Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon (spoilers for s3 ep1!!)
Summary: Jacaerys survives the Gullet, so naturally the maesters have opinions about what he should and should not be doing during his recovery. Unfortunately for them, Jace has opinions too.
A/N: this works as a standalone or sequel to Saltwater, except this fic is significantly less angsty and significantly more "what if jace spent a month trying to argue with medical professionals." :) must admit i cracked myself up a lil writing this and also PLEASE send in reqs im running out of ideas
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.0k
A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.
You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.
A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.
Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.
Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.
His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.
Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.
You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.
"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.
Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."
Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.
"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."
Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"
The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.
Nobody answers.
The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."
Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."
"Excessive physical exertion."
"Yes."
"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."
The room falls completely silent.
For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.
"I beg your pardon?"
You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"
"My Prince-"
"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."
Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."
"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."
The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."
"Indeed."
"I was shot."
"Yes."
"I nearly drowned."
"Correct."
"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"
The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.
Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."
Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."
A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."
Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"
"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."
"A month."
"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."
Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.
You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.
Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."
Jace's head snaps around, "No."
Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."
They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."
You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.
That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.
The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.
Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.
You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.
The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.
Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”
"Three arrows pierced my body.”
“A month ago.”
“It still counts.”
You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.
There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.
Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.
Immediately, his hand settles over yours.
He notices. Of course he does.
You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.
“Mm.”
His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.
Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”
You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.
“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”
“I am recovering exceptionally well.”
“You still tire walking up stairs.”
“Well, I dislike those stairs.”
You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”
"They are steeper than other stairs."
Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.
“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”
You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”
“It is a reasonable question.”
You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.
“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.
“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”
Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”
“To everyone.”
“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.
“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.
“Yes.”
“And exertion.”
“Yes.”
“So theoretically-”
“No.”
“What if-”
“Jace.”
He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.
“You are impossible,” you inform him.
“I have been told.”
He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”
You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.
The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.
A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.
You feel rather proud of yourself.
He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.
His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.
The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.
The second becomes ridiculous.
By the third, it's infuriating.
Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.
If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.
One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”
You do not look up. “No.”
“They never actually provided definitions.”
You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”
He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.
Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.
“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.
“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”
“It is.”
“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”
At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.
“Jace.”
“Yes?”
“No.”
He groans, and you return to your book.
Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.
“What if,” he says thoughtfully.
You nearly laugh. “Again?”
“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”
“Gods preserve me.”
“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”
You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.
“Jacaerys.”
“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”
He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”
“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”
“I enjoy talking to you.”
Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.
His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”
The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.
“You frightened me,” you admit.
Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”
Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”
You stare at him.
Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.
Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.
One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.
Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual
He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.
It's been two months since the Gullet.
To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.
No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.
“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.
“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”
He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"
"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.
"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”
Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.
You take one hesitant step closer.
The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.
“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.
A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.
Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.
“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”
His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.
Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.
His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.
He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.
You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.
“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.
“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”
You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.
He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,
The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.
It feels like the biggest relief.
You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.
It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.
His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.
“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.
You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.
It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.
You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.
You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.
“Still, Jace.”
Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.
You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.
His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.
Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.
For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.
The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.
Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.
You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”
His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”
“Mhmm.”
He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.
The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.
You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.
Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.
“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”
“Someone has to.”
His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
You look up at him.
The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.
Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.
You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.
“You do not need to thank me.”
“I do.”
His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”
You giggle softly. “Do you now?”
Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.
Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.
“Tired?” you murmur.
“A little.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.
somehow i ended up writing a several-thousand-word account of jace velaryon attempting to find loopholes in doctor's orders. i regret nothing <3 lemme know if you guys liked this, trying to decide wether to write more for jace or not.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing.
notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3
word count – 9.4k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”
Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”
“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”
He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder.
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”
A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”
“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”
“It was the first thing that came up.”
“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”
“That’s not the same as being good.”
“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
“Too close,” she murmured against him.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”
“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”
“Because you’re loud.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.
“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. “What?”
“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.
“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”
She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”
“Like the whole night.”
His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”
“So that girl is a liar.”
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”
His brows jumped. “Did I?”
“Garrett.”
“What? I feel like I’d remember.”
She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”
“Sounds like it.”
“She looked me in the face and lied.”
Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”
“She asked how I knew.”
“Okay.”
“And then I left.”
“Good call.”
“I almost said because you were with me.”
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”
“The mission?”
“Our secrecy mission.”
“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”
“She started it.”
“Sure.”
“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.
“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”
Her face fell. “Yes.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“You know that?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I prefer… entered creatively.”
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
“Baby,” she whispered.
Nothing.
“Garrett.”
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”
Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.
“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”
“No,” he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”
“M’sleep.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm.”
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”
Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”
Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”
“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”
“Do you… need anything?”
The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”
“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”
“Tucker caught me downstairs.”
That woke him a little more. “What?”
“He thinks I slept with Dean.”
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”
“I had to go with it!”
“You had to?”
“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”
“Because of Dean!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”
“I was asleep.”
“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”
“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”
Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”
“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”
“You’re so easy.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re possessive.”
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”
His breath left him slowly. “Good.”
“You still should’ve gotten me water.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re mean.”
“You broke into my room.”
“You let me in.”
“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”
“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”
“You were not.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”
That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”
“Yeah?”
“You should be embarrassed.”
He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”
“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
“Graham?”
Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.
“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”
“Had to get off campus for a minute.”
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”
She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”
His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were nervous.”
He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”
“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”
“My jaw itched.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”
“Itched too,” he shrugged.
“And your hair?”
“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”
“I didn’t call you that.”
“You kinda did.”
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.
She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by.
“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
“Baby,” he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.
His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”
“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”
His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”
She groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”
“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”
“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”
Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”
“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”
“Nope,” Garrett said.
“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
“Three weeks,” she said.
Garrett’s head snapped toward her.
“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”
Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”
Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
She winced. “That was strategic.”
“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”
Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”
Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”
“What? That was supportive.”
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”
“No, we’re not,” she called back.
“We absolutely are.”
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”
“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”
She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”
His arms tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.
summary: dean will do anything to win you back, but winning you over proves harder than why he bargained for. (5.9k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader
content warning: relationship dysfunction, dean di laurentis is a mess, yearning, jealousy, language, alcohol, hurt/comfort.
authors note: this is for everyone who wanted to see how taking him back would play out. this may be the longest piece i’ve wrote on record but i couldn’t let this man get off so easily…
part one.
the tail-lights of suni's honda civic bled into the darkness of the gravel driveway, leaving nothing behind but the exhaust fumes and a hollow, ringing silence.
dean stood frozen under the dim glow of the porch light, his hand still half-raised in the air as if he could somehow catch the car and pull it back.
the cold night air slapped against his face, a brutal contrast to the suffocating heat of the house behind him, but he couldn't feel it.
his mouth was slightly open and his throat was completely dry.
i am officially withdrawing my terms.
the words repeated in his head, sharp and clinical, cutting right through the lingering buzz of the alcohol in his system.
dean di laurentis didn't get left hanging on driveways.
dean di laurentis didn't get tongue-tied.
he was the guy who always had the perfect pivot, the effortless laugh, the smooth reassurance that smoothed over any wrinkle.
but as he stared at the empty space where you had just been standing, a sickening wave of realization crashed over him.
he hadn't been playing a game.
you had just seen right through the defense mechanism he had been using his entire life.
the heavy front door thudded open behind him, letting out a brief burst of blaring music before closing again.
two sets of footsteps crunched on the gravel.
"hey, man."
a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.
dean flinched, snapping his head around to see tucker standing there, his face tight with a mixture of pity and disappointment.
right next to him was beau maxwell. his arms crossed over his chest and his usual laid-back energy completely gone, replaced by a rare, dead-serious frown.
"i told you, dean," tucker said quietly, looking down the empty road. "i warned you that she doesn't do the whole half-in, half-out thing."
"i wasn't half-in," dean snapped, his voice suddenly raw, a dangerous edge cracking through his usual easy-going demeanor.
he ripped his shoulder away from tucker's grip, running a frantic hand through his blonde hair. "i was going to tell her tonight. i was waiting for the house to clear out so i could ask her to stay. permanently."
beau let out a low, heavy sigh, shaking his head. "then why didn't you say it in front of everyone? why did you let her watch you flirt with some sophomore if she's the one you wanted? you can't treat a girl like a secret and then expect her to treat you like a priority."
tucker nodded in agreement. "beau's right. you let her think she was just another hookup that half the campus has already been with. you can't blame her for cutting you off."
dean quickly opened his mouth to defend himself.
he wanted to explain that the girl by the keg meant absolutely nothing, that it was just muscle memory.
it just the casual persona he put on so nobody looked too closely at how much he actually cared.
but the words died in his throat.
i know when someone is just trying to win over a crowd.
you had called it.
every single bit of it.
he had been so terrified of admitting, even to himself, that he had finally found the right girl. the one he had been passively waiting for his entire life.
but he had treated her like a secret and in doing so, he had completely destroyed the only real thing he had.
"i fucked up, guys," dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register they had never heard from him before.
it was entirely stripped of pride, heavy with a terrifying, sudden desperation. "i really, really fucked up."
beau looked at tucker, then back at dean, his expression softening into something deeply sympathetic. "yeah. you did. and if i know her? she's not the type to give you a second chance just for the sake of it. you're going to have to actually work for this one."
dean didn't go back inside the party.
he walked straight up the stairs to his room, locked the door, and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.
the scent of your coconut shampoo still lingered faintly on his pillow.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only sound inside suni's car for the first three miles.
after the oppressive, vibrating bass from earlier, the silence inside the sedan felt less like an absence of noise and more like a physical weight, settling deep into your bones.
you blankly stared out the passenger window, watching the streetlamps bleed past in long, blurry streaks of amber.
