to share. 

Dean’s gaze found yours then, steady and unreadable, like he was waiting.

‘’I don’t.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

After one last glass of wine, you wished everyone good night, then went to your room. Being the sister of the groom had its perks — you had been granted a room to yourself. Unlike Tucker and Dean who were forced to room together. It'll be like away games at Briar, Garrett told them with a clap on their shoulder and an amused smile. 

Unzipping your dress and removing the makeup from your face felt freeing. Although she was relatively comfortable, you had been wearing that dress since noon. You couldn’t wait to fall on the plush bed and close your eyes.

Except your eyes wouldn’t close. 

The ceiling fan turned slowly above you. Outside, faint frog sounds mixed with crickets as the moon glowed over the lake. It should be relaxing, but instead your mind wouldn’t quiet.

It kept replaying moments you didn’t want to replay too closely.

Dean’s arm under your hand.

His voice beside you in the aisle.

His eyes on you when Allie asked if you were seeing someone.

He hadn’t looked at you like that since…Paris. 

You had posted on your social media about setting foot in Paris and, a few days later, Dean sent you a DM about an hypothetical trip to Paris. He needed a place to take his mind off work because working at his grandfather’s law firm was sucking the life out of him. 

Seeing him haul his suitcase up to your small apartment the following made you mentally kick your feet and giggle. He was really there. For you.

That night, you went to the bar under your apartment and talked over a glass of wine. It was funny how quickly life had changed from beers at Malone’s to wine in Paris. You felt so…adult. 

‘’I didn’t know you were a win connaisseur, Di Laurentis.’’ 

Dean let out a quiet laugh, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another sip. ‘’I’m not. I just appreciate a good french red.’’

You smiled over the rim of your own glass. ‘’Paris does have great wines.’’ 

‘’What else is great about Paris?’’ Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer over the table. 

You wanted to grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. But you didn’t. 

Not long after, the combination of jetlag and a long flight hit Dean and you came back to your place. 

‘’I forgot to tell you, there’s only one bed,’’ you explained, slightly embarrassed, motioning to the Murphy bed near the window. 

Dean glanced at the bed, noting your light pink sheets that matched the ones at your old dorm — some things didn’t change. ‘’What?! I thought this was the Ritz.’’ 

You threw a pillow at him and he laughed. 

The next day, instead of taking him to all the tourist traps, you decided to show him your Paris. The neighborhood café you always go to for breakfast, your favorite bakery, little rituals you loved, and hidden corners tourists rarely see. Dean’s french was terrible, so you had to translate for him…and you may or may not intentionally left out the compliments locals gave him. 

It wasn’t until that evening that he made a move to kiss you. Not a sweet, romantic kiss like the romcoms. It was all tongue and pure desire, making up for all the time he had wanted to kiss you again but refrained from. You heard a passerby whistle teasingly but ignored him, gripping the front of Dean’s button up shirt to press him against you. 

That week in Paris was your best kept secret. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

It was nearly 1am when you heard a knock on your door. 

Peeling the comforter off you, you left your bed. You assumed it was Garrett getting cold feet and needing to talk, but when you cracked the door open, your heart stumbled.

Dean.

He had changed out of his dress clothes into a pair of athletic shorts, his blond hair looking like he had been tossing and turning for the past hour. 

‘’Sorry,’’ he said quietly. ‘’I thought this was Garrett’s room… Tucker’s snoring is a violation of the Geneva Convention. I was hoping to crash with him.’’

You raised an eyebrow. ‘’Garrett's room is on the floor above. He has the master bedroom.’’ 

‘’Right. I should I guessed that.’’

Dean scratched the back of his neck, his usual confidence dimmed by sleepiness and the late hour. The dimmed hallway light casted soft shadows across his unfairly handsome face. 

‘’Do you want to come in? Can let the best man show up with bags under his eyes. It’ll ruin the wedding picture.’’ 

Inviting Dean was at the rock bottom of the list of good ideas. Actually, it probably belonged somewhere below drinking champagne on an empty stomach and letting Logan pick the wedding playlist.

Because this was Dean.

Dean, who found you alone and crying on your birthday during your second year at Briar and took you to the closest bakery to buy your favorite cake. Because no one should be alone and crying on their birthday…especially without a cake. He even made it a tradition to send a chocolate and raspberry cake to your door on your birthday. Dean who punched Hunter Davenport after he cheated on you. Dean who kissed you the night the Hawks won the Frozen Four and called you his good luck charm. Dean who came to Paris just to spend time with you. 

And now he was standing in your doorway in the middle of the night, shirtless and looking far too good for you to keep your hands — and lips — to yourself.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

‘’You dropped out of law school?!’’ you repeated, staring at him in disbelief. 

‘’In my second year. And I left the family’s firm,’’ Dean added, sinking farther into the plush pillows, one arm hooked behind his head.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘’What?!’’ 

You had always found it ironic that the guy who got into the most trouble was the one who wanted to become a lawyer — like his grandfather. But the more you got to know Dean, the more you realized there was far more to him than his Six Flags reputation. Beneath the effortless charm was someone who was genuinely intelligent. He stayed on top of his classes, picked things up faster than most people, and had a sharp mind that made law seem like the perfect fit.

Dean gave a small shrug. ‘’I realized it wasn't for me. It was...too much.’’ His gaze drifted toward the ceiling before finding yours again. ‘’After I quit, I went down to Tucker's place in Texas for a few weeks. I needed to get away, clear my head, and figure out what I actually wanted to do with my life.’’

‘’Did you find it?’’

He hummed. ‘’I coach a junior girls team. I may have missed my opportunity to play in the NHL, but hockey is still part of me.’’ 

A smile spread across your face. ‘’That’s great, Dean.’’ 

He let out a quiet laugh, though it sounded almost embarrassed. ‘’Yeah?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ 

You pulled the plush blanket over your legs as a cool breeze slipped through the cracked window. As you shifted against the headboard, Dean's eyes flickered down your cami two-piece pajama for the briefest second, following the movement before catching himself and looking back up. He could probably see your nipples against the fabric, but it’s not like he hadn’t already seen them. 

‘’I’m sure you make an amazing coach.’’

A crooked smile tugged at his lips. ‘’Those girls are something else,’’ he continued. ‘’They're between eleven and thirteen, so half the practices are spent teaching them hockey, and the other half is convincing them that falling isn't the end of the world.’’ He chuckled. ‘’But when one of them finally nails a drill they've been struggling with, it's a better feeling than getting an A on any exam I ever took.’’

You couldn't help but smile wider. ‘’You like seeing them succeed.’’

He nodded. ‘’I do.’’ A thoughtful silence settled over him. ‘’I spent so long chasing what everyone else thought I should want that I never stopped to ask myself what actually made me happy.’’

His eyes met yours, steady enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Turns out, it wasn't arguing in a courtroom. It was being at a rink.’’ 

You held his gaze a second longer than necessary, his as beautiful as you remembered. In the soft moonlight spilling through the large window, you had a perfect view of the ripples of muscles of his chest and abs. He may not play hockey anymore, but his body still carried the unmistakable strength of an athlete.

Dean caught your wandering eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. ‘’What about you? Paris looked good on you. Why move to Florence?’’ 

‘’A job opportunity. You know the winery we visited together?’’

His expression softened slightly, the memory clearly clicking into place. ‘’The one where you tried to convince me you could tell the difference between wines?’’ 

‘’I could,’’ you defended, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him.

Dean laughed, catching it against his chest with an easy grin. ‘’You absolutely could not.’’

You laughed quietly before continuing. ‘’A position opened up in their marketing department. Their headquarters are in Paris, but the job is remote. I can work from wherever I want as long as I’m in the office once a month. Paris was amazing, but I wanted something different. Somewhere quieter.’’

Dean looked impressed — and proud. ‘’That’s great, baby.’’ 

The word slipped out so naturally neither of you registered it at first. Then both of you froze.

You searched his face before allowing the smallest smile on your lips. ‘’You used to call me that.’’

Dean let out a quiet breath. ‘’Old habits are hard to unlearn.’’ He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the longing in his eyes gave him away.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

A soft but insistent knock on your door slowly pulled you from sleep. Not again…

You chose to ignore it, far too comfortable under the sheets, and pressed your face deeper into your pillow. Whoever needed you could wait another ten minutes, right? 

Then you felt the warmth of someone beside you, and the events of last night came rushing back. You couldn't remember exactly when the talking stopped or who fell asleep first. You must have moved during the night absentmindedly because Dean’s arm was under the bottom of your top, resting over your soft skin and you were curled up against him. The touch was intimate, but not undesired.  

Peering one eye open, you saw that Dean was still asleep. His blond hair was messy from the night, his face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see. Without the usual smirk or playful confidence, he looked almost peaceful. 

You brushed a hand through his hair, wishing you could stop time and stay here longer. 

Unfortunately, a second knock hit your door. 

‘’Hey, you awake?’’ Grace's voice came from the other side. ‘’It’s past eight and Ava is here for hair. Madeline should be here in fifteen minutes for makeup. Unless you want to look like jetlag is affecting you, I suggest you come down. Oh, and there’s breakfast too!’’ 

Right. The wedding. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The large living area, which had been turned into a bridal glam suite, was already alive by the time you walked in. You hadn’t bothered dressing, not wanting to get unwanted clothing marks when you’ll change into your dress later. 

The smell of fresh coffee and pastries filled the room, mixing with the sound of laughter and the occasional panic that came with a wedding morning.

It was organized chaos.

Hannah sat on a chair in her silk robe, coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, laughing as Allie tried to convince her that she absolutely needed to get her hair into an updo because it’ll look better with her veil…and will make her chest stand out. 

‘’I don’t like having pins poking at my scalp,’’ Hannah argued, tearing a piece from her croissant. ‘’And my chest will stand out whatever I do. My dress is a sweetheart neckline.’’ 

‘’I’m with Allie on that, but not for the same reason,’’ Grace replied, sitting across from her while Ava was beginning to curl her hair. ‘’It’s gonna be hot today and having your hair down is only going to make you uncomfortable.’’ 

Hannah’s mom agreed with Grace, but reminded Hannah that it was her wedding. She could wear her hair however she liked.

You made yourself a plate with blueberry scones and some strawberries, trying to not think about the man who was in your bed. 

‘’So, are you feeling nervous?’’ you asked the bride-to-be. ‘’I can’t wait to have you as my official sister in law.’’ 

A sigh left the brunette’s lips. ‘’A little,’’ she admitted, trying to not think about everything that could go wrong. ‘’But who isn’t on their wedding day, right?’’ 

You rounded the table and sat beside Hannah, offering her a small smile. ‘’Well, if there’s one thing you can stop worrying about, it’s Garrett leaving you at the altar.’’ 

Hannah looked over at you, her eyes softening.

‘’My brother has been head over heels in love with you since college. I’ve never seen him smile the way he does when he’s with you, or talk about anyone the way he talks about you. You’re it for him.’’ You paused, glancing down at your hands before continuing. ‘’Garrett and I didn’t grow up with the best example of what love was supposed to look like. He was so scared of being like him… But he found an amazing girl who helped him realize that he wasn’t our dad’s copy. He was nothing like him.’’ 

Hannah’s eyes grew glassy, and she reached for your hand. ‘’I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry so early.’’ She tried to blink the tears away, but her mom handed her a tissue. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The ceremony was beautiful. 

The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the lake, its calm surface shimmering behind the flower-lined aisle. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers through the gardens, stirring Hannah's veil just enough to make it dance as she walked toward Garrett.

There wasn't a dry eye among the guests.

Especially after the vows. You had expected something heartfelt from Hannah. As a musician and songwriter, she had a way of putting even the biggest emotions into words. But Garrett? No one had expected him to put together something as touching. There hadn't been any grand declarations or poetic metaphors — just honest promises, quiet memories, and a love so undeniable even Cupid’s nemesis would’ve been rooting for them.

By the time the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, the entire lawn erupted into applause.

Garrett didn't hesitate. He cupped Hannah's face and kissed her as though he'd been waiting years for that moment — which, in a way, he had.

Across from you, you caught Dean looking at you. He didn't look away when your eyes met, holding your gaze.

You hadn’t talked once today. There hadn’t been any time to. From the moment you climbed out of bed this morning, the day had been a whirlwind of hair and makeup, dress repairs, photos, last-minute details, and the ceremony itself. 

For a brief moment, the cheers around you faded into the background.

He looked devastating in his blue suit, the tailored jacket hugging his broad shoulders and tapering perfectly at his waist. The crisp white shirt beneath it made his sun-kissed skin stand out, while the afternoon light caught the golden strands of his hair. Clean-shaven and effortlessly put together, he looked like he had stepped straight out of a perfume ad — so unfairly handsome it was almost distracting.

Dean’s gaze flickered back to the newlyweds before returning to you, and the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but something in the way he looked at you made your heart skip.

Behind you, Allie was studying the exchange without saying anything. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Long oak tables overlooked the lake, dressed with a dusty blue table runner that matched the cushion on the chairs. Low arrangements of pale blue delphiniums, white ranunculus, baby's breath served as centerpieces, accompanied by flickering candles. The woodland elegance matched Hannah and Garrett perfectly. 

On the very left, a small stage was built with a piano keyboard set in the middle, letting the guest assume Hannah would be performing later. According to Allie, she had written a song for Garrett. A song she never planned on releasing nor singing elsewhere. A song just for their big day. 

‘’A picture with the bride!’’ 

Jules called as they were holding  a camera, making sure you, Allie and Grace were all in the picture too. 

You had already taken loads of pictures, but these were only for the memories you would look back on years from now. Silly selfies, people dancing and laughing, and inappropriate gestures from the groomsmen. 

After the picture was taken, one of Hannah’s aunts stole her away and Grace went to Logan’s rescue, catching a woman well into her forties flirting with him. An amused laugh spilled on your lips at the sight. 

‘’What’s going on between you and Dean?’’ 

You snapped your attention back to her. ‘’What are you talking about?’’ 

Allie gave you a look. ‘’I saw him looking at you.’’ 

‘’You’re imagining things. When was the last time you had your eyesight checked?’’  

‘’Don’t play that card with me,’’ she warned, not letting go of the subject. 

You sighed. ‘’I’m not playing any cards, Allie. There’s Dean and I.’’ 

Speaking of Dean, he was standing by the bar, getting drinks with Tucker and a Bruins player. Tucker was talking about hockey stats, completely invested in whatever point he was trying to make, but Dean’s attention had shifted to you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the blue dress you were wearing and the way the silky fabric fell perfectly against your body.

He watched Allie leave, then turned back to the bartender and ordered another glass of champagne. 

‘’Thought you might need a refill,’’ he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear as he appeared at your side.

You smiled as you accepted the glass. ‘’Trying to get me drunk, Di Laurentis?’’

Dean's lips twitched. ‘’If I was, I would have brought you something stronger.’’

A laugh escaped you. ‘’Thanks.’’

As you took the flute, his fingertips lingered against yours for the briefest second before his other hand found the small of your back. The touch was innocent enough that no one around you would think twice about it, but you felt every second of it. You leaned slightly into him, taking a sip of champagne while his thumb brushed your skin lightly.

‘’Having fun?’’ he asked.

You looked around, seeing Hannah and Garrett smiling patiently through yet another round of family photos.

‘’It's weird,’’ you admitted. ‘’My brother is married.’’

Dean followed your gaze. ‘’I know.’’

‘’It feels like yesterday we were all at Briar, and now…’’ You laughed softly. ‘’Give them a couple of years and they'll probably be chasing toddlers around.’’

‘’Garrett's going to be an overprotective dad.’’

‘’Oh, absolutely.’’

‘’Hannah's going to pretend she's the reasonable one.’’

‘’But she'll secretly be worse.’’

Dean chuckled. ‘’One hundred percent.’’

For a moment, the two of you simply watched them, the conversation settling into a comfortable silence.

‘’So, when are you going back to Florence?’’ Dean asked.

Before he could answer, the band eased into a slow song. Around you, conversations quieted as couples drifted toward the dance floor. 

‘’Dance with me.’’ 

You blinked. ‘’Dean…’’ 

He set his champagne flute on the nearest table before holding out his hand. ‘’Come on. It’ll be like on Canal Saint-Martin.’’ 

The memory hit you instantly — the warm summer night along Canal Saint-Martin, some musicians strumming their instruments beneath the glow of a lamppost while a small crowd lingered along the water's edge. Without a second thought, Dean had held out his hand, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, and pulled you into the music. He surprised you by not stepping on your feet — not even once. You swayed to the music, his hand settling at your waist before he effortlessly twirled you beneath the glow of the moon. 

No one had ever danced with you like that. No one had ever looked at you the way he had that night. 

You looked at his outstretched hand for another second before slipping your fingers into his. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You couldn’t remember who made the first move. Who reached for whom. All you knew was that Dean's lips were on yours and your hands all over each other’s body. 

Every few steps, one of you would reluctantly pull back just enough to keep climbing the stairs before crashing together again and kissing against the wall, unable to wait until you reached somewhere you could finally be alone.

This kiss was the first since Paris. 

That last night, you both agreed to never speak of Paris. Because you would never work as a couple. Dean was in New York, working at his family’s firm and would be attending law school in the fall while you were on the other side of the ocean. The distance between you was simply too much. 

Yet here you were. 

Dean’s hand cupped your jaw as he kissed you again, his tongue sliding in and caressing yours. Your fingers tangled in the lapels of his suit, wrinkling the expensive fabric as he backed you up another step.