"do you want me to say it?" suni asked quietly, her brown eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.
her hands were gripped tight on the steering wheel, still vibrating with that protective adrenaline.
"say what?" you murmured, your forehead resting against the cool glass.
"that you are an absolute fucking badass," she said, a small, fierce smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"i mean it. people don't just walk away from dean. girls usually dissolve into a puddle when he looks in their general direction, and you just destroyed him on his own driveway."
you let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh, feeling the tight knot in your chest loosen just a fraction. "i don't feel like a badass. i feel hollow."
"that's just the detox," suni promised gently, reaching over to give your knee a supportive squeeze before putting both hands back on the wheel.
"it's the sugar crash after two months of eating nothing but empty calories. it'll pass."
she was right.
it was a crash.
but as you pulled up to your apartment building, the relief you expected to feel was shadowed by a lingering, dull ache.
you had drawn the line. you had won the argument.
so why did it feel like you were the one recovering from a blow?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
four days passed in a tense, quiet limbo. you stayed away from the standard student hangouts.
you kept your head down, and entirely avoided the athletic side of campus.
which was much easier said than done.
it was actually hannah wells who broke the radio silence when you bumped into each other at work.
you two weren't particularly close outside of your shifts, but you had always been good coworkers, and she gave you a sympathetic look the second she saw you.
she admitted right off the bat that garrett had practically begged her to feel you out and see if you would be willing to hear dean's side of things.
but hannah made it clear she wasn't actually pushing his agenda.
you let her know, gently but firmly, that you just didn't want to hear him out right now.
she nodded immediately, completely understanding.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you were halfway through your shift at malone's when the bell over the front door chimed and beau maxwell walked in from the cold.
the dinner rush hadn't started yet, leaving the restaurant washed in a warm, lazy quiet.
soft music drifted through the speakers. behind the bar, hannah was busy polishing glasses, while allie was sitting in one of the booths near the window. she was seemingly looking over her homework but clearly tuned into the room.
you looked up from the hostess stand and immediately narrowed your eyes.
beau rarely came here unless dean dragged him.
and judging by the guilty, deeply uncomfortable look on his face, this definitely wasn't a social visit.
"it's that bad, huh?" you asked dryly before he could even open his mouth to speak.
beau blinked. "what?"
"you drew the short straw." you crossed your arms. "dean sent you to talk to me."
hannah stopped wiping her glass, an amused smirk spreading across her face. the fact that beau's expression instantly gave him away nearly made you laugh.
"oh my god," you said, an incredulous smile finally breaking across your face. "he did."
"to be fair," beau said carefully, raising his hands in surrender, "i volunteered. mostly because i couldn't take another night of him pacing the living room floor like a caged animal."
allie leaned out of her booth slightly. "wait. dean di laurentis is sending representatives now?"
hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, looking entirely entertained. "please tell me he at least prepared a speech."
beau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "you people are evil."
"no," you corrected lightly, grabbing a stack of menus from the counter beside you, "he's pure evil."
that earned you a reluctant laugh from beau. he shoved his hands into his pockets, looking both amused and slightly helpless.
"okay," he admitted. "maybe this does look a little pathetic."
"a little?" allie echoed from her booth, shaking her head. "beau, i don't know why you're doing this for him."
hannah pointed a bar towel at you. "his approval ratings are in the toilet."
you pressed your lips together, fighting another smile.
it was ridiculous.
dean was apparently moping around because you stopped answering his texts.
a month ago, the idea would've satisfied you.
now it mostly just felt surreal.
beau's expression softened as your smile faded slightly. "i've known dean a long time," he said quietly. "and i've honestly never seen him like this before."
you focused on straightening the menus in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. "beau—"
"no, seriously." he leaned against the hostess stand, dropping his voice. "the guy is a disaster. garrett says he's playing like crap at practice because he's distracted all the time. coach yelled at him so hard yesterday his face literally turned purple.”
“and logan threatened to throw dean's phone into a lake because he keeps checking if you texted him back every thirty seconds. he doesn't sleep. he just... he stares at his phone."
a reluctant laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but it died quickly.
"this is insane," you muttered, covering your face briefly with your hand. "he's literally running a pr campaign."
"that's actually exactly what tucker called it," beau admitted.
the amusement faded entirely after a second, though, something heavier settling back into your chest. because underneath all the ridiculousness... there was still hurt.
a deep, aching bruise left by a boy who thought everything in life came easy.
you slowly lowered your hand. "did he send you because he thinks if enough people tell me he's miserable, i'll magically forget why i left?"
the teasing atmosphere immediately evaporated. beau straightened slightly, his voice turning serious.
"no." he shook his head.
"i came because he knows he hurt you. and because for once in his life, he's too scared to make it worse. he's terrified that if he pushes you, you'll completely erase him."
that caught you off guard.
even hannah went quiet behind the bar, returning to her glasses. you looked down at the menus in your hands, tracing your thumb absentmindedly along the edges.
beau hesitated before continuing. "he's not trying to charm his way out of this anymore," he said carefully. "honestly? i think that's freaking him out the most. he doesn't know how to exist without his armor."
before you could respond, the front door opened again and a group of customers entered, breaking the moment apart. hannah immediately pushed off the bar, professional mode clicking back in. "right, back to it before della catches us."
allie slid back into her booth to give the customers room. beau stepped away from the hostess stand, giving you one last careful look. "i'm not saying you should forgive him," he said gently. "that's your call. but i do think losing you finally forced him to become a person instead of just a personality."
and annoyingly enough, that line stayed with you long after he left.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the end of the week, the hurt had hardened into a reckless, heavy spike of anger.
suni practically forced you out the door to the pre-game mixer at the phi kappa house. "you need to show up, look stunning which isn't hard for you, and prove you aren't hiding in your room crying over a some hockey player," she insisted.
the house was a sensory overload—a wall of thumping bass, sticky floors, and sweat-fogged windows.
it took exactly five minutes for the room to feel subtly dialed into your arrival. across the crowded living room, the hockey team was gathered near the back patio.
and right in the center was dean.
he looked exhausted, his gaze drifting aimlessly until logan nudged him, pointing in your direction. the moment dean's blue eyes locked onto yours, his entire posture changed.
his chest rose sharply, and he took an instinctive step forward, completely abandoning his conversation.
his eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope.
you felt the invisible weight of the room watching, waiting for the classic fallout. a dark, defiant spark ignited in your chest.
dean had spent months keeping your relationship a secret, acting like a casual observer while he entertained a crowd.
two can play that game.
you deliberately tore your eyes away from him, turning your gaze toward liam. liam was a handsome football player who had been hovering in your orbit since the start of the academic year.
he was tall, built, and more than happy to have your sudden, undivided attention.
out of the corner of your eye, you saw dean freeze. the hope on his face shattered.
you leaned in close to liam, letting your laughter trail off into something softer, low and intimate.
you stepped directly into his space, your hand sliding deliberately up his arm to rest against his shoulder, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck.
liam's eyes darkened instantly with surprise and heat. his hand came up, wrapping firmly around your waist and pulling you flush against him.
across the room, dean looked like he had been physically struck.
you could see his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek, his knuckles turning stark white as his grip tightened around his red cup.
garrett muttered something in his ear, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder, but dean brushed him off as his eyes burned into you with a raw, bleeding agony.
you didn't look back at him. instead, you leaned up on your toes, your eyes dropping to liam's lips.
"you're incredibly beautiful tonight," liam murmured, his voice thick, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your top, tracing the bare skin of your hip.
"thank you," you breathed out, tilting your head up slightly. "liam?"
"mhm?"
"kiss me."
he didn't hesitate. liam leaned down, slanting his mouth over yours.
he didn't hold back at all. his lips were warm and demanding, his hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to hold you tight against his chest.
you let your eyes close and leaned into the weight of him, wrapping your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss into something slow, deliberate, and deeply sensual.
you made sure it lingered, playing your part perfectly for the crowd.
and for the specific boy breaking apart by the doors.
a low ripple of whispers washed through the immediate room. the kiss was thick with heat, but it didn't ignite that familiar, electric ache you only ever felt with a certain stupid idiot.
when you finally pulled back, liam was breathing heavily, a dazed, smug smile tugging at his lips.
you offered him a quiet, heavy-lidded smile before finally looking past his shoulder.
the satisfaction immediately turned to ash in your throat.
dean looked physically ill. the fierce, possessive anger had completely drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, entirely defeated devastation.
his face was completely pale, his eyes wide as he stared at you. it was like he was looking at the end of his life.
watching you give someone else that kind of intimacy had entirely undone him.
dean's fingers slacked. his cup slipped from his hand, clattering against the floor and splashing beer across his shoes, but he didn't even notice.
he turned on his heel and blindly pushed through the crowd, fleeing out the back doors into the freezing night air.
beau shot you a heavy, disappointed look before turning to follow him out.
you stood frozen beside liam, the adrenaline completely evaporating, leaving behind a bitter, hollow ache in your chest. you had hurt dean exactly the way he hurt you.
so why did you feel like throwing up?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
dean didn't find you until two weeks later. it took him two full weeks after that party to gather the courage to approach you again. when he finally did, it wasn't at a party, or in his bedroom, or under dim lights where he could press his mouth against yours and make you forget.
it was the middle of the afternoon in the campus library.
you were sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs near the back windows, a stack of annotated articles spread across the table beside you.
for a long minute, he just stood at the end of the aisle.
god, he looked awful. the sharp jawline you used to trace was covered in a rough, uneven stubble. his signature silver-tongued confidence was entirely absent.
you sensed him before he even spoke. your eyes lifted slowly from your laptop. no warmth or softening. just... nothing.
dean flinched. "hey," he said, his voice raw and stripped of its usual smooth cadence.
you looked back down at your laptop screen, your voice flat. "dean."
he swallowed hard, stepping closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep himself from reaching out. "can we talk for maybe a second? please. just... two minutes. i'll leave right after, i swear."
"i'm really busy right now, dean."
"i know. i know you are." his voice cracked. he hesitated, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp spike of residual pain from the party. he swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but his voice shook. "are you... are you seeing him? liam?"
you didn't even look up from your screen. "that's really none of your business."
"none of my—" dean let out a bitter, breathy laugh, his eyes swimming. he leaned slightly over the table, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. "that was low, you know. even for you. putting on a show like that in front of everyone just to rub my face in it?"
you finally shut your laptop softly, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms.
you scoffed at him, a cold, mocking sound that cut right through his defense.
"low?" you repeated, your voice slicing through him. "you should worry less about who i'm kissing, dean, and worry a lot more about yourself. you don't get to lecture me about public displays when you practically pioneered them."
the reality of your words hit him like a physical punch to his ribs. he actually took a half-step back, his chest heaving as the hypocrisy collapsed on him.
he was desperate to know if you were talking to liam. he was paralyzed by the thought that you had moved on, but he knew he had no right to ask.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, the defensive edge completely evaporating, leaving him entirely exposed. "you're right. i have no right. i just... i think i genuinely don't know how to handle this."
"i think you genuinely don't understand why you hurt me in the first place," you countered calmly, the honesty of it cutting deeper than your anger ever could.
"you understand that i left. you understand that your bed is empty and your ego is bruised. but i don't think you actually understood what it felt like to stand next to you and constantly feel temporary. to feel like a placeholder until someone better, or flashier, caught your eye."
dean went completely still.
"i liked you so much, dean," you admitted quietly. it made you almost sick to say it. the words tasted bitter and heavy as they left your tongue, but unfortunately it was true.
"it was enough to make excuses for things i normally wouldn't tolerate. i let myself believe you actually cared, and you made me feel stupid for it. you treated my feelings like they were disposable. i'm not doing it anymore. i'm done."
"please," he whispered, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate plea. "don't say it's over. just give me something to fix. tell me what to do."
"there's nothing to do," you said, your heart aching behind the wall you had built, but you forced your voice to remain steady. "i just need you to leave."
he stood there for a long, agonizing beat, looking at you like a man watching his life sentence being handed down.
finally, he closed his eyes, took a shaky, ragged breath, and nodded.
"okay," he sighed, his shoulders hunched in complete defeat. "okay. i'm sorry."
he turned around and walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the library aisle, leaving you alone with a crushing, heavy silence.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
two more weeks passed. then three.
if dean's initial reaction to the "breakup" was a loud, messy public moping tour, his reaction to the library confrontation was a total blackout.
the campus gossip machine slowed down because dean stopped giving them material.
he wasn't partying.
he wasn't hovering at the edges of your vision.
but he hadn't given up instead he had just changed his tactics.
the loud gestures were replaced by quiet, undeniable consistency.
every tuesday and thursday morning—the days you had an 10.00 am seminar on the opposite side of campus—there was a large vanilla latte waiting for you at the barista counter, already paid for.
no note.
just your exact, complicated order.
when you tried to refuse it, the barista just shrugged. "he said if you don't take it, i have to throw it out. every day."
you left it on the counter the first three times.
by the fourth time, the cold winter air bit too hard, and you took it.
it tasted like an apology.
then came the hockey games. suni dragged you to the friday night game against yale.
you sat twelve rows up, determined to look indifferent.
but the moment the team skated onto the ice, it was clear dean wasn't playing for the scouts or the crowd anymore.
he played with a brutal, self-punishing intensity. and when he scored the game-winning goal in the third period, the stadium erupted.
normally, dean would skate a lap, flashing his devastating smile to the student section, soaking in the god-like adoration.
instead, he skated straight to the center line, stopped, and looked directly up into the stands. right at you.
he didn't smile. he just held your gaze for three agonizing seconds, chest heaving, before skating back to the bench.
"okay," suni muttered beside you, watching him go. "that was... actually kind of miserable. he didn't even wink at the girls."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the next afternoon, you were heading out of the science building when a shadow fell over you.
you braced yourself, expecting to see blue eyes and a desperate expression, but when you looked up, it was tucker.
he stepped right into your pace, unceremoniously slinging his heavy arm over your shoulders, pulling you briefly into his side to shield you from a sudden blast of freezing wind.
"hey," tucker said quietly, giving your shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze before letting his arm drop back to his side. "you got a minute? i'm not here on his orders, i swear. he doesn't even know i'm talking to you."
you didn't walk away, but you still kept your guard up. "tucker, if this is about dean—"
"it is," he interrupted gently. he gestured toward a quiet bench under a bare oak tree.
once you both sat down, he leaned his elbows on his knees, looking at you with complete sincerity.
"i'm not here to tell you he's miserable, because you already know that, and honestly, he deserves to be. but he's always been the guy who keeps one foot out the door because he thinks if he doesn't fully commit, nothing can actually hurt him."
you let out a bitter, breathy sigh, looking down at your boots. "so i'm just supposed to wait around while he plays psychologist with himself?"
"no," tucker said firmly, catching your eye.
"absolutely not. you did the right thing by walking away. you forced him to look in a mirror, and he hated what he saw. but what i'm trying to tell you, as your friend he's not trying to trick you back. he's genuinely terrified because he realized his own cowardice cost him the only real thing he's ever wanted."
tucker leaned back slightly against the bench. "i've never seen dean look at a girl the way he looks at you. he's not trying to smooth things over anymore, he's just trying to figure out how to be a man you could actually trust. i'm not asking you to take him back. i'm just asking you not to completely write him off before you let him speak."
you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of tucker's words sinking deep into your chest.
tucker wasn't an enabler. he was your friend, and he was the moral compass of that friend group.
if he was defending the sincerity of dean's change, it had to mean something.
"thank you, tuck," you murmured softly.
he gave you a brief, supportive nod, standing up from the bench. "just think about it, okay? see you around."
you watched him walk away, your mind a chaotic blur.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
a few days later, you were sitting on the couch in your apartment, staring blankly at a textbook, when suni dropped a mug of tea onto the coffee table in front of you.
"you're thinking about him," she said flatly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the back of the chair.
you let out a long sigh, rubbing your temples. "i don't want to be. but it's been a month, suni. he's not stopping. every time i turn around, there's a coffee, or he's clearing out of a room the second i walk into it so i don't feel uncomfortable. and his friends are trying to reason with me. it's infuriating."
"why is it infuriating?"
"because it's working," you admitted, your voice cracking. "it's making me remember why i fell for him before he started acting like a coward. but i'm terrified. if i let him back in, what happens when he gets bored of making amends? what happens when the crowd calls his name again?"
suni searched your face, seeing the deep, defensive armor you had built. she slid onto the couch next to you, pulling your hand into hers.
"then you make him earn the right to even ask that question," suni said softly, squeezing your fingers.
"you don't fold just because he's acting like a human being now. that's the baseline expectation, not a reward. if you want to talk to him, talk to him. but don't let him off the hook until you are 100% sure he knows he's lucky to breathe the same air as you."
just promise me you walk away if he slips back into his old habits." she sighed holding onto your hands.
"i promise," you whispered, a sudden wave of clarity washing over you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you didn't go to the rink to find him.
it was close to midnight when you found yourself walking toward the athletic center to drop off a borrowed, heavily annotated textbook for hannah.
but as you stepped into the corridor, the muffled, echoing thwack of a puck against boards drew you toward the main arena doors.
armed with suni and tucker's advice echoing in your head and a tug in your chest you couldn't ignore anymore, you pulled open the heavy side doors of the rink.
the stadium was dark, except for the bright, stark floodlights illuminating the pristine white sheet of ice.
dean was alone.
he was stripped down to his practice jersey and skates. there was no crowd to impress, no scouts watching, no teammates to joke with.
it was just him, a puck, and a net.
he was doing suicide drills—skating full sprint to the blue line, stopping hard enough to spray a cascade of ice shavings, skating back, and doing it again.
he was panting, his blonde hair soaked with sweat, his movements driven by a furious, desperate energy.
he was trying to skate away from his own head.
you stood by the player's bench, your arms crossed, watching him coolly.
"you're slacking on your defense di laurentis," you called out. your voice echoed sharply in the cavernous, empty arena.
dean froze.
his skates dug into the ice with a harsh screech, breaking the silence.
he snapped his head around, his chest heaving as he stared at you.
for a second, he looked entirely paralyzed, as if he thought he was hallucinating.
"you're here," he breathed, slowly skating toward the boards. he stopped a few feet away, looking up from the ice.
"i'm here," you said softly, your tone steady, giving him absolutely nothing to work with. no smile or softness. you unlatched the heavy wooden door of the player's bench. "i think you've done enough pacing around campus, dean. come here."
before he could answer, you took a tentative step out onto the ice. you were wearing regular winter boots, completely unequipped for a freshly zambonied sheet of ice.
"wait, wait, hold on—" dean warned, his eyes widening in alarm.
naturally, you didn't listen. your heel hit a patch of smooth ice, and your balance instantly vanished. your arms flailed as you slipped backward, a short gasp escaping your throat.
but you didn't hit the ice.
dean moved with the terrifying speed of a professional athlete. in a fraction of a second, he closed the distance, his strong gloved hands catching you right around the waist. he hauled you against his chest, his skates digging hard into the ice to anchor both of your weights.
you gasped, your hands automatically flying up to grip his broad shoulders. you were pressed flush against him, the cool scent of the ice and his familiar cologne enveloping you completely.