A laugh escaped you when your heel caught on the edge of the stair.

‘’Careful,’’ Dean murmured against your mouth, one arm instinctively circling your waist before you could lose your balance. ‘’I don’t want you to get a concussion before I get my piece of cake. I’ve been wanting to do kiss you all day.’’ He pressed his right below your ear. ‘’To touch you all day,’’ he continued, kissing down your neck. ‘’To fuck you all day.’’ He pulled the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder and kissed your exposed skin. 

You leaned your head back, pliant under his lips, and pushed your hands into his hair. Dean’s breath hitched when you pulled at it, loving the way you knew exactly how to unravel him.

He kissed down your collarbone, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of skin he hadn’t touched in what felt like a lifetime ago. 

Once you made it into one of the rooms, you pulled Dean’s jacket off and began working on his belt while he lifted the bottom of your dress up, high enough to slip a hand under and press his hand over your panties. 

‘’Dean,’’ you mewled, bucking against him. 

He smirked against your lips, keeping going as he felt a wetness soak through the fabric. ‘’Like that, babydoll?’’ 

Tease was Dean’s second name. This man absolutely loved to play with your body and vice versa. He could spend over an hour just doing that. But your body was literally aching for him right now. 

‘’Dean,’’ you repeated, breaking the kiss. ‘’If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll kick you out of this damn room and do it myself.’’

He didn't need to be told twice. 

Pants down to his thighs, the blond slipped a condom on before pushing inside you, the sensation making you gasp  sharply and claw at the vanity table under you. You had almost forgotten why everyone at Briar went to him for a good time. Your body arched at the delicious stretch, your walls clenching around his cock. 

‘’Ah, fuck,’’ you moaned, feeling him fill you. 

Dean thrusted into you with long, deep strokes, his hands on your hips keeping him anchored. ''Baby, you feel so good,'' he praised, his pelvis smacking against your ass loudly. ‘’Missed this so much. Missed you so much.''

You rocked back against him, meeting his thrusts as desire ran through your whole body. There was no better dick than this one. Not that you would ever admit it. 

Curses left his lips as he thrusted more erratically, desperate and needy after all this time apart. Your breasts were threatening to spill from your dress, whose skirt was currently bunched up at your waist for accessibility purposes. Taking it off would have been easier, but neither of you bothered fully undressing. 

After you both finished, Dean, who was spent and breathless, pressed kisses up your spine, a smirk curling on his lips. He wasn’t ready to let go of you — and neither were you. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You and Dean slipped back into the celebration, each stealing a glass of champagne from a passing server. The music was still playing, laughter drifted across the lawn, and, thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed you had disappeared.

Dean took a sip of champagne, but you stopped him. 

‘’Wait,’’ you said, reaching up and brushed your thumb across the corner of his mouth, wiping away the faint smear of your lipstick.

‘’Where were you?’’ came Grace’s voice from behind you, making you both turn a little too quickly. ‘’You missed the bouquet toss.’’ 

You nearly choked on your champagne.

For a second, your mind went completely blank. Between the lingering taste of Dean’s lips, the orgasm he just pulled out of you and the pleasant haze you were basking in, coming up with a believable excuse felt impossible.

Dean didn't miss a beat.

"She lost an earring," he said smoothly. ‘’I was helping her look for it. It belonged to her mom’s, so it’s a very sentimental piece.’’

Grace's face immediately fell. ‘’Oh no! Did you find it yet?’’ 

You nodded, forcing a small smile. ‘’It was in the grass, over there,’’ you said, pointing to the right. 

Relief softened her features. ‘’Good!’’ 

Guilt twisted in your stomach as she smiled, completely convinced. But before you could dwell on the lie, Grace linked her arm through yours and dragged you away from Dean. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Hannah disappeared for a few minutes before returning in a different dress — a simple white satin gown that flowed around her as she crossed the lawn toward the small stage. A hush gradually settled over the reception. Conversations faded, glasses were set down, and every guest turned toward her.

She smiled as she settled onto the piano bench, smoothing the skirt over her legs before resting her hands lightly on the keys. Behind her, hundreds of fairy lights twinkled against the trees, reflecting softly across the dark lake. The warm glow bathed the stage in gold, making it feel almost magical.

Garrett stood at the front of the crowd, unable to take his eyes off his wife. 

Hannah leaned toward the microphone with a nervous laugh. ‘’Garrett and I had an unusual debut, you could say. I was going to tutor him in Ethics and, in exchange, he would help me get this one guy’s attention. He came up with this whole plan where we would pretend to date...except we forgot about the pretending part.’’

Laughter rippled through the guests, Garrett shaking his head with an affectionate smile.

Hannah's sparkling eyes found him before she continued.

‘’Music has always been my form of expression — my refuge. With a guitar in my hand and a sheet or paper, I was practically the next Taylor Swift,'' she continued, glancing at Allie. ''But there came a moment in my life where I was convinced I had lost my creativity and ability to write lyrics.''

She looked down, making your heart ache. The past may be behind her, but would never stop hurting. You had never met someone as strong as Hannah. 

‘’Garrett encouraged me to write songs again.’’ Her smile returned. ‘’He would listen to my old videos and tell me how he loved that song. How he loved my voice. His confidence in me gave me the courage to write again and to perform my original work.'' 

You’ll never forget the day of her showcase. How everyone had rushed to the auditorium to see her perform and support her. She and Garrett were broken up at that time, but he had stood in the front row — for her. 

‘’The day I accepted to tutor him was the best decision I made because, unknowingly, I needed him just as much. He didn't just make me fall in love — he made me believe in my music again. And without him, I wouldn't be recording in a music studio. So, for our special day, I decided to write and dedicate this song for you, my husband.’’ 

Hannah pressed the first keys and you got lulled into her melody, the soft notes drifting across the lakeside like a secret meant only for the two of them.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The entire world seemed to narrow down to Hannah sitting beneath the glow of the fairy lights and Garrett standing a few feet away, looking at her like she had hung every star in the sky herself.

Her voice joined the piano, gentle at first, carrying every emotion she had poured into the song. It wasn’t a performance. Not really. It was a love letter set to music.

You watched Garrett’s expression change as he listened. The playful smile he had worn moments ago slowly disappeared, replaced by something softer. Something vulnerable. 

Your eyes drifted through the crowd, looking for Dean.

He stood on the other side of the stage with Tucker, his attention on you — again. Except this time, there was no smirk. No teasing grin. No playful look in his eyes. He was just looking at you. Really looking at you. And somehow, that felt more dangerous.

You expected him to look away the second he realized you had caught him, to put that familiar wall back up and pretend he hadn’t been watching. But he didn’t.

Dean held your gaze across the crowd, the music filling the space between you.

Then Hannah’s voice rose, pulling your attention back to her. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

As fun as weddings were, nothing compared to the moment you finally take off your shoes. Pretty shoes were demons in a heel form! With a relieved sigh, you slipped the straps from your ankles and kicked the heels away before wiggling your sore toes against the cool bathroom floor.

You removed your jewelry and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your hair was beginning to fall from its carefully pinned curls, and your makeup was begging to be removed. 

Just as you were about to change out of your dress, you heard your door open and close. The sound of the water faucet running covered it, causing you a near heart attack when you saw Dean’s reflection in the mirror. 

‘’You want to kill me, Di Laurentis?’’ 

His tie had disappeared somewhere throughout the evening and the top three buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked just as tired — and tipsy — as you felt. 

‘’You’re too beautiful to kill,’’ Dean replied with an easy smile, leaning against the bathroom doorframe.

You turned off the faucet and snorted. ‘’That’s your opening line? You’d make a shit slasher killer.’’ 

‘’Who said I wanted to be a slasher killer? Can’t hide that handsome face under a mask.’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’What are you doing in my room?’’

He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a few slow steps into the bathroom. ‘’I wasn't lying, by the way."

You paused, your hand resting on the edge of the sink. ‘’About what?’’

He met your eyes in the mirror. ‘’About you looking beautiful.’’ 

‘’Can you unzip my dress?’’

Dean reached for the delicate zipper, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of your back as he slowly eased it down. The soft rasp of the zipper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet bathroom. 

When he finished, his hands lingered at your waist as he caught your eyes in the mirror, then pressed a soft kiss on your shoulder. ‘’Anything else?’’ 

You pulled the thin straps from your shoulders, letting the dress slip down your body until it pooled around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Dean's gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror, sweeping over your bare skin before finding your eyes again. You should have felt shy beneath his attention, but you had been naked together long enough to not care anymore. 

A light groan left Dean’s throat. ‘’Now you’re going to kill me.’’ 

A cocky grin threatened to spread on your face. You would never get over the power you had over this man. This man who normally oozed confidence like cologne, could melt into something softer just from seeing your naked body. No one else ever acted that way with you.  

‘’Am I?’’ 

One of his hands slowly moved up to your chest, cupping and squeezing your breast in his large hand. ‘’Yeah. I’m fucking dead, babydoll.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Morning came far too soon. 

You woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden, the kind that made it impossible to pretend you were still asleep. Past you was an idiot for not shutting the blinds last night. 

Rolling over, you came face to face with Dean’s blue eyes. 

‘’Morning,’’ he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Somehow, even after an entire night of celebrating, he looked unfairly good.

A small smile pulled at your lips before you could stop it. ‘’Morning.’’

He watched you for a moment, then a familiar crooked grin appeared.

‘’What?’’ you asked.

‘’Nothing.’’

‘’You're staring.’’

‘’Can't I appreciate the view?’’ 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't hide your smile. 

Before Dean could come up with another smug remark, the door swung open and Allie rushed inside, her hair a mess and missing one slippers on. 

‘’Bathroom emergency!’’ she announced breathlessly. ‘’My room doesn’t have a bathroom and someone is already using the main one and I really, really need to…pee.’’ She came to an abrupt stop, her eyes darting from you and then to Dean, and the fact that his bare ass was in full sight. ‘’Oh my god.’’ 

Allie’s jaw dropped. For a solid three seconds, she didn’t move — or breathe — and just stood there like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe. Then her brain caught up. Dean Di Laurentis was in your bed and completely naked. 

‘’Oh my god!'' she shrieked again, louder this time.

Dean barely flinched, while you wanted to disappear through the mattress. Not because you were embarrassed of being seen with him. It just wasn’t how you wanted to reveal your ‘relationship’. 

And you wanted to have a talk with Dean before telling anyone. What did last night mean? Was it simply two people getting caught up in a wedding, too much champagne, and old feelings...or was it the beginning of something real? You needed to know where Dean's head was. Where his heart was. 

‘’I’ll be back,’’ Allie declared, her bladder forcing her to rush to the bathroom. 

‘’Cover yourself,’’ you hissed at Dean, pulling up the sheets to hide his lower half. 

He grinned like the devil. ‘’That’s not what you were saying last night.’’ 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

You had forgotten how American brunch was different from in Europe. You had grown accustomed to fresh bread, cheese, prosciutto, and an espresso that disappeared in three sips. Here, brunch was an event — towering stacks of pancakes, bacon, sausage, eggs, hashbrowns, endless refills of coffee, and enough food to keep you full until dinner. 

It was also the perfect cure for hangovers. 

They also had bottomless mimosas. This was the best part of American brunch. 

At one of the tables, Tucker, Logan and three Bruins players were stuffing their faces with eggs, bacon and hashbrowns while feeling the weight of an elephant sitting on their head. Some things never changed. 

A few tables over, Allie and Grace were sitting together, visibly regretting last night’s last glass of champagne. 

With a plate of pancakes and a mimosa in hand, you walked over to them. ‘’How’s the head, Gracie?’’

‘’I hate champagne,’’ she replied, glaring at your mimosa. 

‘’She and Logan stole a bottle of champagne last night,’’ Allie explained, stabbing a hashbrown. ‘’It didn’t agree with the cocktails and she got sick.’’ 

‘’Oh no,’’ you said, feeling bad for Grace. 

‘’That’s Logan’s fault,’’ the latter grumbled. ‘’He kept getting me refills—’’ 

‘’Heard that!’’ Logan called from his seat. ‘’I plead not guilty.’’ 

You laughed, then began eating your pancakes. 

‘’So,’’ Allie began. ‘’Did you sleep well? Aunt Shauna said she heard some strange noises all night. Her room right next to yours.’’ 

Lifting your head from your plate, you glared at her. She may have kept her mouth shut about this morning, but you knew Allie Hayes too well to know she would do anything to pull the juicy gossip out of you. 

You opened your mouth to spill out some lie, but Dean appeared at your table. He had showered and changed out of his wedding clothes. 

‘’Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but Garrett is looking for you.’’ 

You raised an eyebrow. Was Garrett actually looking for you? Unlikely. He and Hannah were busy thanking Hannah’s family for their gifts and for coming to the wedding. They were from the midwest, so some of them were going to hit the road soon. 

‘’I'll be back,’’ you told the girls.

‘’Take your time,’’ Allie sang, her grin widening.

You shot her a warning look that only made her smile harder.

Dean waited until you had fallen into step beside him before leading you away from the dining room and out onto the wraparound porch overlooking the lake. The chatter from brunch faded behind you, replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the few singing birds. 

‘’We need to talk.’’ 

You nodded. ‘’I know.’’ 

‘’I assumed we would talk in the morning, but hurricane Allie blew in and…’’ Dean trailed, taking a seat on the bannister so he was closer in height to you. ‘’This weekend, it wasn’t just a wedding fling. Not for me. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I quit the firm. About us.’’ 

He let the words settle between you before continuing.

‘’Not just the physical part. Although the sex is fucking great.’’ 

You let out a small laugh. He wasn’t wrong. 

‘’What I’m saying is, I want to try us. For real.’’ 

‘’We still live on different continents, Dean,’’ you reminded him. 

‘’I know. But we were at different stages of our life back then. I think we can work.’’ Dean searched your face, as if trying to gauge whether you were on the same page or not. ‘’I coach from September to May. I have the whole summer to myself. And you said it yourself, your job is remote. You can spend a few weeks in New York, work from there. We can make it work.’’ 

You stared at him.

Because that was the thing about Dean. When he really wanted something, he didn't just talk about it. He figured out how to get it. But right now, he was making it sound almost too easy. 

‘’I know there'll be days where the time difference sucks. Days where one of us is tired or busy or wishes the other person was just there.’’ He paused, reaching for your hands and pulling you in. ‘’But I want this. I want us, baby.’’ 

Your heart tightened. 

‘’Dean…’’ 

‘’You want it too. I know it.’’ He leaned his forehead against yours. ‘’I feel it.’’ 

Of course you wanted it. Wanted him. But you were scared of hurting. Because love was painful. 

‘’I don't want this to be something we try for a few months and then give up when it gets hard,’’ you admitted. ‘’I don’t want to get hurt, Dean.’’ 

His expression turned serious again. ‘’Neither do I.’’

He leaned to kiss you, slow and deep, and you melted against his tongue. 

Behind you, the door opened and Garrett stepped out. ‘’What the fuck?!’’

══════════════════

Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb @mads-writes-vibes @harls-sturn @fangirl93 @parker-barnes-af @thedarkqueenofavalon @kootiestillidie @taliescapes @kmc1989 @glndacore @aestramjackson @ilocuras24 @daiiverse @themarvelousbee @Hagarsays @leilareads58 @Dstark-0706 @mmsdilaurentis @cosmosnkaz @peterholland04 @msmarvelknight @thesunshoe @QueenMariahh816 @francescatott @moltenshardtrinity @leilani-nichole @saltyfriendsaladbandit @gillybear17 @RossieBurrow @justkeepingitpeachy @obxobsessedbitch @grxnde-dwt @laveyvt3 @user23465 @mikiyamarie @Dstark0706

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Dean Di Laurentis Masterlist

Baby doll {Dean x reader} {COMPLETED} Warnings: Phil Graham, anxiety/panic attacks mentioned, sex, abuse, mentions of death, pregnancy, labour, birth, post partum depression

P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7, P8, P9, P10, P11, P12, P13, P14, P15, P16, P17, P18, P19, P20, P21, P22, P23, P24, P25, P26, P27, P28, P29, P30, P31, P32, P33, P34, P35, P36, P37, P38, P39, P40, P41, P42, P43, P44, P45, P46, P47, P48, P49, P50 Epilogue

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Fake it until you make it (or try to) {Dean x sick!reader} no warnings

P1, P2

Summary: You get the flu and try and hide it, but Dean finds out. Dean then gets sick, tries to hide it, but you find out.

Change for good {Dean x reader} no warnings

High Maintenance {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluff :)

My Girl {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluffy :)

Light as a feather {Dean x curvy!reader} no warnings

One Time Thing {Dean x brat!reader} heavily smutty

Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader}

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

P1, P2, P3, P4

Taglist {open}: @ooopssssu @sleep-i-ness @zagreen @alice07ea @adrienneleclerc @nau-van @kmc1989 @femurgetokill @sshxamy @f4ll3n28 @redbag55 @meriamloves-tsunoda-yuki @rainbowstar405 @gandalfthegoatsblog @dina2223 @partygetsmewetter12 @notplutos @lulusa27 @angelsvoice1love @superbfishhumanoidweasel @ilocuras24 @inchidentontheracetrack @five-seconds-flat @thecraziestcrayon @yolasturlis @noonenuts @wonderland2425 @purplerainx1 @sarcasm-ismy-onlydefense-blog @iamshiningeuw @nicolej04 @mld25 @brianna28483 @fangirl93 @bellarkeselection @calums-betch @mswwvaleska @wiishies @bookluver114 @hagarsays @lilliepetalx @raynetargaryan2 @c-a-b3002 @mariamadison6-blog @baeeyarr @monayyy-21 @demirunner @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns @loverofmusic @velvetsighs @alwaysclassyeagle @missbmc94 @ethanthequeefqueen @garrettgrahamssexysnaps @parker-barnes-af @peterpangirl21 @katrinaellie @idontknowwhyimhere33 @powellssaturn @sangxiaonisworld @ephemeralninon @kkkkisworld @laenys-targaryen @smilezzz-artzs @chanelwidag @superlegend216 @thatsavioletiontobe @hwishwimcl

[mutantvampireearthquake-deactiv]

𝒟ress

Dean Di Laurentis

Summary: “Only bought this dress so you could take it off” SMUT ;) !!!