"gotcha," dean whispered, his breath puffing white in the cold air.
he didn't let go.
his hands stayed firmly clamped around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the rapid, thumping beat of his heart against your chest.
he was looking down at you like you were the only thing left in the entire world, his eyes intense, wide, and bright with unshed tears.
no armor. just dean.
but even wrapped in his arms, you kept your gaze sharp.
you didn't melt….. just yet.
"you're a fucking idiot," you murmured, your voice level and direct. "you really messed up, dean."
"i know," he whispered, his voice cracking as a tear finally slipped down his cheek, cutting through the sweat on his face. he didn't even try to brush it away.
"i'm the biggest idiot. i ruined everything. the night you left... i sat in my room and i realized i've spent my whole life making sure nobody could ever reject me by making sure i never fully committed to anything.” he continued.
“and then i met you. and i was so terrified of how much power you had over me that i tried to make you small so i could feel big."
he took a shaky breath, his grip tightening around your waist as if you might vanish if he let go.
"seeing you with liam? it nearly killed me. but the worst part wasn't jealousy. the worst part was realizing i was the one who drove you into his arms. i am so sorry. i am so, so sorry for making you feel like a secret. i swear to god, i love you. i don't want anyone else. i just want you."
you stood steady in his hold, letting the weight of his words hang in the freezing air.
your heart was pounding, but you kept your hands firm against his shoulders, maintaining your boundary.
"words are easy for you, dean," you said quietly.
"you've always been good with a crowd. you've always known exactly what to say to smooth things over. i don't want a public spectacle. i care about what this is."
"this isn't a performance," he choked out, his shoulders hunching in complete defeat, entirely exposed to you. "tell me what to do. anything. i don't care how long it takes."
you looked at him for a long moment, watching the genuine, stripped-back desperation in his eyes. only then did you let a very small, guarded smile touch your lips. it wasn't a total surrender, but it was a crack in the ice.
"i'm not ready to give you a second chance," you told him firmly, your voice unwavering.
"and i'm definitely not ready to forget how you treated me. but i am willing to stop running so if you want to try and earn my trust back, you can start by taking me on a real date. next friday. and if you slip back into your old habits even once? i'm gone. do you understand me?"
a breathless, stunned laugh escaped dean's lips. it wasn't his usual confident chuckle.
it was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, heavy with the realization of just how close he had come to losing you.
"yes," he whispered fiercely, his eyes shining as he looked down at you. "yes, absolutely. whatever you want. however long it takes. i'll be exactly who you need me to be."
you let your eyes drop to his lips, then back to his eyes, finally allowing yourself to relax against his chest. "show me."
dean didn't hesitate.
he leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, desperate, passionate kiss.
it wasn't the smooth, practiced kiss of a guy trying to charm his way into a girl's room.
it was heavy with weeks of longing, raw with the terror of almost losing you, and overflowing with a profound, aching relief.
he poured everything he couldn't put into words into the press of his mouth against yours, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as if he could bind your paths together right then and there.
when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. both of you were breathing heavily, the white puffs of your breath mingling together in the cold air.
dean let out a soft, shaky laugh, a brilliant, breathtaking smile finally spreading across his handsome face—the first real smile he had had in weeks.
"so," dean murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jawline, though his eyes still held that cautious, vulnerable edge. "does this mean my approval ratings are finally going up?"
you let out a genuine laugh, but you didn't let him entirely off the hook. "don't push your luck, di laurentis. you are still on probation."
"i'll take it," he whispered, before leaning right back down to kiss you again, your laughter echoing beautifully in the empty arena.
With Dean having broken your heart, you've learned to move on and live without him. He, however, has not. Will he be able to win you back, or will you leave him alone to pick up the pieces of his own heart?
the very requested part two to the lie <3
Warnings: Swearing and suggestive content. unedited- 5.3k words. fem!reader
In the time that’d passed since your relationship with Dean ended, he learned a few things.
First, getting what you think you wanted can horribly backfire on you.
Second, the best things can sometimes be what you had right in front of you.
Finally, but most important, he was a complete and total fucking idiot.
The cold, hollow ache in Dean’s chest seemed to be taking up permanent residency. It was hard to wake up every morning and not see your sleeping face beside him in bed, snuggled up to him for warmth despite his many blankets. Days felt endlessly depressing, dragging on with no purpose.
He’d gotten everything he wanted. He had his original girl back, hockey was going great, and the world was at his fingertips.
So why did he feel so empty?
You, on the other hand, had completely turned over a new leaf.
After the fated night where everything went to shit, you’d barely made it back to your dorm before collapsing on the futon in the living room in a heap of sobs. Your roommate Grace had heard the commotion, running out of her room to comfort you in the way only a best friend knew how to do.
You’d spent the following 3 days holed up in your bedroom, drowning in Ben and Jerry’s ice cream while swiping through pictures of the two of you together on your phone. You blocked Dean on social media and deleted his number from your contacts the morning after the breakup, but that didn’t deter his friends from sending various messages of apologies.
As the fourth consecutive day of your misery approached, Grace had enough. She stormed into your bedroom an hour before classes started, yanking your blanket off and turning on every light in the room.
You reached out in protest, instigating a one-sided battle of tug of war before giving up and curling back into yourself in defeat. “It’s no use, Grace. I’m a shell of who I used to be.”
“The hell you are.” She scoffed, searching through your closet before pulling out what you’d once deemed one of your best outfits. “I refuse to stand by and watch my best friend crash and burn like this.”
“Then just leave me here. I don’t want to drag you down with me.”
“Okay, respectfully, stand up. That man never wanted you; it’s time to show him you never needed him either.” Her voice softened as she laid the outfit on your bed, crouching so she was eye level with you. “You know I love you, Y/N/N. You’re my platonic soulmate. When you hurt, I hurt. I’m going to give it to you straight here- Dean Di Laurentis is the biggest, most pathetic excuse of a man. You’re too good for him.”
Your eyes began to burn, tears threatening to spill, but that was no deterrent for Grace.
“Wallowing in your bedroom only proves to him that you’re deeply affected by what happened. He isn’t worth shit and neither is Allie, so don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he made the hottest catch on campus cry.”
She grabbed your hands, slowly pulling you out of bed. “Now, I want you to go take a shower, brush your teeth, put on some makeup if you want to, and get dressed to take on this day like the badass I know you are.”
Your heart was still broken, but as you made your way to the bathroom to prepare for the upcoming day with a deep breath and a newfound pep in your step, you felt a new sense of motivation.
Dean could have Allie. You’d find better and never settle again for anything less than you deserved.
Another day, another pounding headache and the deep regret of losing you still stuck to Dean’s heart.
He stood beside his friends in the courtyard, Allie glued to his side as usual. She’d tried a few times that morning to kiss him, which usually ended with him turning his head, so she’d catch his cheek instead or only giving a half-assed effort back.
How could he explain to her that whenever he closed his eyes, all he saw was you?
The muffled conversation around him suddenly sharpened back into focus when Garrett whispered out, “It’s her.”
Dean’s head whipped around, eager for even the slightest glimpse of you. When he eventually spotted you, his breath caught in his throat as he dropped Allie’s hand. You looked good.
No, scratch that. You looked better than good.
You looked incredible.
You had a subtle glow going on that radiated beauty, smile on your face as you chatted animatedly with Grace beside you. Dean was the opposite, with unkempt hair and dark circles under his eyes proving that the breakup had done quite the number on him.
“Say something, man.” Tucker urged, slapping him in the ribs to get his attention.
Before he could respond, Logan beat him to it, calling out a simple “Hey, Y/N!”
Dean expected you to give some sort of acknowledgement, whether that be a hello back or a simple wave. Instead, his heart only cracked further as you sent them back a cool, unimpressed glare before turning back to your conversation and walking away.
Fuck, this was going to be brutal.
A sharp knock sounded from the front door, interrupting Dean and Tucker’s heated video game hockey match. He hopped out, shouting a quick, “I got it!” before sprinting to the door, hoping it was you.
It was indeed you, standing in front of him holding a large box. His smile dropped as he noticed the contents inside, box being shoved into his hands before you turned and began to speedwalk right back down the stairs.
“Wait! Hey, let’s talk about what happened! Please.”
Your hand reached for your car door handle before you stopped, turning to face him head on.
“Mm, no.”
“Please baby, I’m trying really hard here. Do I need to beg to prove that I’m serious?”
You paused, contemplating the idea. “Okay, fine, get on your knees.”
Uncaring of the boys behind him who’d crept out of the house to view the spectacle, Dean dropped on both knees in the dirt, hands clasping together as he looked up at you with pleading eyes.
“Come inside and talk to me. I miss you so, so much.”
You pretended to contemplate for a moment, noticing the guys snickering behind you. A smug sense of satisfaction came through you at his humiliation. “Yeah, still no.”
You got into your car, pausing only to start the engine before backing out and driving away without so much as a single glance in his direction. As the boys broke out into full laughter behind him, Dean rose up quickly from his knees, turning and shoving his way back into the house.
The bouquet of roses Dean clutched in his hand were wilting slightly from the intense grip he held on to them.
He knocked three times, heart hammering wildly in his chest as commotion sounded from the other side of the door. The knob twisted and he took a deep breath; smile plastered on his face as he prepared to greet you.
Except the face staring back at him certainly wasn’t yours. The hard, defined muscles on the smooth chest of the man in front of him alone proved so. Dean’s brain took a moment to process the man across from him, a chill running down his spine at the realization that this was no ordinary guy.