Dean pressed you against the hotel door. His mouth came down on yours.

Hot and demanding.

You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer.

No one else knew about the looks he gave you.

No one knew about the late night hookups.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing heavy and his expression drowning in lust.

Every second felt like a risk, yet neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

Dean dropped his room key onto the dresser. He unclipped his bowtie with one hand, letting it drop to the carpet, before turning his gaze to you.

“You're fucking killing me in that dress.”

“Yeah?” You took a slow step backward, your heels sinking into the rug. “You didn't seem too bothered by it earlier.”

Dean let out a low laugh.

He pulled off his suit jacket, tossed it over a chair, and walked toward you. “Because I was exercising a terrifying amount of self control. All I could think about the entire night was this moment.”

“Hm.”

He closed the distance between you, his large hands finding your waist. The heat of his palms burned straight through the thin fabric.

Dean leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hitching.

A shiver shot down your spine.

Dean’s thumb traced the edge of your hip.

His touch deliberate and heavy.

He was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

But right now, he was taking his time.

Making you ache for it.

“Dean,” you breathed, your hands coming up to rest on his shirt.

His eyes darkened as they dropped to your lips. “Tell me to take it off.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Take it off.”

Dean didn't need to be told twice.

“God, you’re so beautiful," Dean muttered, unzipping your dress.

“We have to be quiet. Hannah and Garrett are next door.”

“Let them listen. I don't care.”

You traced the sharp line of his jaw. “If this gets out, we're done.”

He pulled you flush against his body. The fabric of your underwear rubbed against his suit pants. “I spent the whole night watching men look at you,” he growled softly. “It drove me insane.”

He hooked his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Say you're mine for tonight.”

“I’m yours.”

He didn't waste another second. He took your lips again.

His hands shifted, lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist.

“Good. Because I'm not sharing you with anyone.”

He carried you away from the door. Both your movements clumsy and frantic as neither of you wanted to break the kiss.

You tumbled onto the mattress together.

“Condom?” you asked quietly.

Dean nodded, reaching for his wallet.

After a brief moment, he leaned back over you.

His gaze locked entirely on yours.

There was so much heavy tension between you both.

It was suffocating.

But also, everything you’ve ever wanted.

“Fuck me,” you whispered. “Please, Dean.”

With no warning, his cock pushed inside of you.

“Like that?”

“Mhm.”

His fingers caressed your clit, using your wetness for a lubricant.

“That’s it, baby. Look at how well you’re taking me.”

You stared down, and if that isn’t the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

The rush of lust and adrenaline was all consuming.

Your moans filled the room.

Every thrust was rough and euphoric.

“Fuck,” you cried.

The feeling was overwhelming. You couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’m going to—”

Your orgasm came quick.

Your legs trembled and moans grew louder.

“Just like that, baby. Ride it out.”

You moaned his name again. Letting the wave crash through you.

“Fuck. You feel so good.”

“Come for me,” you begged, still nauseous from the high.

A string of curses left his mouth as he pulsed inside of you, filling the condom up completely.

“Fuck, baby.” He rested forehead on your shoulder as his breathing slowly leveled out.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant noises of city traffic below the hotel window and your heavy breathing.

Dean shifted his weight, kissing the top of your shoulder one last time before sliding out of the bed. The mattress lifted as he walked across the hotel room toward the bathroom.

A moment later, the sound of running water echoed into the bedroom.

He returned holding a towel that he had soaked in warm water.

He sat back down on the edge of the mattress. “Sit up a little, baby.”

You did just that.

He used the warm towel to gently clean your body.

When he finished, he tossed the towel onto a nearby chair and pulled the heavy duvet back over your shoulders.

He slid under the covers beside you. He pulled you back flush against his chest. “Better?”

You nodded against his chest. “Much better.”

Dean let out a satisfied hum and tightened his grip around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Sleep, baby. I've got you.”

[andy-15-07]

I can totally get behind more Dean Di Laurentis

Come Sit With Me

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis  x Reader

Word Count: 1842

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

Dean noticed the staring before you did.

That was the annoying thing about him sometimes. He could be half-laughing at something Garrett said, one hand wrapped around a drink, looking like he was only barely paying attention to the room, and still catch every tiny thing that mattered.

Especially when it involved you.

You were standing across the crowded living room at the hockey house, talking to one of Garrett’s friends from class. Or maybe former friends. Dean had decided he did not care enough to remember the name. The guy was smiling too much, leaning in too far, and looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face for later.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

He said nothing at first.

Garrett, sitting beside him on the couch, glanced over and immediately followed his line of sight. “Oh,” Garrett said, because he was an annoying bastard and apparently enjoyed being observant for sport. “That guy.”

Dean took a slow drink from his cup. “What about him?”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “He’s been looking at her for a while.”

Dean kept his expression blank with effort. “Has he.”

“Yep.”

Dean’s eyes stayed on you. “And you’re telling me this because?”

Garrett turned toward him with that look that always meant he was about to be unbearable. “Because you’re doing the thing.”

Dean finally looked at him. “What thing?”

“The quiet thing.”

“I’m not quiet.”

Garrett gave him a long look. “Dean, you’ve barely spoken in ten minutes.”

Dean ignored that and looked back at you just in time to see the guy laugh at something you said. He laughed a little too loudly. Too confidently. Then he leaned in again.

Dean exhaled through his nose.

Garrett saw the movement and smirked. “Yeah. That face.”

Dean gave him a warning look. “Say another word and I’m throwing your drink in the sink.”

Garrett grinned. “You love me too much to waste the alcohol.”

Dean made a very rude gesture with his hand and stood up before the situation could get worse. Garrett watched him go with open amusement, the traitor.

You were still talking when Dean approached, and the second you saw him, your expression changed. Not much. Just enough to soften. Enough to make him feel better immediately, which was a little unfair considering how annoyed he’d been three seconds ago.

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

“Hey.” His tone was calm, but he positioned himself slightly closer than necessary, just enough to make the point. “You’re needed.”

The guy you’d been talking to glanced between the two of you. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I was just,”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, because he was not rude, just very obviously done. Then he looked at you. “Come sit with me.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was enough to make the guy’s smile flicker.

You blinked at Dean. “What?”

Dean held your gaze, all easy confidence and quiet certainty. “Come sit with me.”

You looked at the guy beside you, then back at Dean, clearly trying to work out whether he was serious. Dean didn’t move. Didn’t explain. Just stood there looking at you like there was no other reasonable option.

Then, very slowly, your mouth curved. “Okay.”

Dean’s hand settled at the small of your back the second you stepped closer, and the guy’s expression went just a little awkward.

“Nice talking to you,” you said politely.

The guy nodded, clearly too uncertain now to be smooth about it. “Yeah. You too.”

Dean guided you away before the conversation could revive itself.

You made it about three steps before you looked up at him and murmured, “What was that?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just led you to the couch, waited until you sat, then sat down and pulled you straight into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your eyes widened.

A few people on the opposite side of the room noticed too, which was exactly why Dean had done it.

He wrapped one arm around your waist and leaned back against the couch, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You stared at him. “Dean.”

“What?”

“You did that on purpose.”

He looked innocent in the way only he could manage, which was to say, not at all. “Did what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely around you, at the room, at your position in his lap, at the fact that everybody now knew exactly whose attention you had. “All of this.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “I invited you to sit with me.”

“You did not mean this.”

“I absolutely meant this.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth ruined the effect. “You’re ridiculous.”

Dean settled his hand at your hip and gave you a look like he was weighing whether to be honest or smug. He chose smug. “He was staring.”

That made you pause. “You noticed that?”

Dean gave you a flat look. “Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since before I came over.”

You turned slightly in his lap so you could look at him properly. “And you didn’t say anything.”

He tilted his head. “Would you have wanted me to make a scene?”

“No.”

“Then there you go.”

You watched him for a second. “So you just decided to carry me off like a territorial cat?”

Dean’s brows lifted. “I prefer confident boyfriend.”

You laughed softly. “You are definitely being territorial.”

His hand flexed once at your waist. “Maybe a little.”

The answer was so calm that it made you smile wider. Dean saw it and looked mildly offended by his own sincerity. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You leaned in just a little, close enough that only he could hear you over the noise of the room. “You got jealous.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I did not get jealous.”

“You absolutely did.”

He looked at you for a long second, then said, very quietly, “He was looking at you like he had a chance.”

You blinked.

The room around you blurred a little at the edges, not because anything had changed, but because Dean had lowered his voice into that serious register he almost never used unless something actually mattered.

You studied him. “Did that bother you?”

Dean’s expression shifted, then softened in a way that made your chest go warm. “Yeah,” he admitted. “A little.”

Your lips parted.

He glanced away for half a beat like he regretted saying it, then looked back at you again, calmer this time. “I don’t like people thinking they can step in where they don’t belong.”

The words settled over you in a way that was equal parts flattering and dangerous. Because Dean wasn’t possessive in a loud, messy way. He wasn’t trying to own you. He was just honest enough to admit that he liked being the one you were with.

That, somehow, was worse.

In the best way.

You touched his cheek, and the tension in his face eased instantly. “He didn’t have a chance.”

Dean watched you for a second, still visibly less tense than before, then murmured, “Good.”

Your smile softened. “You know you could just tell me when you’re jealous.”

He gave you a flat look. “That seems humiliating.”

“It’s kind of cute.”

Dean made a face. “Do not call me cute.”

“You are cute.”

“No.”

You laughed under your breath, and the sound made his expression shift into something warmer, more private. He pulled you a little closer just because he could, and you let yourself settle against him.

Across the room, Garrett saw the whole thing and pointed at the two of you from the couch like he was deeply amused by the display. Dean ignored him.

You glanced toward the guy you’d been talking to earlier and noticed he had very wisely found another conversation already.

You looked back at Dean. “You scared him.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Good.”

You gave him an incredulous look. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I’m enjoying you being here.”

That made you go quiet for a beat.

Dean noticed immediately, of course, and looked at you with that half-smile that always meant he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.

You tilted your head. “You really wanted me to sit in your lap?”

“Yes.”

The answer was instant.

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That was very direct.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “You asked.”

“I did.”

He looked at you for a second, then added in a lower voice, “I like when you’re with me.”

The words should have been simple. Maybe they were. But coming from him, in the middle of a crowded room, with his hand at your waist and his attention fixed entirely on you, they landed with far more weight than they should have.

Your chest warmed all the way through.

You looked down for a second, then back up at him. “I’m already with you.”

Dean’s expression softened.

Then he smiled, small and real and just for you. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

His thumb moved once over your side, absent and familiar. The room was still loud around you,somebody laughing in the kitchen, music playing too loudly in the background, Garrett and someone else arguing near the stairs,but none of it seemed particularly important anymore.

Dean leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, then settled back with obvious satisfaction.

You glanced up at him. “So this was all just because he was staring?”

Dean took a sip from his drink, then looked at you with a completely straight face and said, “He was looking at my girlfriend.”

Your face heated at the word girlfriend, though you absolutely hated that he knew it would.

Dean saw the reaction and smiled.

“You did that on purpose too,” you muttered.

He tilted his head. “Did what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know exactly what.”

Dean’s mouth curved, slow and smug and far too pleased with himself. “Maybe I just like reminding people.”

“Of what?”

“That you’re mine.”

You stared at him, and the room suddenly felt a little too warm.

Then, because he was Dean and clearly had every intention of making this worse before it got better, he leaned in and kissed you properly this time,quick but certain, just enough for everyone nearby to understand the assignment.

When he pulled back, he looked calm again, like he had not just made your whole face go warm in front of half the hockey house.

You, on the other hand, were definitely blushing.

Dean noticed and smiled.

“Oh,” he said softly, clearly delighted. “There it is.”

You buried your face briefly against his shoulder, mortified and smiling at the same time.

Dean laughed under his breath and held you a little tighter.

And when you finally looked up at him again, he was still smiling like he had won something.

Maybe he had.

Because for the rest of the night, you stayed in his lap, and Dean looked perfectly content to let everyone know exactly where you belonged.

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Dean Di Laurentis Masterlist

Baby doll {Dean x reader} Warnings: Phil Graham, anxiety/panic attacks mentioned, sex, abuse, mentions of death, pregnancy, labour, birth, post partum depression

P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7, P8, P9, P10, P11, P12, P13, P14, P15, P16, P17, P18, P19, P20, P21, P22, P23, P24, P25, P26

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Fake it until you make it (or try to) {Dean x sick!reader} no warnings

P1, P2

Summary: You get the flu and try and hide it, but Dean finds out. Dean then gets sick, tries to hide it, but you find out.

Change for good {Dean x reader} no warnings

High Maintenance {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluff :)

My Girl {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluffy :)

Light as a feather {Dean x curvy!reader} no warnings

Taglist {open}: @ooopssssu @sleep-i-ness @zagreen @alice07ea @adrienneleclerc @nau-van @kmc1989 @femurgetokill @sshxamy @f4ll3n28 @redbag55 @loml-gs @meriamloves-tsunoda-yuki @rainbowstar405 @gandalfthegoatsblog @dina2223 @partygetsmewetter12 @notplutos @lulusa27 @angelsvoice1love @superbfishhumanoidweasel @ilocuras24 @inchidentontheracetrack @five-seconds-flat @thecraziestcrayon @yolasturlis @noonenuts @wonderland2425 @purplerainx1 @sarcasm-ismy-onlydefense-blog @iamshiningeuw @nicolej04 @mld25 @brianna28483 @fangirl93 @bellarkeselection @calums-betch @mswwvaleska @wiishies @bookluver114 @hagarsays @lilliepetalx @raynetargaryan2 @c-a-b3002 @mariamadison6-blog @baeeyarr @monayyy-21 @j8d3yyy @demirunner @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns @loverofmusic @velvetsighs @alwaysclassyeagle @missbmc94 @garrettgrahamssexysnaps

[httpsdrewstarkey]

Part of You | Dean Di Laurentis

a/n: hi everyone, long time no see. not my usual obsession, but what can i say? i'm obsessing over daddy dean. hopefully this reaches the right target audience 🫡

warnings: swearing, kissing, tension, kinda angsty, fwb, unprotected piv, dirty talk, light smut?, 18+!

word count: 2k

The universe has a funny way of working. Sometimes it places people in your life for only a moment, and other times it keeps pulling you toward the same person until ignoring it becomes impossible. Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s coincidence, or maybe some people are simply meant to find each other no matter how hard they try not to. And before you realize it, they’ve become part of your routine. Part of you.

The party was loud, well, Briar U’s parties were always annoyingly loud. She didn’t really want to come out, but in a way she felt like she should. She moved through the crowd, the smell of cheap beer lingering in the air as she said hi to a couple of people she recognized. The girls weren't here yet, and without them she almost felt out of place. She made it to the kitchen, her eyes wandering and deciding what to drink.

Logan approached her leaning in close “Hey, you. Thought you were staying home tonight!” Leaning in for a hug, as they talked for a few minutes.

And that was the exact moment he noticed her. 

Across the kitchen Dean stood listening to Beau rave about the hockey game- well he wasn’t really listening to him. His focus eventually narrowed in on the girl with long hair and a bright smile as she talked away to Logan. 

“Who is that?” Dean asked Beau, cutting him off mid-sentence, his words coming out quickly, “The one talking to Logan,” He clarified, keeping his eyes on her. He had never seen her before or maybe he had, but he told himself he was just curious. But the thing about Dean was that he was never curious. He was a playboy, along for the ride, he was never that curious about a girl. 

It eventually became a pattern with late night hook ups that occasionally blurred into her spending the night. Sometimes it was just a quick and sloppy hookup, other times it turned into laughter and late night talking. 

“We should really stop doing this…” She said against his lips. They were in his room this time, on top of him, her chest bare and her skin flushed from the heat of his mouth as he kissed down her neck. Grinding down against him slowly as his erection pressed up into her. 

His large hands slid down her back, palms warm and slightly calloused, tracing her back, before settling on her hips, shivering at the way he touched her. "Hmm, why is that?" he mumbled against her skin, smiling as he kissed along her jaw just under her ear. 

She moaned.. A little too loud. He always did this. He was always distracting her, clouding her judgment until she lost her train of thought.

His fingers dug into her hips, guiding her movement as he shifted, slipping one leg between hers until she opened wider for him. His hand came down, hooking his pointer finger to push her panties to the side. She gasped when he flipped her over onto her back, hooking her legs around his shoulder with one hand wrapping around her ankle to hold her into place. He lined himself up, pushing the tip in making her hips buckle “Didn’t catch that, you were saying we should stop?" His voice cocky with a smirk.

She shook her head no, her mouth falling open as she tried to form a sentence on why this was a bad idea. His thumb dragged to her mouth and pressed past her lips, and she sucked without thinking as she circled her tongue, her eyes on him. "Shit," he whispered, his head falling back for a split second before his eyes found hers again. His thumb slid out of her mouth with a wet pop, and his hand traveled down her stomach, eventually reaching down to press slow circles on her clit. 

“Pretty fucking girl,” He mumbled. 

The bell above the door jingled as she walked into Malone's, the familiar smell of beer, and greasy food. The diner was packed, hockey players filled the booths near the back, closer to the band that was playing tonight. Hannah was already waving over from a table near the jukebox, Allie sliding a menu toward the empty seat before she'd even sat down.

"Took you long enough," Hannah said, stirring her drink with a straw. "We already ordered fries."

"I had to change twice," she admitted, sliding into the booth. "Nothing felt right."

Allie raised her eyebrows but didn't push, and she was grateful for it. Because the truth was, nothing felt right because she knew he'd be here. The team always came to Malone's after practice and she'd spent forty minutes in front of her closet telling herself she wasn't picking an outfit for him.That she wasn't already counting the minutes until she'd see him again. 

The night continued on. They both knew they were in the same room, and that simple knowledge made her heart pound in a way that was almost embarrassing. She could feel the weight of his presence like pressure against her skin, even from three booths away.

"Beer run," she announced, sliding out of the booth before the girls could ask for one too.

She made her way through the diner, weaving between tables, and time seemed to slow down. Dean was walking toward her and their eyes locked. 

He was giving her that smile. The one that made his dimples poke out, that crinkled the corners of his eyes.  And for a moment, nothing else existed. No noise. No crowd. Just him, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

They passed each other quickly. His shoulder nearly brushed hers. Their hands didn't touch but she felt it everywhere.

She let out a breath and kept walking, her hands trembling slightly as she reached the bar ordering a drink as she watched the band play. She eventually turned her back to the room, facing the bar fully as she took a sip of her beer, hoping it would calm her. 

And then she felt it.

Him.

Like a sixth sense. Like her body knew before her brain could catch up. A shift in the air, a warmth at her side, the faint scent of his cologne. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, trailing up her arms, raising the hairs at the back of her neck.

"YN," he said, looking straight ahead. His voice low and casual, like they were strangers making small talk.

"Dean," she said back, proud that her voice came out steady. She felt a smile creeping across her face—that stupid, giddy, excited smile she couldn't seem to control around him. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain it, but she knew he could see it anyway. He always saw everything.

Neither of them said anything else after that. He rested his arms on the bar beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, and she kept her hands flat against the counter. And then she felt it. Her eyes flicked down for half a second, then back up, staring straight ahead, to try and seem like he didn't have an effect on her. Her breathing slowed and she looked down again at their hands. 

His pinky had shifted. A slow, deliberate movement. It touched hers, barely grazing at first, just a whisper of contact. And then it pressed fully against her, warm and certain. He was looking straight ahead, casual, like he wasn't doing anything at all. Like his pinky wasn't tracing small, intimate circles against her skin, right there in plain sight where anyone could see.

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

But she didn't pull away, she pressed back. 

“There you are,” She turned at the sound of his voice giving him a small smile, watching him as he pulled up a chair right beside her. She watched him sit down in the chair, manspreading, his long legs stretched out, watching his thighs clench as he shifted his hips up slightly to get more comfortable. 

The boys had thrown a party to celebrate the end of the semester. Exams were done, bags were packed, and everyone was buzzing with restless energy that came before heading home for break. But she'd needed air and a minute to herself. 

Things had shifted the last several weeks. She looked for him everywhere, waiting for his calls, staying close to him at all times, not just privately but publicly. She was becoming dependent on him. He felt it too. He was locked in, it was pathetic really. He watched the way she was kind to everyone she met, he loved watching her laugh, he loved the way she would study on his bed completely lost in an assignment as her brow furrowed in concentration. He loved to watch her. He was infatuated with everything she did and said. She was just special, special to him. 

She lifted her legs up, draping them over his thighs and his hand came down to trace a slow path up and down her leg. He watched her take a long hit of the blunt, slowly exhaling the smoke as she passed it back to him avoiding his eye contact. His fingers brushed hers as he reached for it but stopped abruptly, not taking the blunt just hoping she would look at him. 

“You spending the night?” He asked, still keeping his eyes on her as she continued to watch the fire burn, her shoulders shrugging.

“Maybe.” 

His hand came to a stop on her thigh.

Maybe.

Maybe?

The word hung between them, echoing inside his mind almost taunting him. That word didn't exist in their vocabulary. She always spent the night. It was an unspoken, assumed, part of the rhythm they'd fallen into. She felt him staring at her, felt the weight of his eyes boring into the side of her face, but she couldn't even look at him. If she looked at him, she'd cave. 

"Bullshit," he said, a small laugh escaping him, like he was trying to keep things light. But his smile dropped when she still didn't look at him, instead she bit her lip and stayed silent for a moment.

"I have an early morning," she said quietly.

"You always have early mornings."

She didn't answer him, because really the truth was harder than a lie. She needed to draw the line between them. She could feel herself becoming infatuated with him, craving the sound of his voice, his hands on her body. 

She could see it in her periphery, the way his jaw clenched because he was starting to get frustrated that she was avoiding him.

"Don't feed me some bullshit about early mornings."

She swallowed hard, feeling small wanting to sink into the chair and disappear. She tried to move her legs off his lap, but his hand shot out, gripping her knee gently to keep her legs there. 

“Look at me,” her eyes found him as he watched a tear fall down her face, he sat up straighter, stretching his arm out to wipe it away.

“Listen, I-, I’m not asking you to marry me,” a small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. 

He continued, “You've been in my bed more nights than you haven't."

He paused for a minute, taking her hands into his, giving her a small smile, slightly shaking his head, “I like that you steal my clothes even though your clothes are in my dresser, I like seeing your makeup and hair products scattered all over the bathroom, I like-” he paused,

His voice faltered, dropping his head for a moment, gathering himself, then looked up at her again. “I like you,”

“I like us,” he added quickly. 

Silence.

She didn't know what to say. Her brain had locked up and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart in her ears. She could feel her eyes watering again, she wanted to tell him she felt the same way but her adrenaline was pumping and she just froze, her throat closed with her lips pressed together.

He wasn’t angry at her lack of response. He wasn’t mocking her or pushing her into saying something she wasn’t ready to say, because he understood that she was scared. 

"Okay," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand went back to her thigh, back to tracing that slow, familiar path up and down. ”Just stay tonight.”

[pucksandpower]

the scientific method (part two)

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to

Warnings: 18+ content

Read part one here

Three weeks of sleeping in Dean’s arms, and you’re going insane.

Not in a bad way. In a “every morning I wake up pressed against him and it takes all my willpower not to do something about it” way.

You’ve never wanted someone like this. Never understood the appeal of physical intimacy. But Dean is different.

The way he touches you, always careful, always asking permission. The way he kisses you, like he’s got all the time in the world. The way he holds you at night, protective and gentle.

You want more.

The realization hits you one Thursday evening when you’re supposed to be studying healthcare policy but you’re actually just watching Dean work through a problem set. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and he’s absently chewing on the end of his pen, and you want to climb into his lap and kiss him until neither of you can think straight.

“You’re staring again,” he says without looking up.

“I know.”

That makes him look up. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your textbook. Then your notebook. Set them both neatly on his nightstand.

“Done studying?” He checks his watch. “It’s only eight.”

“I’m done studying.”

There’s something in your voice that makes him set down his pen. “Y/N?”

“I want you to have sex with me.”

Dean blinks. Once. Twice. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

No sound comes out.

You forge ahead, because if you stop now you’ll lose your nerve. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it makes sense. I’m nineteen years old. I’ve never had sex. At some point, I need to cross this off my list of college experiences, and logically-”

“Wait.” Dean holds up a hand. “Wait. Did you just say—are you—are you a virgin?”

“Yes. I thought you knew that.”

“I thought—Maggie said you’d never had a boyfriend, but I didn’t think—I mean-” He runs both hands through his hair. “How are you a virgin?”

“I went to all-girls schools and I’ve been focused on my studies. It’s not that complicated.”

“It’s extremely complicated!” He’s staring at you like you’ve just announced you’re an alien. “Y/N, you can’t just announce you want to have sex like you’re ordering coffee!”

“Why not? It’s a logical decision.”

“It’s not supposed to be logical!”

“Why not?” You’re genuinely confused now. “I want to lose my virginity at some point. You’re clearly experienced. You’d make it good for me. It’s the most logical choice.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “You think—you want me to—because I’d make it good?”

“Well, yes. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

He stands up, starts pacing. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m insane. This whole situation is insane.”

“Dean-”

“No.” He spins to face you. “No. You can’t just—Y/N, do you understand what you’re asking?”

“I’m asking you to have sex with me.”

“You’re asking me to take your virginity!”

“Is there a difference?”

“YES!” He’s practically shouting now. “There’s a huge difference! Your first time is supposed to be special! It’s supposed to mean something!”

“Why?”

The question stops him cold.

“Why does it have to mean something?” You continue. “It’s just sex. People have sex all the time without it meaning anything. You’ve had sex without it meaning anything. I’ve seen you with two girls at once who you didn’t even know the names of.”

Dean flinches. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because this is you!” The words come out fierce, almost angry. “This is you, and you deserve better than being another item on your checklist. You deserve romance and candles and someone who loves you.”

Your heart stops. “Someone who loves me?”

He looks away. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Y/N-”

“Do you love me, Dean?”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“That’s not the point,” he finally says.

“I think it might be exactly the point.”

He sits back down at his desk, head in his hands. “You can’t ask me this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll say yes!” He looks up at you, and there’s something raw in his expression. “Because I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, and if you’re offering yourself to me like this, I’m not strong enough to say no. But you deserve better than that. You deserve better than me taking your virginity just because you’ve decided it’s time to check it off your list.”

You sit with that for a moment. “What if I told you it’s not just about checking it off a list?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not entirely.” You pull your knees to your chest. “I want you, Dean. I’ve wanted you for weeks. Every time we sleep in the same bed and nothing happens, it gets harder to remember why I said we should take things slow. But I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing focus. Of letting someone in and having it mess up everything I’ve worked for. Of feeling too much.” You look at him. “But I think I already feel too much. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

Dean’s staring at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“I’m not good at this,” you continue. “The feelings part. I’m much better with logic and facts and studying. So I’m approaching this the only way I know how — by making a logical decision. And logically, if I’m going to do this with anyone, I want it to be with you.”

“Y/N-”

“But you’re right. I don’t want it to just be another checkmark. I want it to matter. I just don’t know how to make it matter without losing myself in the process.”

Dean moves from the desk to the bed, sitting beside you. Not touching, just close.

“Can I tell you what I think?” He asks.

“Please.”

“I think you’re terrified of wanting something outside your plan. I think you’ve built your whole life around these goals, and anything that threatens them feels dangerous. And I think-” He takes a breath. “I think you care about me more than you want to admit, and it scares you.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Maybe.”

“I’m scared too,” he says quietly.

“Of what?”

“Of not being enough. Of being exactly the guy you thought I was at that party — someone who’s just going to hurt you. Of caring about you so much it’s actually affecting my game.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Coach pulled me aside yesterday and asked if something was wrong because I’ve been distracted.”

“Really?”

“Really. I spent an entire practice thinking about the way you scrunch your nose when you’re reading.” He finally looks at you. “You’re in my head, Y/N. All the time. And I’ve never felt like this before, and I don’t know what to do about it either.”

You’re both quiet for a long moment.

“So where does that leave us?” You finally ask.

Dean thinks about it. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”

Your heart sinks. “Oh.”

“Not because I don’t want to. Trust me, I want to. But not like this. Not as an item on a checklist.” He turns to face you fully. “But I could … teach you some things. If you want.”

“Teach me?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are dark now, intent. “Show you what it would be like. What I’d do. Without actually going all the way.”

Your breath catches. “How would that work?”

“I could talk you through it. Tell you what to do. Watch you.” His voice has dropped, gotten rougher. “Would you want that?”

Your heart is racing. “I—yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay if you don’t.”

“No, I—I think I do. I’m just nervous.”

“We can stop anytime. The second you want to stop, we stop. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Dean stands up, and for a second you think he’s going to come to you. But instead, he moves to his desk chair, pulling it to face the bed.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“Getting comfortable.” He sits, and there’s something intense in the way he’s looking at you. “I’m going to stay here. And you’re going to stay there. And I’m going to tell you exactly what I want you to do.”

Oh.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“First,” he says, his voice steady despite the heat in his eyes, “I want you to lie back. Get comfortable.”

You do, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“Good. Now … you’re wearing my shirt.”

“Yeah.”

“I want you to take it off. Slowly.”

Your hands are shaking as you reach for the hem. “Dean-”

“It’s just me,” he says, and his voice is gentle now. “Just me, Y/N. Nothing you don’t want to do.”

You trust him. You realize that’s what this comes down to: you trust him completely.

So you pull off the shirt.

You’re in your bra and underwear now, and Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move from the chair.

“You’re beautiful,” he says roughly. “I need you to know that.”

“Dean-”

“I need you to know that every time I look at you, it takes my breath away. Every morning when you’re still asleep and the sun comes through the window, I spend at least ten minutes just watching you. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your eyes are stinging. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He shifts in the chair. “Now I want you to touch yourself. Nothing crazy, just run your hands over your skin. Your arms, your stomach. Learn what feels good.”

You do, feeling self-conscious but also … excited. Your skin is sensitive, every touch amplified by the way Dean’s watching you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

The endearment sends a shiver through you.

“Do you like being watched?” He asks.

“I-I don’t know. Maybe?”

“That’s okay. We’re figuring it out together.” He’s gripping the arms of the chair now. “Touch your breasts. Over the bra first.”

You do, and the sensation makes you gasp.

“Feels good?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s because you’re sensitive there. Most people are.” His voice is like honey, dark and sweet. “Now under the bra. I want you to feel how soft you are.”

You slip your hand under the fabric, and — oh. That does feel good.

“I wish I could touch you,” Dean says, and there’s something almost pained in his voice. “Wish I could put my mouth on you. Would you like that? If I kissed you there?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Maybe next time.” His eyes are locked on you. “Take the bra off. I want to see you.”

You hesitate for just a second, then reach back and unhook it. Let it fall away.

Dean makes a low sound in his throat. “Perfect. You’re absolutely perfect.”

“Dean-”

“Keep touching yourself. Both hands now. I want to watch you learn what you like.”

You’re lost in it now, in the sensations and the sound of his voice and the heat in his eyes. Every instruction he gives, you follow. Every word of praise makes you braver.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs when you arch into your own touch. “So responsive. So perfect.”

“I need-” You don’t even know what you need.

“I know. But not tonight.” He stands up, and you make a disappointed sound. But he just comes to the bed, pulls you into his arms. “You did so good. So, so good.”

You’re shaking. “That was-”

“Intense?”

“Yeah.”

“Too much?”

“No. Not enough, actually.”

He groans. “You’re killing me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you trusting me like that.”

You burrow into his chest. “This doesn’t count as sex, right?”

“Definitely not.”

“Good. Because I think I want to do it again.”

Dean laughs, and you feel it rumble through his chest. “Anytime you want, baby. Anytime you want.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, and for the first time in your life, you’re not thinking about medical school or your GPA or your carefully planned future.

You’re just thinking about Dean.

And how maybe, just maybe, letting someone in doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.

Maybe it means finding parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there.

***

The tutoring sessions become a ritual.

Thursday nights, after studying. Sometimes Tuesday nights too, when you can’t wait until Thursday. Dean in his desk chair, voice low and commanding. You on his bed, learning your own body under his careful instruction.

“You’re a quick study,” he says one night, watching you with dark eyes. “Best student I’ve ever had.”

“You’re a good teacher,” you manage, breathless.

“Yeah?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What have you learned?”

“That I like being watched.”

His jaw tightens. “What else?”

“That I like your voice. The way you tell me what to do.”

“Keep going.”

“That I trust you.” You meet his eyes. “Completely.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Come here.”

You go to him, and he pulls you into his lap, kissing you like he’s been holding back for hours. Which he has.

“I want you so badly,” he murmurs against your lips. “Do you know how hard it is to just sit there and watch?”

“Then don’t just watch.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m ready, Dean.” You pull back to look at him. “I’ve been ready. I’m just waiting for you.”

“I want it to be right.”

“It will be. It’s you.”

He searches your face. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

***

It doesn’t happen that night. Dean insists on planning it, which is very unlike him but somehow perfectly him when it comes to you.

“I want it to be special,” he says when you protest.

“It will be special because it’s with you.”

“Still. Just let me do this right.”

So you wait. Another week of tutoring sessions that leave you aching and frustrated and more in love with him than you thought possible.

Yes, in love. You’ve stopped denying it, at least to yourself.

You’re in love with Dean Di Laurentis, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating and completely outside your carefully planned life trajectory.

And you wouldn’t change it for anything.

***

Friday afternoon, Dean texts you.

Dean: pack an overnight bag

You: Why?

Dean: because i’m taking you somewhere tonight and we’re not coming back until tomorrow

You: Dean, I have to study

Dean: no you don’t. i checked your schedule. you’re ahead in every class

You: How do you know my schedule?