This was Hunter. Fucking. Davenport.
Hunter’s face went rigid, staring at Dean with the type of unimpressed glare that managed to get under his skin every single time.
“Did you get lost up here, pretty boy? Find another puck bunny to woo your way into bed with through those cheap roses?”
“I-I’m looking for Y/N.” Dean stuttered, at a loss for words for once in his life. Out of everyone you could’ve hooked up with, any lucky bastard on campus to be able to date you, you picked his archrival?
As if his words summoned your presence, you peeked around the corner that led to your bedroom. “Babe, what’s the holdup? Is it those sorority sisters again?”
You strolled forward toward the door, sunlight from the window behind you making you look even more otherworldly. What was worst for Dean, though, was that you looked truly happy. Like you’d finally made your peace with the breakup and moved on, unlike him.
“I swear, they won’t leave me alone about rushing- oh. Dean.”
The soft smile and lightness to your tone vanished upon seeing him, which only further proved to Dean that he’d well and truly fucked up. You were wearing a shirt that undoubtedly belonged to Hunter, only making him feel worse.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, these are for you.” He thrust the bouquet of now sad-looking flowers into your hand. “Just wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking of you every day.”
“Yeah, and apparently thinking about Allie, too.” Hunter’s not-so-quiet mumble went straight through Dean’s ego.
“The fuck did you just say, Davenport?”
Noticing the growing tension, you stepped between the two, acting as a barrier of sorts before any physical contact started. “Alright, boys, that’s enough.” You turned, attention fixing solely at Dean. “I think you should leave.”
“Well, I’d like to stay. I just think we have more to talk about.”
“There is nothing left to talk about.” You hissed.
Hunter’s hand traveled down your arm, grabbing your hand as he tugged you lightly toward him. “C’mon, baby, breakfast is getting cold.”
Without another word, you turned, walking back into your dorm room. As the door slammed in his face, Dean swore he saw you toss the roses into the garbage bin. His heart only broke further, desperate to get back into your good graces in any way shape or form.
You wanted to play a game, Y/N Y/L/N? Game on.
For the next month, all his attempts to win you back failed miserably. You wouldn’t talk to him or his friends, phone calls, letters, and mail remained unanswered, and every expensive gift he attempted to send would end up right back on his doorstep, unopened.
Allie sat beside him on the couch, desperately trying to grab his attention as Dean scrolled through Tiffany & Co’s website. She had no idea, but all of the nice gifts he’d been giving her lately were intended for you first before you sent them back.
“Dean, baby,” Allie crooned, coming closer to him on the couch. “You’ve been so stressed lately. What’s wrong?” The hand that had been innocently playing with the back of his neck trailed down his arm, nails raking down his chest before ultimately stopping right at the waistband of his pants.
“Oh, nothing. Just hockey shit, you know how it is.” He mumbled distractedly, scrolling through the most expensive pairs of earrings. Did you like silver or gold better?”
“Y’know,” she started, swinging a leg across his lap so she was straddling him. “I can help with that.”
She grabbed his phone, chucking it across the cushions; before he could protest, she surged forward, connecting their lips in a hot, deep kiss.
As Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, he couldn’t help his mind from swirling wildly with thoughts of you. Your sweet smile, your effortless appeal, the way you turned every head in the rooms you entered without even trying.
Your soft lips, the way your body felt melded against his own…
His eyes flew open, realizing that instead of being in the moment, he was imagining that Allie was you instead. Allie, sensing the tension by the way his body went rigid under hers, opened her eyes to find him already staring back at her.
“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” She sighed, sliding off his lap and onto the cushion beside him.
“What? Babe, no, absolutely not. You’re the only girl I see.” He grabbed her waist, pulling her closer. “C’mere, I wasn’t done kissing you.”
As the night grew more passionate, Dean’s brain wouldn’t shut off regardless of how hard he tried. You plagued his every waking moment, only further reminding him of what he’d lost. As he willed all remaining thoughts of you away, he could only hope the sweet relief of forgetting about you would come to him soon.
Another week, another Briar hockey victory.
The guys had all around been on fire, completing a successful shutout and ultimately beating their rival team 4-0.
The crowd was alit with excitement, fans cheering and yelling their support from all around the rink. As Dean’s eyes wandered, he searched for you, finding himself truly disappointed when he realized you hadn’t shown up at all. Not even Allie wearing his jersey in the stands could console his aching heart.
The team’s energy was at an all-time high as they entered the locker room, sharing high fives and the joy of yet another flawless victory. Even Dean was grateful for the small distraction, joining in on his teammates’ cheers.
“You were fucking awesome out there tonight, dude.” Logan praised him from his spot next to him.
“It’s not easy being this perfect, but I try to stay humble.” Dean responded, smirking. He went to place his helmet on the top shelf, stopping in his tracks when a photo strip he’d forgotten he put there came fluttering down to the floor.
It was the photo strip from your first date. You were at Malone’s, insisting on going into the photo booth to commemorate the occasion. Dean trailed behind you reluctantly, eyes scanning the room for any potential sighting of Allie.
Inside the booth, a set of four photos followed. In the first picture, the two of you threw up matching peace signs at the lens. In the second, you gave the camera a huge, lovesick grin as Dean smiled at you. The third managed to catch your first kiss. He’d put his hand on your chin in between shots, turning your face towards him and slotting your lips together as the camera flashed. The fourth that followed was the two of you, forehead to forehead, sharing secret, shy smiles, completely ignoring the lens altogether.
His breath caught in his throat at the memory, with tears embarrassingly welling in his eyes and threatening to spill at any given moment. He grabbed the strip, folding it and shoving it in his back pocket for safekeeping before Garrett’s voice rang out.
“Party at our place tonight!”
“Hey, man, you alright?” Tucker questioned Dean as he rose from his crouched position, clapping his friend on the back. “You seemed kinda out of it there.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m totally fine. Just kind of tired.” His finger skimmed the top of the photos absentmindedly, mind once again wandering at the thought of you. “Let’s go get fucked up!”
Booze was flowing in every possible direction, its smell potent. The bass coming from the speakers shook Dean to his core, only adding to his sudden nauseousness. Allie clinging to his side didn’t help, either, making him feel claustrophobic.
“Bro,” Garrett started, moving closer in his direction. “The hell’s going on with you tonight? Besides the shots we took, you’ve been taking micro sips of that beer you’re holding for the last hour. You’re normally the first one to be drunk by now.”
“Just not feeling it, I guess.” Dean responded halfheartedly, taking his now lukewarm beer and placing it on the counter.
“Well, lighten up, then! We just won one of our biggest games of the season. Now is the best time to celebrate instead of moping around.”
“Oh, leave him be, Garrett.” Tucker chimed in, placing a series of appetizers on the kitchen island. “He’s just a little heartbroken right now.”
“And why would he be heartbroken?” Allie questioned, eyes narrowing at the guys.
“Oh, um, I think I hear someone calling our names from the other room, Tuck.” Garrett turned on his heel, moving toward the doorway.
“What? Dude, I don’t hear anything-“Tucker’s response was interrupted by Garrett shoving him forward by his back. “Ouch! Hey, don’t touch the appetizers yet! There’s some still in the oven!”
Allie turned, facing Dean completely and placing a hand on his chest. “What’s going on with you lately? You’ve been acting so weird. You haven’t even looked my way once tonight.”
“Sorry, baby, guess I was just distracted by something.” Dean’s excuse was met with skepticism by the brunette in front of him.
“Something? Or someone?”
That comment cut deep. Dean sighed, about to apologize once more, knowing deep down that she was right. He was still searching for you an hour into the party, having given up hope that you’d show up at all. His attempt was stopped by Allie’s sudden squeal.
“Babe, I love this song! Let’s dance!”
His reluctance was met by Allie tugging sharply on his hand, leading him to the makeshift dance space the guys had created earlier. She turned around so her back was to his front, placing his hands on her hips before grinding on him and swaying her hips to the beat of the music.
As his eyes scanned the room for the hundredth time that night, Dean found his hopes vanquishing and his heart sinking into his stomach. He missed you so badly it physically hurt him, chest constantly aching and yearning to be by your side. You were in his every waking thought, on his mind 24/7.
He caught a familiar head of hair on the opposite end of the floor, realizing instantly that it was you. You were on the edge of the dance floor with Hunter, swaying to the music as you stared into each other’s eyes. Dean’s stomach churned with jealousy, unsure of whether he was about to throw up or kick Hunter’s nuts in.
He whispered a joke in your ear, which resulted in you throwing your head back in laughter. Hunter took the moment of opportunity to trail kisses down your exposed neck, Dean’s fists balling at his sides at the sight. Before he could think twice, he was pushing away from Allie, heading your way in a storm of fury as he only saw red.
How dare you hook up with his arch nemesis like that right in front of him? How dare Hunter flaunt you around like a prize to be won? How dare he himself be so stupid to let you go?
“What the hell are you doing here, Davenport?” Dean asked angrily, subtly nudging you away by the hip.
“What does it look like I’m doing, Di Laurentis? I’m celebrating the team’s win with my girlfriend.” Hunter smirked, gesturing in your direction. Dean wanted to break every single finger on that outstretched hand.
“Stay the fuck away from my girl.” His finger jabbed right into the center of Hunter’s chest, pushing in slightly.