Dean: i pay attention. pack a bag. i’ll pick you up at 7

You: Where are we going?

Dean: it’s a surprise. trust me?

You: Always

Dean: good. wear something comfortable. and y/n?

You: Yeah?

Dean: tonight. if you still want to. no pressure

Your heart stops.

You: I want to

Dean: okay. see you at 7

You stare at your phone for a full minute before Maggie notices.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Dean’s picking me up at seven.”

“Okay? You guys hang out all the time.”

“He told me to pack an overnight bag.” You look up at her. “I think tonight’s the night.”

Maggie’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. OH MY GOD.”

“Stop screaming!”

“I’m not screaming! I’m just—oh my god, are you ready for this?”

“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.” You stand up, start pacing. “What if I’m bad at it? What if I do something wrong? What if-”

“Y/N.” Maggie grabs your shoulders. “It’s Dean. He’s crazy about you. It’s going to be fine. Better than fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.” She grins. “Plus, the guy’s had a lot of practice. He’ll know what he’s doing.”

“That’s not helping.”

“Okay, okay.” She pushes you toward your closet. “Let’s pack. Comfortable clothes, he said?”

“Yeah.”

“So jeans, a cute top. Definitely your nice underwear—you did buy nice underwear, right?”

You pull out a small bag from your drawer. “I may have gone shopping.”

Maggie opens it and whistles. “Damn, girl. Dean’s not going to know what hit him.”

“You think?”

“I know.” She hugs you suddenly. “I’m proud of you, you know. For letting yourself have this.”

“I’m terrified.”

“That’s how you know it matters.”

***

Dean shows up at exactly seven, looking unfairly good in jeans and a henley. He’s holding flowers — actual flowers, like this is a real date.

“Hi,” he says when you open the door.

“Hi.” You take the flowers. “These are beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you.”

“That’s incredibly cheesy.”

“Don’t care.” He leans in and kisses you, soft and sweet. “You ready?”

“I think so.”

He takes your bag, and you follow him down to his car. But instead of his Audi, there’s a different car waiting — a Range Rover you’ve never seen before.

“New car?” You ask.

“Borrowed it from my dad. Thought we could use the space.” He opens the door for you, and you see the back is loaded with bags. “I may have prepared a little bit.”

“A little bit?”

He grins. “Okay, a lot. But I wanted it to be perfect.”

The drive takes about an hour, heading west out of the city. Dean won’t tell you where you’re going, just holds your hand and lets you control the music. You talk about everything and nothing — your Healthcare Economics exam, his upcoming game, whether Dunkin is better than Starbucks (you say yes, he says absolutely not).

It feels normal. Easy. Like you’ve been doing this for years instead of months.

Finally, he pulls off the main road onto a smaller one, then onto a long driveway that winds through trees. At the end is a house — no, a cottage. Wooden and perfect, with warm light glowing from the windows.

“Dean,” you breathe. “What is this?”

“My grandparents’ lake house. They’re in Europe for the month, and I asked if we could use it.” He parks and turns to you. “I wanted somewhere private. Somewhere special. No roommates, no interruptions. Just us.”

You’re going to cry. “You did this for me?”

“I’d do anything for you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Come on, let me show you.”

The cottage is beautiful inside. Rustic but elegant, with a stone fireplace and wide windows overlooking a lake. There’s a fire already going — he must have come earlier to set up.

“Dean, this is-”

“There’s more.” He leads you to the bedroom, and you stop in the doorway.

There are candles everywhere. Not lit yet, but arranged carefully on every surface. The bed is made with fresh white linens, and there are rose petals scattered across the comforter.

“I know it’s over the top,” Dean says, suddenly nervous. “But you said I deserve romance and candles, and I wanted to give you the same thing. So if this is too much, we can-”

You kiss him. Pour everything you’re feeling into it — gratitude and affection and love and want.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are to me.”

He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss, and you feel the shift. The way it changes from sweet to intense, from gentle to urgent.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says, even as his hands slide under your shirt. “We can just be here. Together.”

“I want to.” You pull back to look at him. “I want you, Dean. All of you. Now.”

His eyes darken. “You’re sure?”

“Stop asking me that.”

“Okay.” He kisses you again, backing you toward the bed. “But I’m going to take my time with you. We’ve got all night, and I’m going to make this so good for you.”

“Promises, promises.”

He laughs against your mouth. “Oh baby, you have no idea.”

***

Dean has thought about this moment for months. Dreamed about it, planned it, obsessed over it. But now that it’s happening, now that you’re here in his arms, trusting him with something so precious, he’s almost overwhelmed.

“Hey,” you say softly, touching his face. “Where’d you go?”

“Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“We can both be lucky.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his knees. “I want to do this right. So if at any point you want to stop, or slow down, or-”

“Dean.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I trust you. Completely. Just be with me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He takes his time undressing you. Peels off your sweater, presses kisses to your shoulders. Unbuttons your jeans, slides them down your legs. You’re wearing the new lingerie, and his breath catches.

“Jesus, Y/N.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough. Never enough.” He stands, turns you around so you can see yourself in the mirror above the dresser. His hands span your waist, and he meets your eyes in the reflection. “Do you see how beautiful you are?”

“Dean-”

“I need you to see it. See what I see.” His hands slide up, cupping your breasts through the lace. “Do you remember the first time I watched you touch yourself here?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“You were so nervous. So shy. And now look at you.” He kisses your neck. “So confident. So beautiful. So mine.”

“Yours,” you agree.

He turns you back around, and his hands go to his own shirt. But you stop him.

“Let me.”

You undress him slowly, learning the planes of his chest, the strength in his shoulders. He’s beautiful — you’ve always known that, but seeing him like this, knowing what’s about to happen, makes your breath catch.

“You’re staring,” he says, echoing your words from months ago.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

He grins, and then you’re both laughing, and it’s perfect. This moment is perfect.

Dean lays you back on the bed, careful of the rose petals. “I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises. “But first, I need to—I’ve been dreaming about tasting you for months.”

“Dean-”

But he’s already sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. When he hooks his fingers in your underwear, he pauses.

“Still okay?”

“Yes. Please.”

He slides them off, and then — oh. 

You’ve learned a lot in your tutoring sessions, but this is different. This is Dean’s mouth on you, his hands holding your hips, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

You’re not quiet. Can’t be quiet. Every touch, every kiss, every clever thing he does with his tongue makes you louder.

“Dean, I—I’m going to-”

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do, falling apart under his mouth, his name the only word you can remember.

When you come back to yourself, he’s kissing his way back up your body, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“Okay?” He asks.

“That was—I don’t have words.”

“Good.” He kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his lips. “Want to keep going?”

“Yes. Please yes.”

He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom. “I’m going to go slow, okay? Tell me if anything hurts.”

“I will.”

He settles between your legs, and you feel him there, hard and ready. “Look at me,” he says softly. “I want to see you.”

You do, meeting his eyes as he slowly, carefully, pushes inside.

There’s pressure, a brief flash of pain, and then- 

“Oh,” you breathe.

“Okay?” His jaw is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. You can—you can move.”

He does, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there’s none. Just fullness and rightness and the feeling of being completely connected to him.

“You feel incredible,” he groans. “So perfect. Like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was.”

Something flashes in his eyes at that, and his next thrust is deeper. “Say that again.”

“Maybe I was made for you.”

“Y/N-” His control is slipping. You can see it, feel it in the way he’s moving faster now, harder.

“It’s okay,” you gasp. “I want—I want all of you. Don’t hold back.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Good. Now stop being so careful and actually-”

He kisses you, swallowing whatever you were about to say, and finally lets go. The careful control disappears, replaced by raw need, and it’s exactly what you wanted.

You meet him thrust for thrust, finding a rhythm that has you both gasping. Your nails dig into his shoulders, his hand fists in your hair, and it’s messy and intense and absolutely perfect.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come around me.”

You do, and the added sensation combined with the feeling of him inside you is overwhelming. You’re close, so close-

“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Let me feel it.”

You shatter, and the feeling of you clenching around him sends Dean over the edge too. He buries his face in your neck, your name on his lips, and you hold him through it.

After, you’re both breathing hard, tangled together, and you’ve never felt more complete.

“You okay?” Dean asks, brushing hair from your face.

“Better than okay.”

“No regrets?”

“Not a single one.” You kiss him softly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For making it perfect. For being patient. For caring enough to do all this.”

“Y/N, I-” He stops, and something vulnerable crosses his face. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been for months, and I can’t keep pretending otherwise.”

Your heart stops. “Dean-”

“You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know. Needed you to know that this … it wasn’t just sex for me. It was-”

“I love you too,” you interrupt. “I’m completely, terrifyingly in love with you.”

He stares at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I have been since that night at the party. I was just too scared to admit it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m still scared. But I’m more scared of not being with you.”

He kisses you, deep and slow and sweet. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

“Apparently.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done the relationship thing before.”

“Neither have I. Not like this.” He pulls you closer. “But I want to figure it out. With you.”

“Me too.”

“Even if it’s messy?”

“Even if it’s messy.”

“Even if your perfectly planned future gets a little derailed?”

“Maybe my future needed a little derailing.”

He grins. “I’m definitely telling everyone you said that.”

“Don’t you dare-”

He kisses you again, and you forget what you were protesting.

***

Later, after you’ve showered together (which led to round two against the tile wall), you’re curled up in bed, wearing one of Dean’s shirts, his arm around you.

“Can I tell you something?” You ask.

“Anything.”

“I kept a list. Of reasons why falling for you was a bad idea.”

“Oh yeah? How long was it?”

“Eighteen reasons.”

“Damn. That’s detailed.”

“I’m a detailed person.”

“What were they?”

“Different goals. Different lifestyles. Risk to my GPA. Risk to my focus. Your reputation. My inexperience. The fact that you’d probably break my heart.” You pause. “Among others.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“What changed?”

“I realized that every reason on that list was just fear. Fear of feeling too much, of wanting something outside my plan, of being vulnerable.” You turn to look at him. “But being with you — it doesn’t make me weaker. It makes me braver.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done. You make me braver. You make me want to take risks I’d never take otherwise. You make me believe that maybe I can have both — my career and someone to share it with. And that’s everything.”

He’s looking at you like you hung the moon. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”

“The rest of your life? That’s a long time.”

“Better get started then.” He kisses you, slow and thorough. “Ready for round three?”

“Already?”

“What? I’m making up for lost time.”

“We have all night.”

“Exactly.” He rolls on top of you, settling between your legs. “And I plan to use every minute of it.”

And he does.

***

You lose count somewhere around four. Or maybe five. Dean’s insatiable, and you discover you are too. Every touch builds on the last, every kiss leads to more, until you’re boneless and satisfied and completely wrecked in the best possible way.

“I can’t move,” you announce as dawn starts to lighten the sky.

“Don’t need to move. Just need to stay right here.”

“We should probably eat something.”

“Food’s overrated.”

“Dean.”

“Fine.” He kisses your shoulder. “But only because I need to keep your strength up. We’re not done yet.”

“How are you not exhausted?”

“I’m a hockey player, baby. Stamina’s kind of my thing.”

You laugh, and he grins against your skin.

“I love that sound,” he says.

“What sound?”

“You laughing. You happy.” He props himself up on one elbow. “Promise me something?”

“What?”

“Promise me we’ll figure this out. Whatever happens next. Promise me you won’t let the logistics scare you away.”

Your chest tightens. “I promise. As long as you promise the same thing.”

“Deal.” He holds out his pinky, and you link yours with his, sealing it with a kiss.

“Now,” he says, suddenly energized. “Let me make you breakfast.”

“You cook?”

“I make a mean scrambled egg. Also toast. I’m very versatile.”

You follow him to the kitchen, stealing one of his hoodies because you’re not ready to actually get dressed yet. He puts on coffee and starts cracking eggs, and you sit on the counter watching him, and it’s so domestic it makes your heart ache.

“What?” He asks, catching you staring.

“Just thinking about how different this is from where we started.”

“When you told me I was just some guy?”

“When I was convinced you were going to be a disaster for my carefully planned life.”

“And now?”

“Now I think maybe you’re the best disaster that ever happened to me.”

He abandons the eggs to kiss you, thorough and deep. “Best disaster. I’ll take it.”

“The eggs are burning.”

“Don’t care.”

“Dean!”

He laughs and goes back to the stove, salvaging what he can. You eat breakfast at the small table overlooking the lake, your feet in his lap, talking about everything and nothing.

“I should take you home eventually,” Dean says reluctantly.

“Eventually. But not yet.”

“No?”

“No. We have the cottage until tomorrow night. I want to stay here. With you. In our little bubble before we have to face reality again.”

“Reality’s not so bad. We’ll still have Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

“And Friday nights? After games?”

“Every night if you want them. I’m yours, Y/N. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“That might be a while.”

“I’m counting on it.”

You spend the rest of the day in bed, learning each other, talking, making love until you’re both exhausted and satisfied. And when Dean finally, reluctantly drives you home Sunday evening, you’re already counting the hours until you see him again.

“Text me when you’re home?” You say at your dorm door.

“You’re literally watching me leave.”

“Still. I want to know you got home safe.”

“Yes, dear.” But he’s smiling. He kisses you one more time. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Inside, Maggie takes one look at you and squeals.

“Oh my god, it happened! Tell me everything! Wait, don’t tell me everything. Tell me some things. The appropriate things.”

“It was perfect,” you say, and you can’t stop smiling. “He was perfect.”

“And? How do you feel?”

“Different. Good different. Like something fundamental shifted.”

“You’re in love with him.”

“I’m in love with him,” you agree. “Completely, stupidly in love with him.”

“And your plan? Medical school? All of that?”

“Still the plan. But maybe the plan has room for him now.”

Maggie hugs you. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Me too,” you say.

And you are. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty of what comes next, you’re happy.

Because for the first time in your life, you’ve let yourself want something outside of your carefully constructed goals.

And it turns out, it’s the best decision you’ve ever made.

***

Finals week is hell.

This is a universal truth, but it’s especially true when your girlfriend is pre-med with a 4.0 she’s determined to maintain.

“I haven’t seen you in four days,” Dean says into his phone, sprawled on his bed. It’s Tuesday night, which used to be your night, but you’ve been holed up in the library since Saturday.

“I know. I’m sorry.” You sound tired. “I just have two more exams and then I’m done.”

“When are they?”

“Thursday and Friday.”

“So after Friday, you’re free?”

“After Friday, I’m comatose. But yes, technically free.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” He can hear the smile in your voice. “But I really need to focus right now. Organic chemistry waits for no one.”

“Not even for your devoted boyfriend who’s slowly dying of Y/N withdrawal?”

“Not even for him. Sorry, babe.”

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically. “Abandon me in my time of need.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“It really is.” You pause. “I have to go. My study group is waiting. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Kick organic chemistry’s ass.”

“That’s the plan.”

After you hang up, Dean stares at the ceiling. Four days feels like four years. He’s gotten used to having you around — your presence in his space, your voice, your laugh. The bed feels too big without you. Everything feels too big without you.

“You’re moping,” Garrett says from the doorway.

“I’m not moping.”

“You’re absolutely moping. It’s pathetic.”

“She’s studying for finals. I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being miserable.” Garrett sits on the edge of the bed. “Dude, it’s been four days. You’re acting like she’s gone to war.”

“It feels like she’s gone to war.”

“Oh my god, you’re so far gone it’s actually painful to watch.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Nope. This is too entertaining.” Garrett grins. “Remember when you used to go days without seeing girls and you didn’t care? Remember when you had a different girl every week? Remember when-”

“Okay, I get it. I’ve changed.”

“You’re whipped.”

“I’m in love. There’s a difference.”

“Is there though?”

Dean considers this. “No, probably not. I’m definitely whipped.”

“At least you’re self-aware.” Garrett stands. “Just go see her. Bring her coffee. She’ll appreciate it.”

“She told me she needs to focus.”

“And you’re listening to that? Since when do you listen to reasonable requests?”

“Since she asked me to.”

Garrett shakes his head. “Man, you really are gone.”

***

By Wednesday afternoon, Dean’s desperate.

He’s tried texting. You respond, but they’re short, distracted messages. He’s tried calling. You answer, but only for a few minutes before you have to get back to studying. He even tried sending food to the library, but according to Maggie, you just smiled and kept highlighting your notes.

“I have an idea,” he tells Beau.

They’re at the gym, supposedly working out, but Dean’s been staring at the same weight for ten minutes.

“Does it involve you actually lifting that or are we just looking at it?” Beau asks.

“I need you to punch me.”

Beau doesn’t even blink. “In the face?”

“Yeah.”

“Hard enough to leave a mark?”

“Definitely.”

“Because you miss your girlfriend and you think if you’re injured she’ll take care of you?”

Dean stares at him. “How did you-”

“Dude, Garrett told everyone about the hockey stick thing. You’re not subtle.” Beau sets down his own weights. “And now you want me to punch you because she’s been studying too hard?”

“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

“It is stupid.”

“But you’ll do it?”

Beau sighs. “I can’t believe you went from being the campus manwhore to so whipped for one girl that you’re literally begging me to punch you in the face.”

“I’m not begging.”

“You’re absolutely begging.”

“Will you do it or not?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal gratitude?”

“Not compelling.”

“I’ll do your Applied Logic homework for the rest of the semester.”

“Now we’re talking.” Beau stands up, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Where do you want it?”

“Somewhere visible but not too bad. I don’t want to actually break anything.”

“So cheekbone? Maybe split your lip again?”

“Lip’s good. She has a thing about my mouth.”

“I did not need to know that.” Beau positions himself. “You ready?”

“Wait-” Dean holds up a hand. “Not here. Too many witnesses. Let’s go outside.”

Five minutes later, they’re in the parking lot behind the gym. Dean’s bracing himself, and Beau’s looking at him like he’s crazy.

“Last chance to back out,” Beau says.

“Just do it.”

“You’re insane.”

“Frequently.”

Beau shrugs. “Your funeral.” And he pulls back and-

CRACK.

Dean’s head snaps to the side, stars exploding behind his eyes. His lip splits immediately, and yeah, that’s going to bruise.

“Jesus,” he gasps, tasting blood.

“You literally asked for that.”

“I know. Doesn’t make it hurt less.” Dean touches his lip gingerly. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. Your lip’s bleeding like crazy and your cheek’s already swelling.” Beau hands him a towel from his gym bag. “You better hope this works because if Y/N finds out you did this on purpose, she’s going to kill you.”

“She won’t find out.”

“Famous last words, man. Famous last words.”

***

You finish your study session at six, exhausted but confident about tomorrow’s exam. Your phone has three missed calls from Dean, which is unusual. He’s been good about giving you space this week.

You call him back.

“Hey,” he answers, and his voice sounds weird. Muffled.

“You okay? You sound funny.”

“I’m fine. Just had a little accident at the gym.”

Your exhaustion evaporates immediately. “What kind of accident?”

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Dean. What happened.”

“I caught an elbow playing basketball. My lip’s split and my cheek’s a little banged up, but I’m fine.”

You’re already packing your bag. “Where are you?”

“At home, but Y/N, you don’t have to-”

“I’m coming over. Have you iced it?”

“Not yet-”

“Ice it. Now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

You hang up before he can protest, throwing your books into your backpack with more force than necessary. Basketball. Of course. Because Dean can’t just go to the gym and work out like a normal person, he has to play contact sports.

The walk to The Boy’s House takes twelve minutes because you’re power-walking the whole way. You let yourself in — Dean gave you a key two weeks ago — and take the stairs two at a time.

He’s sitting on his bed, holding a bag of frozen peas to his face, and when he lowers it your heart stops.

“Oh my god.”

His lip is split badly, still oozing blood. His left cheek is swollen and already turning purple. There’s dried blood on his chin.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says.

“It looks terrible!” You drop your bag and go to him, gently tilting his face toward the light. “Have you cleaned this at all?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Dean-” You stop, take a breath. “Okay. Don’t move. I need to get supplies.”

Ten minutes later, you’ve assembled everything you need from his bathroom and the first aid kit he keeps under the sink. Dean watches you work with something soft in his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I know you have studying-”

“Shut up.” You’re cleaning the blood from his face with gentle swipes. “You’re hurt. Obviously I’m going to take care of you.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’m aware.” But you’re smiling a little. “This is going to sting.”

“I can han—OW.”

“I warned you.” You’re applying antiseptic now, careful around the split. “How did this happen exactly?”

“I went up for a rebound and Beau’s elbow caught me right in the face.”

“Beau did this?”

“It was an accident. He felt terrible.”

“He should feel terrible. This is-” You stop, looking at the injury more carefully. “This is a really clean hit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Beau’s elbow would have caught you at an angle if you were both going up for a rebound. But this-” You touch the area around the injury lightly. “This came straight on. Like a punch, not an elbow.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I-”

“Did Beau punch you in the face?”

“No! I mean, not exactly-”

“Dean.” You sit back, crossing your arms. “Did you ask Beau to punch you in the face?”

The silence is deafening.

“Maybe,” he finally admits.

“MAYBE?”

“Okay, yes. I asked him to punch me in the face.”

You stare at him. “Why would you-” And then it clicks. “You missed me.”

“So much.”

“So you had Beau punch you in the face because you thought I’d come take care of you.”

“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

“It IS stupid!” But you’re fighting a smile now. “Dean, you could have just asked me to take a study break.”

“You said you needed to focus.”

“I did need to focus. But I also need to eat and sleep and occasionally see my boyfriend. I would have made time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” You go back to cleaning his face. “You didn’t need to get punched.”

“It worked though. You’re here.”

“I’m here because you’re injured and I was worried about you, not because your manipulation tactics worked.”

“Semantics.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me anyway.”

“I love you anyway.” You finish cleaning the wound and start applying butterfly bandages. “Although this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, is it?”

He freezes. “What do you mean?”

“After that game months ago.”

“I told you, I took a high stick in the-”

“Dean.” You meet his eyes. “Garrett told me.”

“He WHAT?”

“Told me. Right after it happened, actually. He said, and I quote, ‘I can’t believe Dean hit himself in the face with his own stick to get your attention.’” You’re grinning now. “He thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.”

Dean drops his head into his hands. “I’m going to kill him.”

“You’re not going to kill him. He was right, it was hilarious.”

“It was strategic.”

“It was unhinged.”

“It worked!”

“It did work,” you admit. “We did kiss that night. But Dean-” You cup his face gently. “You don’t need to injure yourself to get my attention. You already have it. You’ve had it since that first night at the party, whether I wanted to admit it or not.”

“Really?”

“Really. So next time you miss me during finals week, just tell me. I’ll make time. I promise.”

“Even if you’re drowning in studying?”

“Even then. Because you’re important to me. More important than a 4.0.”

His eyes widen. “Did you just say-”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“You said I’m more important than your GPA!”

“I said don’t make a big deal out of it!”

But he’s grinning now, wincing when it pulls at his split lip. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, you absolute maniac.” You finish with the bandages. “There. You’re all patched up. But seriously, no more fake injuries. Deal?”

“Deal.” He pauses. “What if they’re really small injuries though? Like a paper cut or-”

“Dean.”

“Kidding. I’m kidding.” He pulls you into his lap. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Always.” You kiss him carefully, mindful of his lip. “Now, I really should get back to studying-”

“Or,” he says, his hands sliding under your shirt. “You could stay. Take a break. Let me thank you properly for being the best girlfriend in the world.”

“I have an exam tomorrow.”

“You’re going to ace it. You always do.”

“Dean-”

“Please?” He’s kissing your neck now. “I’ve missed you so much. Four days is too long.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m fine. Better than fine now that you’re here.”

You should say no. Should go back to your dorm, review your notes one more time, get a good night’s sleep.

But his hands are warm and his mouth is on that spot below your ear that makes you melt, and you’ve missed him too.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But only for a little bit.”

“Whatever you say, baby.”

***

“A little bit” turns into three hours.

You’re lying in Dean’s bed, thoroughly debauched and completely relaxed, wearing his t-shirt and nothing else. He’s next to you, propped up on one elbow, just watching you with that soft expression that still makes your heart flutter.

“What?” You ask.

“Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

“Even with your busted face?”

“Especially with my busted face. It got you here, didn’t it?”

You shake your head, laughing. “You know what’s crazy?”

“What?”

“Six months ago, if someone had told me I’d be here — in your bed, in love with you, happy to blow off studying for you — I would have thought they were insane.”

“And now?”

“Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” You trace the line of his jaw, careful of the bruise. “You’ve completely derailed my carefully planned life.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be. It needed derailing.” You shift closer. “I had everything mapped out. College, medical school, residency, career. No room for anything else. Definitely no room for a relationship.”

“And now?”

“Now I have all of that plus you. And it turns out, I can have both. I can be focused and driven and still make time for someone I love. Who knew?”

“I knew,” Dean says softly. “From the beginning, I knew you could have everything you wanted. You just needed to let yourself want it.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise. You just thought I was a dumb jock.”

“I never thought you were dumb.”

“Just a jock?”

“A very hot jock,” you amend. “With surprisingly good political acumen and an unexpected talent for making me laugh.”

“Keep going. This is good for my ego.”

You laugh and kiss him. “I love you. Even when you’re getting yourself punched in the face for attention.”

“I love you too. Even when you’re so focused on studying you forget to eat.”

“That was one time!”

“It was three times.”

“Who’s counting?”

“Me. Because I care about you.” He kisses your forehead. “Speaking of which, when’s your last exam?”

“Friday at two.”

“Okay. So Friday at two-oh-five, you’re officially done with finals. What do you want to do?”

“Sleep for sixteen hours?”

“After that.”

“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he says, rolling on top of you. “I was thinking we could go back to the lake house for the weekend. Just us. No studying, no hockey, no responsibilities. Just us.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You wrap your arms around his neck. “But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“In my bed?”

“In your arms.”

His expression goes soft. “You’re going to make me emotional.”

“Big tough hockey player can’t handle feelings?”

“Not when they’re about you.” He kisses you, deep and slow. “You destroy me, you know that?”

“Good. You destroyed me first.”

“Best disaster of your life?”

“Best disaster of my life,” you confirm.

He grins and starts kissing down your neck. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to be studying right now.”

“Dean-”

“But instead you’re here. With me. Naked in my bed.” His hands are wandering now. “Priorities definitely shifted.”

“This is a one-time thing. Finals week exception.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” He’s at your collarbone now. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“I will. Now stop talking and-”

But you lose your train of thought when his mouth finds your breast.

“What was that?” He asks innocently. “Stop talking and what?”

“You know what.”

“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Dean Di Laurentis, if you don’t-”

He moves lower, kissing down your stomach. “Don’t what?”

“Oh my god, you’re infuriating.”

“But you love me.”

“I’m starting to question that decision—oh.” Your hands fist in his hair as his mouth finds exactly where you need it. “Okay, I take it back. I love you. I love you so much.”

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your skin, and then he’s making very sure all thoughts of studying — all thoughts period — leave your head completely.

***

Later, when you’re both thoroughly satisfied and drowsing in each other’s arms, you make one last attempt at responsibility.

“I should really go study,” you mumble into his chest.

“Mmm, no.”

“I have an exam in-” you crane your neck to see his alarm clock, “-fourteen hours.”

“You’ll ace it. You always do.”

“Confidence based on what data?”

“Based on the fact that you’re brilliant and you’ve been studying for days.” He tightens his arms around you. “Stay. Please. I’ll wake you up early and make you breakfast and quiz you on whatever you need.”

“You don’t even know what the exam is on.”

“I’ll learn. For you, I’ll learn organic chemistry overnight.”

You laugh. “That’s not possible.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll try anyway.” He kisses the top of your head. “Stay.”

You should say no. Should be responsible. Should-

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll stay.”

“Best decision you’ve made all week.”

“Second best. Best decision was coming to take care of your ridiculous fake injury.”

“It was real! Beau really punched me!”

“You asked him to!”

“Details.”

You’re both laughing now, and it feels so good, so right, that you don’t even care about the studying you’re missing.

“I can’t believe I’m blowing off organic chemistry for you,” you say.

“I can. I’m very compelling.”

“You’re very something.”

“But you love me.”

“I really do.” You prop yourself up to look at him. “Even when you’re being an absolute disaster of a human being.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re just as much of a disaster as I am. You just hide it better behind color-coded notes and perfect grades.”

“I am not-”

“You once stayed in the library for twenty-seven straight hours during midterms!”

“I was on a roll!”

“You forgot to eat three times in one week!”

“I was focused!”

“My point exactly. We’re both disasters. We just disaster differently.”

You consider this. “Okay, that’s fair.”

“We’re perfect for each other.”

“We really are.” You settle back against his chest. “Disastrous together.”

“But happy.”

“So happy,” you agree.

And it’s true. Despite the chaos, despite the derailed plans, despite every logical reason why this shouldn’t work — you’re happy. Happier than you’ve ever been.

“Hey Dean?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being patient with me. For waiting while I figured out what I wanted. For showing me that having you doesn’t mean losing myself.”

“Y/N-”

“For loving me even when I was too scared to love you back. For making me believe I could have everything.”

He pulls you closer, and you can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Big tough hockey player-”

“Can’t handle feelings about you. We’ve established this.” He tilts your face up to his. “I’d wait forever for you. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“And you’re not losing yourself. You’re just making room for one more thing. One more person who thinks you’re incredible and wants to support every single dream you have.”

“Stop it. I’m going to cry now.”

“We can cry together.”

You’re both laughing through tears now, and it’s messy and perfect and exactly right.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you too.” He kisses you, soft and sweet. “Now go to sleep. You have an exam to ace tomorrow.”

“You’re letting me sleep?”

“You’re the one who keeps initiating round three.”

“That is—okay, that’s fair.”

“Get some rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And he does. His arms around you, his heartbeat in your ear, his presence solid and real and yours.

You fall asleep thinking about how far you’ve come. From that first night at the party, convinced Dean was just another distraction. To study sessions that became something more. To falling in love despite every logical reason not to.

The best decisions aren’t always the logical ones.

Sometimes the best decisions are the ones that scare you. The ones that derail your carefully planned future. The ones that make you feel too much.

Sometimes the best decisions are the disasters that turn out to be exactly what you needed all along.

And as you drift off in Dean’s arms, you can’t help but smile.

Because if this is disaster, you never want to be safe again.

[alygator77]

── off the record ၇୧

꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!

꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎

꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)

"Oi. Boss lady."

“No.”

One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.

"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"

"—the answer is no, Satoru."

Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.

The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—

"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."

Your eyes roll back down.

“Mhm.”

"And it was such a good question.”

You turn a page. "Really?”

“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”

You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."

It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.

It had not.

Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—

…

Wait.

Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?

Fucking great.

“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”

Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?

With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby.  But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.

He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…

Oh.

That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.

Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”

It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.

“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"

“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.

But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”

Lips parting, you blink.

…why is he so observant?!

For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.

You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”

His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”

Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.

Oh.

Way too observant.

Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.

His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”

Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”

You blink.

Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.

Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.

After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?

Last month, you still answered her phone calls.

Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.

Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

“Oh—uh, hi mom!”

Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.

“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”

“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.

Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”

“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…

Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.

"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"

"—have you booked your flight yet?"

Your mouth flattened.

Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.

“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”

“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”

A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.

Every week is a crazy week?

Yeah. No shit.

Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.

You’re the one people relied on.

Just… never the one people chose.

“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”

“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”

…

Keep forgetting?

She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?

How convenient that she forgot that.

The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”

"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”

Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.

No thanks.

“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”

“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”

Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.

Shit.

“I-I—I didn’t say—"

“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”

“—Mom, I—"

“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”

Love?!

Who has time for that?

And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!

“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”

And she was off.

Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.

“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”

Click!

And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.

‘We’ve been so worried.’

…

If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?

Funny how that works.

Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.

“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”

Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.

The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.

But…

None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?

“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”

“Huh?”

Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.

“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”

“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”

For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.

But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"

“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”

And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.

"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"

“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”

Why does he sound… bitter?

No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.

You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"

He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"

Your lips purse.

What does he care? He’s not your mother.

“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”

“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”

You frown.

What the fuck are you supposed to say!?

Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.

Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.

“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”

“But I—”

“Drop it.”

He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.

“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”

The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.

God.

Of all the places to hit.

“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.

He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"

“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”

Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.

His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.

Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”

“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”

Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.

“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"

“Oh, finally.”

Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.

Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"

You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.

Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.

Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.

You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.

It doesn’t.

And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.

Un-fucking-believable.

He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.

…

He could fire Kento.

Should he fire Kento?

As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.

'Grow up, Satoru.'

'Apply yourself, Satoru.'

'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'

Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.

Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!

He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.

The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.

It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.

“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”

There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”

His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”

The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”

"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”

“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”

…

Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?

Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.

“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”

"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"

"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."

He’s been her intern for that long.

That’s the question, right?

"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”

He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.

“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”

Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.

"…sorry. Who is thi—"

“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"

Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:

📞 Mom

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—

"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"

"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”

"Stop. I-I really think—"

“—Satoru, what are you doing?’

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.

Oh, fuck.

“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.

He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.

“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"

"Mom."

"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"

"I'm at work. Gotta go."

"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"

Click!

The phone sits in your hand like evidence.

And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.

“Sooo… funny story…”

“—what did you do?!”

Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.

Great. Fucking great.

You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.

But cry?

Never.

And this had his fingerprints all over it.

"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"

"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"

Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.

God. How fucking humiliating.

"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."

“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”

Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.

God. Stop it.

Stop it stop it stop it.

Think.

Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.

But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.

…what look will she give you when you show up alone?

"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"

Single.

The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.

And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.

"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"

You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”

"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.

"Huh… okay."

Okay what?

You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."

No biggie?

Your mouth dropped.

That wasn’t even an option, was it?

…is he crazy?

“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."

You stared at him. Genuinely stared.

Oh. He wasn’t kidding.

Yup. He’s crazy.

"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."

“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"

He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.

"…that is not the point."

“Mm… feels a little like the point."

He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."

He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.

…

His family’s in Japan too?

You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.

But…

"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."

Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.

"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."

"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"

Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.

“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”

He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?

Shit…

That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.

a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂‍↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖

[rosiewrites28]

“The Girlfriend Clause” — Part 2

Summary: Dean’s father threatens to cut him off after another scandal hits the hockey team, so Dean lies and says he’s in a serious relationship. The problem? The girl he asks to pretend-date him is the one person on campus who genuinely can’t stand him.

wc: 1179

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x reader

A/N: highly requested part 2

Masterlist | Part 1

The problem with fake dating, Dean realized very quickly, was that pretending to be in love required an alarming amount of touching.

Not dramatic touching.

Worse.

Natural touching.

The kind that happened without thinking.

A hand at the small of Y/N’s back while walking through crowded restaurants.

Her stealing fries off his plate.