“Oh, ‘your girl’, huh? Was she your girl when you broke her heart and shattered it right in front of her? Or when you used her just to make your slutty ex jealous? I should thank you for being such a dumbass with no backbone. You fumbled the greatest woman in your life just like you fumble with the puck on the ice. Don’t worry though, I made sure the sounds of her crying your name turned into screaming mine-“
Any remaining retorts Hunter had were ceased by Dean’s fist colliding hard with the side of his jaw. He reeled back, spitting blood on the floor before getting right back up in Dean’s face. “That all you got, big boy?”
Dean couldn’t remember much of what happened after that. He knew he tackled Hunter to the ground, fists flying on both sides. He felt the stinging blows to his face as his own knuckles cracked and bruised with force, being pulled apart by his teammates shortly after. He doesn’t know how he got home after, but one image would be engrained into his mind forever.
It wasn’t Hunter’s bloody, bashed up face on the floor beneath him. Nor was it Allie’s screams and cries of his name, begging him to stop. It wasn’t even the flashes of the surrounding cameras capturing one of the worst moments of his life.
It was you. The way you watched the scene unfold in silent terror, eyes wide with fear. You looked at Dean as if you hated him. Like he scared you.
Like he was a monster.
The week that followed the incident remained generally quiet for once. Dean hadn’t contacted you since the incident, choosing to hide in his shared house when he wasn’t at practice or classes.
You’d taken most of the week for yourself to figure things out on your own. As it turns out, having two big, hunky hockey players fighting for your attention wasn’t all it was cut out to be.
Both Hannah and Grace had reached out plenty of times, expressing their support for you and saying they’d be there if you needed anything at all. Other members of the Briar U student body had reached out as well both virtually and face to face, asking how you were holding up. A video of the fight had gone viral, which meant there was extra attention on you as of late.
Through it all, one thing remained clear to you. Regardless of who came in and out of your life, who you dated, or who stuck with you through it all, you’d always have yourself. You’d picked up the pieces of your broken heart like a badass, refusing to let Dean, or any man for that matter, dictate you as a person.
You grabbed your usual drink order and a croissant off the counter at the café, choosing to treat yourself before your first class of the day. As you exited, you heard your name being called faintly. Bracing yourself, you turned to greet the person, only to be shocked at who you saw before you.
It was Allie.
She looked like total shit; dark circles under her eyes, messy hair, sweatpants and hoodie hanging loosely off her form. This was so unlike the usual Allie you knew and used to love, the one who put the utmost care into her appearance every day. Not for the opinions of others, but for herself.
“Can I help you?” You asked, face guarded.
“Oh, uh, I wasn’t actually expecting you to hear me out.” Allie stuttered, playing with her fingers nervously. “I was totally expecting you to hate me. Which, if you do, I don’t blame you in the slightest for.”
Did you hate Allie? You’d been so convinced the whole time that she was a version of the devil himself with the way she stole your man. Now, looking at how she let a guy destroy her like this, you mainly pitied her.
“You turned my relationship into a game, Allie. I thought we were friends when you just wanted my boyfriend for yourself the whole time. Do you know how fucking embarrassing that is? Wait, no, you really don’t, because you got what you wanted without ever thinking twice about me. That’s not personal achievement, that’s being a fucking selfish bitch.”
Allie winced, embarrassed tears making streaks down her face. “It wasn’t like that, I swear! We really were friends. I don’t know what came over me seeing the two of you together. I saw how happy you were, and I guess it just made me wish to have the same thing in any way I could get it.”
You scoffed, “Yeah, well, you got it, alright.” Turning to walk off, she stopped you once more by yet another quiet plea of your name.
“Dean and I broke up after the party. Watching him fight over you like that, I knew that I was no longer part of the equation with him. It was only you- it’s always only been you, Y/N. I am so, so sorry for hurting you in the way that I did. I was a raging bitch who burned everything in her path, you especially. Dean and I both regret everything that happened.”
“As you should.”
Allie blinked rapidly, stunned at your blunt response, before laughing lightly. “Yeah, I guess we both deserve that.” She stepped closer, holding both arms up in surrender. “I don’t expect you to forgive me anytime soon, Hell, I’d be pissed at you if you did. But I want you to be happy, Y/N/N. In any way, shape, or form. In the future, if you want to reconnect, have a girls night, or just need a shoulder to cry on, you call me, okay? I’ve truly missed you so much.”
You hesitated, giving her a small smile. “Sure, I’ll think about it. I’ve gotta run, but you take care of yourself, okay?”
She gave you a small, watery smile of her own in return. “You, too.”
As you walked to class, you felt a new sense of inner peace and motivation. You didn’t need Dean to be happy, Dean needed you. You were achieving your goals, reaching for the life you dreamed of, and nothing would stop you again.
ENDING #1- SHE CHOOSES HERSELF
“Thanks for meeting me here.” You smiled, sliding into the bench across from Dean at a booth in Malone’s.
“Yeah, of course. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Dean’s voice shook as he responded.
“Listen, before you say anything, I think I should start.” You clasped your hands in front of you on the table, staring at him intently. “I love you, Dean. I think a small part of me will always love you.”
His eyes shone with hope at your beginning statement, thinking this would finally be the moment of forgiveness.
“But whatever we had, whatever you were leading me on with, is finished. It’s over. I’ve grown, I’ve changed, and I’m really starting to like who I am as a person. On my own.”
“This is about Hunter, isn’t it?” He asked, hurt etched clearly on his face.
“What? No, absolutely not. Hunter was a good time, not a long time. Not that that’s any of your business, however.”
“Then what is it, baby? What do I need to do to win you back?”
“I’m not a prize to be won, Dean. And I’m not your baby anymore, either.” You reminded him gently. “I’m my own person. I’m Y/N Y/L/N, not Dean Di Laurentis or Hunter Davenport’s girlfriend. I deserve to be respected for who I am, not my status socially through relationships.”
“So, this is it, then?” He whispered, downcast eyes filling unexpectedly with tears that he tried desperately to blink back. “We’re over, just like that?”
“Yeah, Dean. We’re done.”
Dean fumbled around with his pant pocket momentarily, grabbing the photo strip buried inside and laying it flat on the table in front of you. Looking down on it in shared melancholy, the two of you smiled at the bittersweet memories.
“We were really something, weren’t we?” Dean whispered.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “I guess we were.”
A young couple stumbled out of the photo booth, laughing loudly, breaking the bubble the two of you shared in your booth. Looking at them as they waited for their own photo strip, you could’ve almost laughed at the fact that one relationship was ending for good as another one was just beginning.
You stepped out of Malone’s with a feeling of hope in your heart. Your future was bright, with endless opportunities in front of you. None of them included Dean, a thought that would’ve sent you 6 months ago into a coma but only gave you peace now.
Dean sent you one last small wave through the window, one that you returned before turning and walking back down the street. Your head was held high, knowing you’d be more than alright in the end on your own. Cheating hockey players be damned; you had yourself to rely on. That was more than enough for you.
ENDING #2: SHE TAKES HIM BACK (KIND OF)
You found yourself standing in front of Dean’s house once more, hands shaking nervously at your sides. Raising one hand before you could stop yourself, you knocked curtly on the front door.
Instead of being met with Dean’s face like expected, you were met with Beau’s instead.
“Oh, hey, Y/N.” He greeted, clearly surprised at seeing you. “Didn’t expect for you to be here.”
“Yeah, me neither.” You smiled. “Is Dean home, by any chance?”
“Yeah, he is, but I actually wanted to talk to you for a second.” He pulled the door shut behind him. “I wanted to personally apologize for how shitty I was toward you without even realizing it. Dean’s my best friend, but I care about you too. Keeping secrets from you was one of the biggest mistakes I could’ve made, and I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks for the apology, Beau.” You responded, glancing at the front door. “Just, please, whatever you do, don’t lie to me like that again. It really messed with me more than you could imagine.”
Before Beau could respond, the front door creaked back open, and a familiar head of blond hair popped out. Freezing in his tracks at the sight of you, Dean’s mouth went slightly agape.
“Well,” Beau smirked, inching back inside. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Y/N.” He gasped, moving slightly closer. “What…what are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m the biggest dick on campus.” He groaned, rushing toward you with arms open wide. His attempt was denied by your hand flat against his chest, pushing him away.
“Not so fast.” Your arms crossed over your chest. “I’m not quite ready to fully forgive you just yet.”
“What is it?”
“You hurt me far beyond what I’m able to describe. If you think there’s any chance I’m just going to waltz right back into your arms without so much as a conversation, you’re dead wrong. The ball’s in my court, not yours.”
“I want you to know that these past months have been hell for me, sweetheart. I’ve been absolutely miserable without you. Time drags on when you’re not around and nothing seems to make sense. I was so busy focusing on Allie that I hadn’t realized I was falling for you the whole time. You’re the center of my universe and always will be, even if you don’t take me back.”
Your silence only made Dean more nervous, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of an emotion.
“Well, that’s a start.” You finally responded. “I’m glad you were miserable, Dean. You deserved to be. I want you to always remember this moment every time you fuck up again, because the next time anything even close to this happens, I’m gone for good.”
He gulped, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and understanding with a hint of fear. “I hear you loud and clear, baby. Do you want to come inside and talk more? Tucker’s got dinner in the oven and I think we have more to discuss.”
You were still undoubtedly hurt, with more groveling and forgiveness to come down the line. Looking at Dean’s hopeful face, though, you started to believe that a future where the two of you could be together was becoming more possible by the minute.
“Yeah,” you said as he grabbed your hand, stroking it lightly with his thumb while he led you inside. “I’d like that.”
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong, Married Life, Clandestine Meetings, Deep in the Meadow, Growing Familiar, Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār, Awakening, Aegarax, In the name of the Father. Can be read as a oneshot.