His thumb brushing her wrist during conversations because his body apparently hated him now.

It was becoming an issue.

A serious issue.

Because Dean Di Laurentis was starting to forget which parts were fake.

“You’re staring again,” Y/N said from across the library table.

Dean blinked. “I’m literally reading.”

“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”

“That’s because economics is emotionally abusive.”

Y/N snorted softly before returning to her notes.

Dean watched her anyway.

Which was becoming another problem.

She looked different lately.

Or maybe he was just noticing things he hadn’t before.

The way she tucked hair behind her ear while concentrating.

The tiny wrinkle between her brows when she was annoyed.

How she always stole his hoodies but complained they smelled like hockey.

Normal things.

Dangerously normal things.

Across from him, Y/N looked up slowly.

“…You’re doing it again.”

Dean leaned back in his chair lazily. “You’re very distracting.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re pretending to date me voluntarily.”

Her expression flattened. “Temporary psychosis.”

Dean grinned automatically.

And there it was again.

That shift.

That stupid warmth in his chest every time she looked at him like she was trying not to smile.

God.

This was becoming catastrophic.

The hockey team noticed next.

Of course they did.

Hockey players noticed emotional instability the way sharks noticed blood.

Dean walked into the house kitchen one Friday morning to find Logan, Garrett, and Tucker staring at him.

Dean stopped immediately. “Why do you all look like detectives.”

Garrett pointed at him slowly. “You’re humming.”

Dean blinked. “People hum.”

“You don’t.”

“That’s profiling.”

Tucker narrowed his eyes. “You also made breakfast.”

“Okay, now you’re just inventing crimes.”

Logan took a sip of coffee. “He made pancakes.”

Silence.

Garrett looked horrified. “Oh my God.”

Dean crossed his arms defensively. “They were frozen.”

“That somehow makes it worse,” Logan muttered.

Dean hated all of them.

Mostly because they looked way too smug.

“You like her,” Garrett said suddenly.

The kitchen went quiet.

Dean laughed instantly.

Too quickly.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s fake.”

Logan looked unconvinced.

Tucker looked entertained.

Garrett looked suspicious.

Dean grabbed his coffee and fled before anyone could say something emotionally devastating.

Cowards.

All of them.

The real problem started during Dean’s family charity gala.

Apparently, pretending to date someone for one weekend had evolved into “ongoing appearances.”

Which felt legally fraudulent.

“You clean up okay,” Dean admitted as Y/N stepped out of the apartment bathroom.

She adjusted one of her earrings. “You sound shocked.”

“I’m always shocked by you.”

“That’s because you’re not very bright.”

Fair.

But Dean barely heard the insult.

Because she looked—

Dangerous.

Black dress. Bare shoulders. Hair down.

And suddenly Dean understood why men in historical wars used to write poetry and lose their minds.

Y/N noticed him staring immediately.

“…Why are you making that face?”

Dean blinked once. “I forgot how language works.”

She stared at him.

Then laughed despite herself.

And something in Dean’s chest tightened painfully at the sound.

Oh no.

No, no, absolutely not.

He was not falling in love with the fake girlfriend.

That felt deeply against the rules.

The gala itself was torture.

Not because of his father.

Because of everyone else.

“You’re so good for him,” one woman told Y/N warmly.

Dean nearly choked on champagne.

Y/N smiled politely. “That’s sweet.”

Sweet.

Dean’s family had never once used the word sweet to describe him.

Responsible, maybe.

Talented.

Promising.

Difficult.

Never sweet.

“You’ve calmed him down,” another person added.

Y/N glanced toward Dean instinctively.

And smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not fake.

Not polite.

Soft.

Fond.

Dean felt his entire nervous system short-circuit.

Because for one terrifying second, it looked real.

Not the relationship.

The feeling behind it.

Then his father approached.

“You two seem happy,” he observed carefully.

Dean prepared himself for criticism automatically.

Instead, his father looked at Y/N and said:

“I haven’t seen him like this before.”

Silence.

Dean went still.

Y/N did too.

Something about the statement landed strangely heavy.

Because Dean didn’t know what “like this” meant.

Softer?

Calmer?

Happy?

The thought made him deeply uncomfortable.

His father moved away before either of them responded.

And suddenly Dean couldn’t breathe properly.

“You okay?” Y/N asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

Big lie.

Because now he was realizing something horrifying:

He liked who he was around her.

And Dean Di Laurentis had spent years carefully avoiding that kind of vulnerability.

Things finally exploded in the hotel elevator afterward.

Not dramatically.

Worse.

Quietly.

The elevator doors closed.

Silence settled around them.

Dean loosened his tie slightly while Y/N kicked off her heels with visible relief.

“That was painful,” she muttered.

“You did great.”

“You almost called a senator ‘bro.’”

“In my defense, he had aggressive bro energy.”

She laughed again.

Dean’s chest hurt.

Again.

Everything hurt lately.

Y/N leaned back against the elevator wall. “Your father was weird tonight.”

Dean looked away slightly. “That’s normal.”

“No.” She studied him carefully. “He looked proud of you.”

That word hit like a punch.

Proud.

Dean swallowed once.

Hard.

“He likes you,” he said instead.

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

Then Y/N stepped closer slightly.

Not much.

Just enough to matter.

“You know,” she said softly, “I think he’s starting to realize you’re not who he thinks you are.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You give me way too much credit.”

“No,” she said quietly. “I think people don’t give you enough.”

The elevator suddenly felt too small.

Dean looked at her.

Really looked at her.

At the girl who challenged him constantly. Saw through every joke. Called him out without ever making him feel small.

The girl who somehow made him want to be better instead of just pretending to be.

Dangerous.

So unbelievably dangerous.

“You need to stop doing that,” he said roughly.

Her brows furrowed. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m worth something.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Silence.

Y/N’s expression changed instantly.

Softened.

And that was somehow worse.

“Dean…”

He should’ve backed up.

Should’ve laughed it off.

Made a joke.

Instead he stayed exactly where he was while her hand lifted slowly to straighten his loosened tie.

Again with the tie.

Again with the tiny touches that felt too intimate.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered.

Dean smiled faintly. “Frequently.”

Her hand lingered against his chest.

The elevator stopped.

Neither of them moved.

The doors slid open.

Still neither of them moved.

Then Dean looked down at her mouth accidentally.

And Y/N noticed.

Which became a problem immediately.

A huge problem.

Because she didn’t step away.

And suddenly the fake relationship wasn’t the thing scaring Dean anymore.

The real one was.

[yawnzshit]

all day. all night.everywhere. anytime.

[whorelaud]

THE BET – dean di laurentis ¡

summary your friends dare you to sext a random account on instagram, who so happens to be dean di laurentis, your worst enemy. despite hating the idea of it, you couldn't deny him, not when he's offering more than you're willing to take.

content SMAU, mature content, sexting, praise, use of pet names, cringe, enemies (but it's one sided), desperate dean, reader has an attitude, and likes being called a brat, lots of teasing, dirty talk with a side of humor 

a/n this is kinda rusty but i had sm fun writing it so i hope you guys enjoy reading it!! 

vibe rators 😈

al 🦭: alright we've come to a decision 

you: ... hello to you too

hans 🐢: hi my sweet angel

al 🦭: there's no time for greetings 

al 🦭: this is urgent business 

you: i'm scared

you: i don't like where this is going

you: what did you do al

al 🦭: actually me AND hans came to this decision 

hans 🐢: i'm only a tad bit involved 

hans 🐢: it was her plan

al 🦭: you suggested it?? 

hans 🐢: I DIDNT???? 

hans 🐢: i said it would be fun 

you: i should leave 

al 🦭: get back here. 

al 🦭: alright so 

al 🦭: do you remember the bet you lost at tucker's party?

you: i don't actually 

hans 🐢: look at her trying to escape... 

you: don't gang up on me 🙁

you: i thought you guys forgot about that

al 🦭: how could we

al 🦭: we finally get the chance to torture our precious pie

you: don't call me that 

hans 🐢: LMAOO 

al 🦭: as i was saying

al 🦭: me and hannah finally decided what we want you to do 

hans 🐢: why am i more nervous than her

hans 🐢: SPIT IT OUT ALREADY

al 🦭: alright man i was building up the suspense 

you: how about girls night and i treat you guys to the most delicious toe curling meals of your lives instead of whatever you have planned ☺️☺️

al 🦭: as tempting as that sounds... what we have is More fun

you: Fuck me. 

hans 🐢: i'd love to

you: i'm telling your bf

hans 🐢: hey :c

you: al baby can you please just tell me i'm dying to know

al 🦭: Fine...

al 🦭: okay so how does trolling some random guy online and making him think you're really into him and that he can get into your pants sound 

hans 🐢: okay now that you phrase it like this it definitely sounds cringe

you: Okay

you: no

you: i'm not doing that

al 🦭: WHY NOT

hans 🐢: it'll be fun hey...

you: are you guys crazy

you: why would i dm a random MAN that i'm into him. 

al 🦭: because men suck and they deserve to be humiliated 

hans 🐢: oh wow ❤️ 

hans 🐢: love that! 

you: no but seriously why would i do that

you: out of all the things i could've done why THAT

hans 🐢: because you're very anti love so weve decided to spice up your love life

you: sexting a random man online is going to spice up my love life huh

al 🦭: exactly 

you: do i ever have a choice here... 

hans 🐢: if you don't feel comfortable you don't have to do it bae

you: it's just really embarrassing 

you: but it's fine ig

al 🦭: FUCK YEAH

al 🦭: alright wait i'll grab his profile for you 

you: scary

hans 🐢: drumroll drumroll

al 🦭:

you: DI LAURENTIS???? 

hans 🐢: yeah...

you: oh FUCK no

you: we said a random man not fucking dean di laurentis

hans 🐢: AL I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA

hans 🐢: y/n hates him

you: he's the bane of my existence. 

you: i'm not doing that

you: nope not even gonna entertain the idea of it 

al 🦭: oh come on

al 🦭: THATS WHAT MAKES IT MORE FUN

al 🦭: laugh in his face

hans 🐢: dean is actually very sweet why do you hate him so much 

you: he's a manwhore

you: he's fucked every girl on campus

you: + he's a DICK

you: i don't like him

you: on top of the embarrassment i have to shove compliments in his face???!!??

you: as if his ego needs it

hans 🐢: im giggling

hans 🐢: c'mon it's not that bad

hans 🐢: besides you'll be doing it from an anonymous account so he wont know it's you

al 🦭: PLS PLS PLS YN PLS 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

you: get that ugly emoji off my screen god

you: i'm never ever ever ever ever everrrrrrrr doing anything like this ever again

you: only once

hans 🐢: ONLY ONCE

al 🦭: YES PLS

you: you guys are a little too excited about this

you: i need to avenge myself 

al 🦭: do that later

al 🦭: now go on and text him 

hans 🐢: keep us updated :3

you: i hate you both 

al 🦭: aw ☺️

al 🦭: luv you too 

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vibe rators 😈

you: i'm so fucking screwed

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a/n AND THATS IT. this took me so long to fucking do and for WHAT also something is messed up in those ig pics but its too late to figure it out rn... all support is appreciated wahhh i hope this doesn't flops or i'll cry and repost tmr 😇😇

[alierecss]

What, like it's hard? | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You've been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.

notes: hii i'm back!! i really hope you guys enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. this came to mind because i'm obsessed with legally blonde the musical thanks to the show, and then obviously i had to rewatch the movie immediately. i read the dean book years ago so i genuinely didn't remember the plot, so for all intents and purposes let's just agree that he went to law school and moved on. also first time writing smut, so i think it's kind of mid, but i did my best 😭 also the legal cases i mention might not be entirely accurate since i am not a lawyer, but i do feel very comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think 🤍

warnings: swearing, kind of academic rivals to lovers, library shenanigans, one very unhappy night librarian, legally blonde references (many), dean is a menace, reader is a menace back, sexual tension with footnotes, and SMUT (making out, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv, light dirty talk, "good girl", dean calls you baby and honey a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 11.8k

For the past four years, you had spent countless moments thinking about these final months of college.

Truthfully, college had always felt like a dream, a dream that for a long time had seemed impossible and far away, so when the acceptance letter arrived all those years ago, you had been ecstatic in the disbelieving way of someone who had wanted something so long they had stopped being sure they deserved it. What nobody told you was that dreams came with deadlines, sleepless nights, and enough stress to make your eye twitch on a random afternoon for no particular reason.

The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.

Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.

Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.

Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.

Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.

What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?

Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.

The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.

At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.

Right now it felt catastrophic.

You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.

The thought alone made you grimace.

So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.

Praying.

"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."

A few students groaned.

You sat a little straighter.

Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.

Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.

More importantly, you liked being good at things.

Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.

Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.

The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.

"Dean DiLaurentis."

Silence.

Jesus H. Christ.

Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.

Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.

Dean turned around.

Then he smiled.

That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:

He winked.

He actually winked.

You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.

You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.

Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.

This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?

You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.

Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.

The math simply wasn't mathing.

Unless.

Oh.

Oh, god.

He was sleeping with the TA.

That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —

Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.

Three months earlier, it had started.

Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.

You almost always said the thing you were thinking.

Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.

You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.

"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."

Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.

"I'd push back on that a little."

You turned.

Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.

"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.

"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."

"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."

"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."

"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."

The last sentence landed differently than the rest.

Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.

Whitaker moved on.

You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.

That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.

The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.

You were already packing your bag when you heard him.

"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."

"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.

"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."

"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."

"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."

Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.

You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.

"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."

"I have a session at two."

"After three, then."

You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."

"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.

You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.

Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.

"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.

Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.

He handed it back.

You looked down.

Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)

You stared at it for a long moment.

"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."

He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.

"Wednesday, then."

"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.

You did not watch him go.

You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.

This was the conclusion you had reached.

You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.

"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"

Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.

"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."

"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."

"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."

"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."

"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."

Elisa put down the spatula.

"Shut up."

"I'm not going to —"

"No way. You hate him."

"I don't hate him."

"Despise, then."

"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."

"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."

"Goodbye, Elisa."

"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"

You closed the door.

session one

He was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.

He was sitting in your chair.

He had a coffee on each side of the table.

Two coffees.

You stopped.

"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."

You were a black coffee person.

You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.

"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."

You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.

"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.

"It's foundational."

"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."

He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"

"Section three. After we've established the framework."

Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."

You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.

You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.

At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.

You looked back at your screen.

Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.

You didn't move either.

You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.

His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.

An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.

"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.

"I don't need a break."

"You've reread that page four times."

You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.

You closed the case study.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.

"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."

Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."

"Daphne."

A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."

Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"

"That would be the one."

He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"

"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"

"I just said I couldn't."

"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."

Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.

"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."

You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."

"Garrett."

"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"

"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."

"A wrong one."

"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."

You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.

"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."

"So she didn't give a great review."

"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."

Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.

"That's funny," he said.

"I know."

He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.

You didn't say anything about it.

Neither did he.

Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.

You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.

You looked at the citation.

"You're right," you said. "Good catch."

He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.

You both looked back at the page.

Neither of you moved away.

It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:

"You always sit in the same seat."

You glanced up. "What?"

He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."

The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.

"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.

"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."

I know.

Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.

You looked at him for a moment.

He did not look back up.

"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."

You both looked at your screens.

Neither of you said anything else about it.

You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.

In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.

His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.

You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.

session two

The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.

It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.

You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.

What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.

You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."

"We just had a break."

"That was an hour ago."

You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.

You put your pen down.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.

"So," he said. "Harvard Law."

"What about it."

"That's the goal?"

"That's the goal," you confirmed.

He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"

You turned to look at him.

He was already smiling.

"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."

"Is it?"

"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."

"I don't remember that."

"Dean."

"It's a great film."

You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"

"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."

You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.

"God," you said.

He laughed. "What?"

"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."

"Does it."

"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."

Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."

You laughed and put your head down on the table.

His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work," he agreed.

But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.

Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.

God help you.

You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.

It started, as these things often did, over something small.

Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.

"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."

"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."

"You've said that. You haven't explained it."

"I sent you three paragraphs —"

"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."

You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —

"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."

"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."

The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.

Dean went very still. "What does that mean."

It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.

"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."

Silence.

Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.

"Say what you mean," he said quietly.

And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —

"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."

The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.

Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.

"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."

You opened your mouth.

"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."

He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.

You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.

Not about the source.

About him.

"Dean —"

"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."

You looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.

Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.

Neither did he.

session three

The third session was on a Tuesday.

You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.

You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.

Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.

You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.

Dean was already there.

Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said back.

You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.

He did not comment on the seating arrangement.

That was somehow worse than if he had.

You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.

The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.

Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."

"I know," you said. "I'm looking."

"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."

"I haven't checked yet."

"It's good."

"Okay."

Silence.

You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.

An hour passed like that.

You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."

You looked up.

He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."

Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.

"It was sitting there," you admitted.

"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."

"Dean —"

"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."

"It's already a little weird," you said.

"I know."

Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.

"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."

You said nothing.

"It does," he said. "Okay."

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work."

You heard her before you saw her.

The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.

The heels stopped at your table.

"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."

"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."

"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."

"I can't right now, we're working."

We. You noted the word and kept reading.

"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."

"I know it's not. I just can't right now."

You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.

"Dean —"

"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"

A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.

"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.

The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.

"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."

"It's literally five minutes —"

"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."

The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.

Then she left.

The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.

From across the table, nothing.

You turned a page.

More nothing.

You looked up.

Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.

"What," you said.

"Nothing."

"Say whatever you're going to say."

"I'm not going to say anything."

"Dean."

"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."

"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."

"Completely understandable."

"I would have done the same for anyone."

"Of course."

"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."

"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.

You looked back at your notes.

I would have done the same for anyone.

You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.

That one had convinced neither of you.

You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.

"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.

You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."

You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.

The doors opened.

"Wednesday," you said.

"Wednesday," he confirmed.

You walked out into the night and did not look back.

You were going to need a very good cake.

session four

It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.

It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.

Things had been a little strange since the fight.

The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.

You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.

You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.

"So," you started.

Dean looked up from his laptop.

"I would like to apologize."

He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."

"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."

You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.

"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."

Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."

"I brought us a snack."

"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."

"We've been here three hours."

"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.

"Good?" you asked.

"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."

"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.

Dean didn't say anything.

But he didn't look away.

You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.

You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.

He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.

You looked at your screen.

His knee stayed where it was.

Fine, you thought. Fine.

You did not move away.

Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.

You looked down at his hand on yours.

You looked up at him.

He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.

You turned your hand over under his.

Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.

Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.

You didn't move.

His eyes met yours — a question, patient and certain — and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.

You had kissed people before.

This was categorically different.

It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan — soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath — and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.

The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.

You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.

You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.

Dean — you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean —

Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.

A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.

Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.

You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.

"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."

Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.

You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.

Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:

"So."

"Don't."

"I was just going to —"

"I know what you were going to say."

A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."

You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.

"The cake was really good," he said.

"Shut up, Dean."

He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.

You were both smiling though.

session five

The fifth session was on a Wednesday.

You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.

Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.

You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.

The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.

You worked.

The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.

You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.

You were not examining that.

"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.

"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."

He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.

"It's good," he said.

"I know."

Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.

"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."

"Doing what."

"You know what."

"Dean —"

"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."

You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.

"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."

The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.

"It's not that simple," you said finally.

"Okay." He waited.

"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by —" you stopped.

"By me," he said.

"By anything."

He was quiet. "That's fair."

"And you don't —" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."

Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself — all the way, no management.

"What have you heard," he said.

"Dean."

"No. Specifically."

You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."

He held your gaze.

"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."

"And now?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.

You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.

The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.

Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.

"Four more pages," you said.

Dean was quiet for a beat.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

You both looked at your screens.

You finished the project.

Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.

You were in your seat when she read them out.

A plus.

You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.

You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."

"A plus," you confirmed.

"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."

"That was my idea."

"I agreed with it enthusiastically."

"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."

"Enthusiastically," he repeated.

You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.

You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.

The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.

Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.

You hugged him.

You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.

When you pulled back he was still looking at you.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."

You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.

Then you walked away.

You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought —

oh.

oh no.

And kept walking anyway.

the wednesday after

The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.

Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No."

"Should I get it?"

"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.

You opened the door.

Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan — of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them — holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.

You stared at him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"I heard the interview went well."

"How did you hear that."

"Beau knows your roommate apparently."

You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.

"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."

You took them. "And the DVD."

"Also for you."

"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."

Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."

"So this is."

"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."

"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."

He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.

You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.

"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."

"I did."

"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."

"If that's what you want."

"Most people would have just texted."

"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.

You stepped back from the door.

"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."

Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.

"I love caesar salad," he said.

"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."

"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"

Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.

You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.

"I got in," you said, to the screen.

Dean went still.

"The interview —" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."

A beat of silence.

"Harvard," he said.

"Harvard," you confirmed.

Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.

"I knew you would," he said.

And then he kissed you.

It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.

He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that cliché about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.

Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.

Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.

On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.

God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.

He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.

"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.

"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."

As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.

"I told you," he said.

You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.

You let out a slow whistle.

Hockey had been very, very good to him.

"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."

"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."

"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then — you watched, incredulous — tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Absolutely not —"

"Focus," he said.

"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"

"Stop teasing," you whined.

"Not so funny anymore, is it."

"Please, Dean —"

"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"

The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."

His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.

When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.

"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.

"Fuck — Dean —"

The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.

"Be a good girl and come for me."

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden and total.

"Dean — oh my god —"

He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.

He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.

You felt him against your thigh.

Oh. He was — yes.

"Breathe, honey."

It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.

Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.

"I need you inside me, Dean —"

"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.

"Please — Dean — please, please —"

He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.

"Oh fuck —" you moaned as he bottomed out.

"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."

His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.

"You really do have the most absurd —" he said against your skin.

"Do not finish that sentence —"

"— tits. I could spend all day here."

Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.

"I'm gonna come —" you breathed.

"I know."

He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.

The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.

"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."

"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.

You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.

You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.

Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.

You pulled his arm tighter around you.

Worth it.

[g0ldendesiree]

Last Time | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: when dean ends up in a fight on the ice, it leaves words to be said between you both.

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing

word count: 2.71k

authors note: this was kind of written as a second part to the offer however both pieces can be read as stand-alones. honestly i eat up every dean request espeically when we have a chance to make him a little jealous/protective

It had been weeks since the two of you started seeing each other.

Stolen kisses in the treatment room, sneaking you into the house late at night.  As much fun as the two of you had been having, you were starting to grow tired of it.

But you had to keep it to yourself, not because you didn’t think you could share. But because you knew what Dean was like, and a long term ride wasn’t something that he wanted. 

Not in the same ways that you did.

Dean laughed as he pulled you into his room, helping you jump over his desk, “took you damn long enough.” He mumbled into your mouth as the two of you fell onto his bed. 

You scoffed as you rolled your eyes “if I was able to walk through your front door I wouldn’t have taken so long.” You shot back making the boy pinch your side. 

It made you gasp, allowing him to kiss you “it’ll be easier next time.” He promised as he rolled on top of you. 

He nipped at your neck “yeah cause this is the last time.” 

It seemed to be a phrase that got used often between the two of you. 

When your parents went to England for Thanksgiving, you ended up in New York with Dean “I promise they didn’t see you.” He threw his phone to the side as he looked at you “so come back over here.” Dean stood up so that he could kiss you. 

You sighed as you dropped the bedsheet from around your body “what?” He asked as he kissed you. 

Your lips were soft “this has to be the last time.” The blonde never argued with you because he knew how you felt. 

Dean never argued with you, not because he didn’t think it was a fight worth making. But because you seemed to repeat this every few days yet lo and behold, you’d still end up right back in his room like nothing had happened, kissing his lips as you complained about what you were doing.

So Dean should have known something was wrong the second you stopped arguing with him.

Normally, when you said things like “this has to be the last time,” there was still warmth behind it.

There was still banter.

Still that look in your eyes that told him you didn’t mean it nearly as much as you were pretending to.

But tonight? No tonight you sounded tired.

And Dean hated it immediately “you say that every week,” he murmured against your neck, trying to pull you back into whatever this was before it became something heavier.

Something real.

You let him kiss you for a second longer before gently pushing at his chest “that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Dean leaned back slightly, blonde hair falling into his face as he looked down at you “we’re good right?” He gave you a look like if you went to tell him the truth, he would have let you open Pandora’s box like it was nothing.

Your eyes scanned his as you nodded “we’re fine.” That word nearly made you laugh.

Fine.

As if sneaking into his room after midnight and pretending not to care about each other outside of it counted as fine.

As if the way Dean looked at you when you walked into a room didn’t confuse the hell out of you.

As if you weren’t starting to want things you knew he’d never give you.

Like you were starting to want more than what he could give you.

You pushed your hair out of your face “you don’t get it,” you said quietly.

Dean’s expression shifted slightly at your tone “then explain it to me.” He sat up as you almost felt sick.

Because you almost did and that was the dangerous part.

Because Dean was looking at you in that soft way again, the one that made your chest ache.

The one that made you forget he’d never promised you anything.

Instead, you shook your head and slipped out from underneath him “I should go.” You announced as you reached for your shirt that had found its way onto his floor.

Dean sat up immediately “seriously?” He groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

You looked out, knowing that it was going to start raining again soon “and?” You were more focused on getting back to your dorm so that you wouldn’t end up soaked.

Dean tugged at the ends of his hair “and you snuck through my damn window,” he said, watching you slide into your shoes “least you can do is stay.” He wanted to reach for you, to pull you into his grasp and keep you there all night.

You laughed softly despite yourself “you should get a good sleep before Saint A’s.” You knew the big game was the next day and you were using that as your excuse. 

Dean grinned “you know I do better when I’ve had you the night before.” Dean clicked his tongue as he wanted to hold you.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth ruined the effect.

Dean noticed instantly, “there she is,” he said quietly.

Your stomach tightened and that was the problem with him.

Dean always noticed everything.

When you skipped meals.

When you were stressed.

When your smiles were genuine versus when you forced them.

And now he was going to know what you were like before you pulled away, “I was serious about you getting some sleep,” you muttered instead.

Dean watched you carefully “you gonna come to the game tomorrow?”

You paused “kind of my job.” You reminded him as you raised your eyebrows.

His eyes softened slightly, reaching for your hand “still nice to hear you say it.” As his fingers grazed your palm, it hurt more than it should have.

Because he wasn’t yours, not in the way you needed him.

So you went home and hadn’t spoken to him since you left his. The game had already been aggressive before the second period even started.

Big hits.

Shoving matches.

Everything you expected from this game as you were expecting a long night to clean up the bruises and cuts that were bound to come.

A near fight in the first that Garrett had dragged Dean away from by the back of his jersey while Tucker laughed himself sick on the bench.

Your eyes never left the ice. They never left Dean. 

Forcing a comforting smile on your face whenever he looked at you, on the off chance that you could calm him down.

Because he moved differently when he was pissed off.

Sharper.

More reckless.

You noticed it immediately when he slammed another player into the boards hard enough to make the crowd erupt. It was the comeback that you guys were desperate for.

The other player shoved him back when Dean smiled as if he was eating it all up.

That was never a good sign “oh god,” Garrett muttered from beside the bench. Unsure almost if he should jump in to say something.

The opposing player said something.

You didn’t hear it, but Dean did. And whatever it was made his entire posture change instantly.

Not annoyed.

Not cocky.

Furious.

Before anyone could react properly, Dean dropped his gloves.

The crowd roared knowing that one of the roughest teams in the conference was now getting a taste of their own medicine “Dean!” Coach Jensen yelled as it fell on deaf ears.

Too late.

He launched himself at the guy so fast the refs barely had time to react before both of them hit the ice, throwing punches.

You felt your stomach drop immediately.

Because Dean didn’t fight like this normally.

Things didn’t feel like it was personal usually, but now they crossed that boundary.

There was no grin on Dean’s face.

No chirping and nothing playful about it.

Just anger, pure anger “holy shit,” Tucker breathed as he sat in front of you.

The other player managed to get a punch across Dean’s cheekbone before Dean shoved him back onto the ice hard enough for the refs to finally drag them apart.

Blood streaked down Dean’s mouth and he still looked ready to kill him “you wanna say it again?” Dean snapped while Logan held him back.

The other guy laughed through a split lip “what? About your little girlfriend?” Your heart stopped when the older player’s eyes landed on you.

Garrett’s head whipped toward you instantly “oh,” Tucker said slowly.

Everything clicked into place at once.

The fight.

Dean losing control.

The fact that the player was now smirking directly toward your side of the rink.

Dean nearly broke free from the refs trying to get back to him “Dean!” Garrett barked, watching him skate towards the locker room as he was now ejected.

The blonde finally looked away, chest heaving. And then his eyes found you immediately.

Like he was checking if you’d heard it too. As if he wanted to protect you from something, you had a front row seat to watch.

Once he got his concussion clearance, you were left cleaning up his cuts as Coach Jensen wanted to talk to him after you cleared him “you are such an idiot.” Dean sat on the treatment table while you cleaned blood from the cut above his eyebrow.

He winced slightly “easy.” As he tried to pull away.

You rolled your eyes as you were annoyed “you started a fight during a conference game.” You reminded him how stupid this was.

Dean shrugged as he leaned against the wall behind him “he deserved it.” His words almost set you off.

You let your fingers grip his chin, “you got punched in the face.” Many many times he had been hit.

“Worth it.” Dean looked entirely unbothered despite the bruise forming across his jaw, “You should’ve heard what he said.”

You mentally cringed as you thought back to what he said “I know what he said.” You were also annoyed that Dean didn’t think that you could handle it yourself.

Dean’s eyes scanned yours “then you know why I hit him.” He shrugged as he knew he’d do it again if he needed to.

You sighed sharply and reached for more gauze.

The room had gone quieter after the game ended. Most of the team had already filtered out, leaving just muffled voices somewhere down the hallway.

Dean watched you move around him carefully “you’re mad,” he said finally.

You laughed once, short and humourless, “no, Dean,” you said softly “I’m tired.”

That got his attention immediately.

His expression changed.

The cockiness faded slightly as if  a penny dropped in his brain “what’s that supposed to mean?” He sucked at his teeth.

You tossed the bloody gauze into the bin harder than necessary “it means I can’t keep doing this thing where it just stays in this state of limbo.” You blurted the words out as you shook your head.

Dean frowned, “what?” He asked as pulled back, almost as if you were going to burn him if he got too close.

You puffed out your cheeks “you fought someone over me tonight.” You hated how you felt this level of possession when he did that for you.

“Yeah,” he said immediately “because he talked about you like you were some-”

You groaned “that’s not the point.” You pointed your finger at him.

You finally looked at him properly “then what is?” His split lip caught your attention when he spoke. 

The bruise was already forming and the way he looked genuinely confused right now, “you can’t act like this and then pretend we’re just hooking up.” You were scared that Dean had feelings. 

Because he wasn’t meant to, that wasn’t what he was known for.

Dean stared at you “you think that’s what this is to me?” You swallowed slightly “isn’t it?” For the first time since you met him, Dean looked honestly offended.

He looked hurt “seriously?” Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“You never want to talk about us.”

He shook his head as he was genuinely feeling frustrated now, “because every time we do,” he said, sliding off the treatment table, “you tell me it’s the last time.” Your breath caught slightly.

Dean pulled you closer.

Not teasing now.

The room felt hot “You sneak out before breakfast,” he continued “you act like I’m gonna wake up one day and decide you’re inconvenient.” His final sentence made you feel sick. 

“That’s not-”

Dean cut you off “you think I fought a guy because I casually hook up with you?” It seemed like the world stopped in that moment.

His voice wasn’t loud, which somehow made it worse “I fought him because he talked about you like you didn’t matter.” Dean looked down at you for a second before shaking his head slightly.

“You really don’t get it.”

You stopped as if you had all the time in the world “then tell me.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

He pulled you closer.

Close enough that your hands instinctively grabbed lightly at the strings of his shorts “I’m trying to,” he said quietly.

And suddenly you realised something horrifying.

Dean looked nervous.

The Dean Di Laurentis was nervous “you drive me insane,” he admitted “I mean you’re in my room every night.” He almost let out a laugh.

Dean didn’t stop there “half my hoodies are in your dorm. Garrett calls you my girlfriend already cause apparently, I talk about you too much.”

You blinked at his confession “you talk about me?” Felt your heart throb as your throat constricted.

Dean gave you a flat look “constantly.” His voice was soft and honest. 

His shoulders felt lighter when he got it off of his chest “that’s embarrassing.” Your words made him roll his eyes.

He shook his head as he puffed his chest out “you’re embarrassing.” Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you at his rebuttal.

Dean’s expression softened immediately at the sound “there she is,” he murmured again.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his split lip “still think getting punched was worth it?” Dean’s hands slid carefully onto your waist.

He nodded “yeah,” he said quietly, “But you being upset with me kinda sucks.”

You frowned “I wasn’t upset with you.” That was the truth; you were mad at the situation above all else.

“You like me reckless.”

You knew he wasn’t wrong, you loved the way he would pull you into the supply closet at the stadium without thinking twice, “you were stupid tonight.” You sighed as you knew he was going to look like he had been on the wrong side of a fight with Tyson Fury in the morning.

Dean smiled slightly, “you gonna kiss it better or keep yelling at me?” His hands rested on his sides as he bit his lip.

If he wasn’t shirtless looking at you like that, you swore you should have hit him “you are unbelievable.” Your fingers ran over his bruising cheek.

Dean smirked, seeing your strength starting to waver again “and you’re still here.” There it was again.

That stupid sentence that always undid you.

You shook your head softly before finally leaning forward and kissing him.

Carefully this time, almost mindful of the cut on his lip.

Dean melted into it immediately anyway, one hand sliding up your back as he pulled you closer between his legs “I think Garrett owes me fifty bucks now.” He murmured against your mouth.

You blinked “why?” You put the wipes back on your tray.

Dean grinned lazily despite the bruise on his face “he bet you’d be the one to freak out about feelings first.” Your jaw dropped as your eyes went wide.

“I don’t know if I should be offended about that or the fact that I was discussed like a conference pool?”

He shook his head “correction,” Dean said smugly as he pointed between the two of you “they discussed us.”

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, and he laughed.

Then immediately hissed in pain from the movement.

You pointed at him, “good suffer.” Dean just pulled you back in anyway as he pressed a kiss against your cheek.

[edawgz]

# DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS

⤿ DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn't get it... until you did.

!! wc: 2.8k. fluff. fem!reader. enemies to lovers ish. flirting. innuendo. dean being dean. dean fell first and hard. reader lowkey nonchalant w it. COME TO ME MY FELLOW OFF CAMPUS LOVERS. i will die for this series and briar u and the kids series. taglist open. off campus masterlist coming soon. ENJOY.

By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

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