Warnings: obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, politics, Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded, manipulation, talks of pregnancy, talks of death, death, Aerion has insane ideas, Bloodraven is his own warning, angst, hurt&comfort, Targaryen lore, this is Westeros people.
The fire crackled low in the hearth of the Lord Commander's solar, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn stone. Outside, the wind howled with a voice that seemed almost alive, rattling the shutters and carrying with it the endless cold that seeped into every corner of Castle Black. Maester Aemon sat near the flames, his eyes turned toward the warmth to the light dancing there, his hands folded in his lap with the patience of a man who had long since made peace with darkness.
Across from him, his nephew Maeron turned another page of the heavy leather-bound volume resting on the rough wooden table between them. The Grand Maester's handwriting was precise, almost fussy, each letter formed with the careful deliberation of a man who believed history was watching over his shoulder.
"'And so it was that in the two hundred and thirty-third year after Aegon's Conquest,'" Maeron read aloud, his voice carrying the faint musical lilt of his mother's Reach accent mixed with the sharper Crownland cadences of his father, "'the Great Council assembled in King's Landing to determine the succession of the Iron Throne, following the tragic death of King Maekar Targaryen at Starpike during the Peake Uprising.'"
Aemon made a soft sound, not quite a laugh. "Tragic. Yes, Kaeth would write it so. He always did favor a clean narrative."
Maeron glanced up from the page. The firelight caught the silver-gold of his hair, the same shade his father had worn like a banner all his life. Maeron had grown into the sharp-boned handsomeness of Old Valyria, though his eyes held something warmer than dragonfire, his mother's influence, perhaps, or simply the tempering of a boy raised with both a dragon and a woman who refused to be cowed by anything.
"And through wisdom and forbearance," He paused, glancing up at his uncle. "Wisdom and forbearance," he repeated flatly. "Grand Maester Kaeth has a gift for polishing turds until they gleam."
Aemon's mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. "The histories are often kinder than the moments they describe. You were there. Tell me what you remember."
Maeron's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He closed the book, one finger marking the page, and leaned back in his chair. The wind screamed against the walls, and somewhere far below in the yard, a horn sounded the changing of the watch.
"Kaeth writes that it was a dignified affair," Maeron said slowly. "That the lords of the realm debated with 'measured words and solemn purpose.'"
"And was it?"
Maeron was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound without much humor in it. "It nearly became a bloodbath."
The Great Council of 233 AC had convened in the throne room of the Red Keep, and from the very first hour, it had been clear that dignity would not survive the day.
Maeron remembered standing near the base of the Iron Throne, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had been still carrying the bruises from Starpike, still waking at night with the sound of his grandsire's voice in his ears: Maekar giving orders in that steady, unshakeable tone even as the walls crumbled around them. Maekar had died as he had lived: stubbornly, without apology, and without a backward glance.
The throne room had been packed. Lords from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the great dragon-skull chandeliers, their colors a riot of silk and velvet against the ancient stone. The Reach delegation clustered near the front, their green and gold a defiant statement of allegiance. The Stormlands had come in force. The North had sent representatives, stern-faced and uncomfortable in the southern heat. Dorne watched from the shadows with hooded eyes.
And at the center of it all, before the Iron Throne itself, stood the two brothers.
Aerion had already been in his forties then, but he looked younger in Maeron's memory: still fierce, still sharp-edged, his silver-gold hair untouched by gray. He had worn black and crimson, the Targaryen colors, and his hand had rested on the dragon-headed pommel of his sword as if he were already measuring the distance to the throne. Beside him, Maeron's mother had stood like a pillar of calm in a storm-tossed sea, her green gown embroidered with the roses of House Tyrell, her chin lifted, her gaze steady.
Across from them, Aegon had looked almost out of place. He was broader than Aerion, more solidly built, with the plain, honest face of a man who had spent his youth among hedge knights and smallfolk rather than in the splendor of the Red Keep. His wife, Betha Blackwood, stood at his side, dark-haired and dark-eyed, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Behind them, their children watched with expressions ranging from anxiety to barely concealed boredom.
And in the center, between the two factions, stood Brynden Rivers.
Bloodraven.
Even now, Maeron could picture him perfectly: the pale skin, the white hair, the wine-stain birthmark that crawled across his cheek and throat like a spilled goblet. His one eye, the other hidden beneath a curtain of his hair, had swept the room with the cold calculation of a man who had already mapped every possible outcome and was simply waiting to see which one the world would choose.
"The succession is clear," Aerion had begun, his voice cutting through the murmuring crowd like a blade. "I am King Maekar's eldest surviving son. The throne is mine by right of blood and law."
"Blood and law are not the only considerations," Bloodraven had replied smoothly. "A king must be fit to rule. The realm must have confidence in his judgment."
"My judgment?" Aerion's eyes had glittered dangerously. "I fought beside my father at Starpike. I led men in the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. I have bled for this realm while others..." his gaze flicked meaningfully toward Aegon, "...played at being hedge knights among the smallfolk."
Aegon's jaw had tightened, but he had held his tongue. That had surprised Maeron at the time. He had expected his uncle to bristle, to snap back. But Aegon had simply stood there, his face unreadable, as if he were still deciding whether the throne was worth the cost of arguing for it.
"I do not dispute your courage, Prince Aerion," Bloodraven had said, his tone as mild as milk. "I question your temperament."
The silence that followed had been absolute.
"My temperament," Aerion had repeated softly. Too softly.
"The lords of the realm remember certain…incidents. The stories that followed you home."
"Stories," Aerion's mother had interjected, her voice calm but carrying, "are not evidence, Lord Bloodraven. And a man's youth should not be held against him forever. My lord husband has served the crown faithfully for two decades. He has led armies. He has advised his father. He has raised a son who commands the only living dragon in the known world."
Maeron remembered the ripple that had gone through the crowd at those words. The only living dragon. Aegarax had been circling above the city even then, her silver-gold wings catching the afternoon light, her shadow passing over the Red Keep like a promise.
His father had not wanted the beast inside the hall. "Let them wonder," Aerion had said that morning, his voice cold as steel. "Let them imagine her circling above the city. Imagination is cheaper than demonstration, and often more effective."
"The dragon," Bloodraven had acknowledged, inclining his head toward Maeron, "is a matter of great significance. But dragons do not rule kingdoms. Men do. And if we place a man of uncertain stability on the throne, with a dragon at his command…"
"Uncertain stability?" Aerion's voice had risen. "You dare..."
"I dare speak the truth that others whisper behind their hands," Bloodraven had cut in coldly. "The question is not whether you can fight, Prince Aerion. It is whether you can rule. And more importantly..." his single eye had shifted to Maeron's mother, "...whether you can rule without her."
Maeron remembered the way his father's hand had tightened on his sword. The way his mother's expression had flickered, just for an instant, before settling back into composure.
"What do you mean by that?" Aerion had demanded.
"I mean that Lady Tyrell is widely known to be your better counsel," Bloodraven had replied. "She tempers your excesses. She advises restraint where you would act on impulse. The lords of the realm trust her judgment. But if...gods forbid...something were to happen to her, what then? What man would we have on the throne?"
"I am not a child who needs a nursemaid," Aerion had snarled.
"No," Bloodraven had agreed. "You are something far more dangerous. You are a dragon who has learned to wear a leash, and everyone in this room knows who holds the other end."
The insult had been calculated. Maeron had seen that even then. Bloodraven had wanted Aerion to react, wanted him to prove the very instability he was being accused of. And for one terrible moment, Maeron had thought his father would oblige.
But then his mother had stepped forward, placing her hand on Aerion's arm.
"Lord Bloodraven raises a fair point," she had said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife through silk. "If the lords require assurance, let us provide it. Name a condition: in the event of my death, Aerion will immediately abdicate in favour of our son, Maeron."
The silence that followed had been stunned.
Maeron remembered his own shock, not at the suggestion itself, but at the cold pragmatism with which his mother had offered it. She had spoken of her own death as if it were a Cyvasse piece to be moved, a variable to be accounted for. That was his mother: always three steps ahead, always planning for the worst while hoping for the best.
"And if the lords still object," she had continued, her gaze sweeping the room, "let them consider this: my husband has refused to sire more children. He has one heir. Aegon, by contrast, has several. If the council's concern is the stability of the succession, I would think a single clear line would be preferable to a tangle of competing claims. And, my son is still unmarried. Options for alliances remain open."
That had turned the tide. Maeron had watched the faces in the crowd shift as the lords absorbed her words, weighing the dangers of Aerion's temper against the dangers of a disputed succession. The Reach lords had murmured their approval. The Stormlands had followed. Even some of the Northmen had nodded grudgingly.
But Aegon had not conceded. Not yet.
Instead, he had stepped forward, his voice cutting through the murmuring.
"There is another matter," he had said. "One that must be addressed before any crown is placed on any head."
Bloodraven had turned, his single eye narrowing slightly.
"Lord Bloodraven," Aegon had continued, "offered safe conduct to Aenys Blackfyre to present his claim to the throne before this council. He gave his word as Hand of the King. But when Aenys arrived in King's Landing, trusting that word, Lord Bloodraven had him seized and executed."
Another ripple had gone through the crowd, this one darker.
"I do not mourn Aenys Blackfyre," Aegon had said firmly. "Another Blackfyre pretender dead is no tragedy. But the word of the Iron Throne cannot be worthless. If we promise safe conduct and then murder those who accept it, what are we? What trust can anyone place in our oaths? If we are to have a new king, let that king prove that the crown's word still means something."
Bloodraven's expression had remained utterly impassive. "I acted in the best interests of the realm."
"You acted as if the law did not apply to you," Aegon had replied. "That is the definition of tyranny."
For a long moment, the two men had stared at each other: the pale sorcerer and the plain-faced knight. Then Aerion had spoken.
"My brother is right."
Maeron remembered the surprise that had flickered across Aegon's face. The brothers had never been close. Their childhood had been a battlefield of petty cruelties and simmering resentments. But it had mellowed out in the years of fighting side by side: at the Third Blackfyre Rebellion, at the Peake Uprising, in the blood and mud of a dozen smaller conflicts. They were not friends. But they were no longer enemies either.
"Bloodraven has overreached," Aerion had continued, his voice hard. "He has done so repeatedly. He pushes Aegon's claim not out of loyalty to my brother, but because he believes Aegon will be easier to control. He wants a puppet, not a king."
"That is a grave accusation," Bloodraven had said softly.
"It is a true one," Aerion had replied. "And I will not have a man who thinks himself above the law standing at the right hand of any king."
The negotiations that followed had lasted for hours. Maeron remembered the heat of the throne room, the press of bodies, the rising and falling of voices as lords argued and counter-argued. His mother had moved through the crowd like a diplomat born, speaking quietly to this lord and that, offering reassurances, building consensus. Aegon had stood in conference with his own supporters, his expression increasingly weary. And Aerion had remained near the throne, watching Bloodraven with the focused intensity of a predator.
Maeron remembered another conversation, years earlier, when the Spring Sickness had swept through the Seven Kingdoms like a scythe through wheat. Aerion had looked at the death toll and made a decision with characteristic decisiveness: they were leaving. Lys. He would not risk his only son and the last dragon to a plague that did not care about bloodlines or destiny.
His mother had argued. Not against leaving, but against what Aerion might do once they arrived. "You cannot sit still," she had said, her voice tight with frustration. "You will find trouble. You will seek out fights. You will risk your life for no reason other than that you are bored."
Aerion had gathered her into his arms with a gentleness that still surprised those who thought they knew him. "I will return unharmed," he had promised against her hair. "I swear it."
"Your promises are reckless."
"My promises to you are iron."
She had looked at him then, and whatever she saw in his face had made her sigh and lean into his chest. "If you die in some Lysene gutter, I will have the maesters bring you back just so I can kill you myself."
Aerion had laughed at that, a rare sound, bright and surprised. "There is my rose."
He had won, in the end, and joined to fight with the Second Sons, though Maeron suspected he won that argument by introducing his wife to things he discovered were popular in Lyseni pleasure houses.
Aerion had retained contacts in Lys from back then, friends he had made, captains of sellswords and merchants and men who owed him favours, which he looked one more inconvenience away from calling them in. The Reach contingent pressed their advantage. But there were still objections. Aegon had more heirs. Maeron was an only child; Aerion had refused to sire any others, unwilling to risk his wife's life after the nightmare of Maeron's birth. What if something happened to the young dragonrider? What if his heirs' eggs did not hatch? What would a dynasty of dragonlords mean for Westeros if the dragons multiplied?
The final agreement had been a compromise born of exhaustion as much as wisdom.
Aerion would be crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. His wife would be crowned beside him as Queen Consort. Maeron would be named Prince of Dragonstone and heir apparent. And in the event of the Queen's death, Aerion would immediately abdicate in favour of his son.
Aegon would serve on the small council as Master of Laws, a position that would allow him to ensure the very justice he had demanded for Bloodraven's crimes.
And Bloodraven himself would be sentenced to death, commuted to exile at the Wall, at Aegon's insistence. The same mercy that Aerys I had once shown to Bittersteel, though that had ended in disaster.
"Let him take the black," Aegon had said. "Let him serve the realm in darkness, since he could not serve it honestly in the light."
Bloodraven had accepted the sentence without protest. Maeron remembered the pale man's expression in that final moment, not defeated, not even surprised, simply watchful. As if even exile to the Wall were merely another move in a game that had not yet ended.
And so Aerion Brightflame of house Targaryen, First of His Name, had been crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. The High Septon had placed the crown upon his silver-gold head while the lords of the realm knelt and Aegarax wheeled overhead, her shadow passing over the windows of the throne room like the ghost of a greater age.
Maeron's mother had become Queen. Maeron himself had become the heir to the Iron Throne, the dragon prince whose destiny was written in fire and blood.
The fire in the solar had burned low. Maeron realized he had been speaking for longer than he intended, the words spilling out of him as if a dam had broken. Maester Aemon had not interrupted once.
"You were there for the whole of it," Aemon said quietly. "You saw what Kaeth's history cannot capture."
"I saw my father nearly start a war," Maeron replied. "I saw my mother prevent it. I saw my uncle sacrifice his own claim to the throne in exchange for justice." He paused. "And I saw Bloodraven ride north in chains, bound for this very castle. Did he ever arrive?"
Aemon was silent for a long moment. "He did. He served here, became lord Commander. And then he went beyond the Wall, and did not return."
"There are stories," Maeron said carefully, "about what he became."
"There always are."
Maeron studied his uncle's weathered face. The maester's expression gave nothing away, but there was a weight to his silence that suggested far more than he was willing to share.
"She was always underestimated, your mother. A Tyrell among dragons. Flowers among flames. And yet she never burned."
"She made sure my father didn't either." Maeron leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. "He would have burned the world for her, I would know. Still would. The lords who feared his temper never understood that she was the only thing that could truly set it off. Threaten the realm, and he would negotiate. Threaten her, and he would annihilate."
"That is not a comfortable truth for a king."
"No," Maeron agreed. "But the gods do not care for our comfort."
Outside, the wind had died to a low moan. Somewhere in the yard below, a horn sounded the changing of the watch. The Wall loomed beyond the window, a vast cliff of ice, pale and luminous even in the darkness.
"You did not come north only to read recent histories to an old man," Aemon said quietly. "Why are you here, Prince Maeron?"
Maeron was silent for a long moment. Then he rose and crossed to the window, looking out at the endless white expanse beyond the Wall.
"My mother sent me," he said. "She said the North has been too long ignored. Too long left to its own devices while the south plays its games of thrones. She said that if the Targaryen dynasty is to endure, we must remind the Starks that we have not forgotten them. That the dragon still flies, and the North is still part of the realm."
"Your thoughts on the matter?"
Maeron turned back, his expression difficult to read. "I came because I wanted to see the Wall. I wanted to meet you. And because…" He hesitated. "Because Aegarax has grown larger than Silverwing, and the maesters are saying she may yet rival Caraxes. The realm needs to see her. Needs to remember what it means to have a dragon in the world again."
"Fear," Aemon said softly. "You came to inspire fear."
"I came to inspire respect. Fear is a component of respect."
"Your father's words."
Maeron's lips curved slightly. "My mother's, actually. She always phrased it more diplomatically than he did."
Aemon nodded slowly. "And what do you hope to find among the Starks? Lord Willam is a proud man. The North remembers many things, but it does not bend easily."
"I don't need them to bend," Maeron said. "I need them to understand that we are not their enemies. The Iron Throne has bled the realm too often. My father knows that. My mother certainly knows it. If the Starks are willing to treat with us as equals, to renew the oaths that Torrhen Stark swore to Aegon the Conqueror, then there need be no conflict."
"And if they are not willing?"
Maeron's expression hardened, just slightly. "Then we shall have a problem on our hands. Although I doubt there will be. They are not the ambitious sort, as long as you leave them be with their ice and snow-barren land."
The fire crackled between them. Aemon reached out and placed his hand on the heavy volume of Kaeth's history, his fingers tracing the embossed leather of the cover.
"History is not kind to those who rely too heavily on dragons," he said quietly. "Your father knows that. The old Valyria fell not because it lacked power, but because it lacked wisdom. Power without wisdom is merely destruction waiting to happen."
"Spoken like a maester."
"Spoken like a Targaryen who has had many years to contemplate his family's mistakes." Aemon's eyes seemed to fix on Maeron's face with uncanny precision. "You are not your father, Prince Maeron. I can hear it in your voice. You have his fire, yes. But you also have your mother's temperance. That is a rare gift. Do not waste it."
Maeron stared at him for a long moment. Then he crossed back to the table and picked up the book.
"I should let you rest," he said. "It's late, and I've kept you too long with old memories."
"Old memories are all I have left." Aemon smiled faintly. "Besides, it is not every day that my nephew flies in on a dragon to visit. The Watch will be talking about it for years."
"Let them talk. A little awe is good for morale."
Aemon chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "You are definitely your father's son."
Maeron paused at the door. "Uncle?"
"Yes?"
"Do you ever regret it? Taking the black? Leaving it all behind?"
Aemon was quiet for a long moment. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes.
"Regret is a luxury that men in my position cannot afford," he said at last. "I made my choice. I chose to serve rather than to rule. I have never doubted that it was the right decision." He paused. "But there are nights when I dream of summer. Of the Red Keep in sunlight. Of my brothers and their laughter." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "The past is a ghost that never quite stops haunting, Prince Maeron. Remember that, when you make your own choices."
Maeron bowed his head in acknowledgment. Then he slipped out into the cold corridor, leaving Maester Aemon alone with his memories and the dying fire.
Outside, the Wall gleamed in the moonlight, ancient and implacable. And high above, circling in the frozen air, a dragon's silhouette blotted out the stars.
a/n: I didn't expect to post the ending on a random Tuesday either but here we are. Thank you everyone for coming on this long journey! Your reactions in comments and reblogs mean a lot! <3
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
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.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
The bitter taste of Vodka burning on your throat couldn’t mask the erratic rhythm of the drums pounding in your ears. On a good note, the song was so loud it was impossible for you to focus on anything - you can also blame that for the alcohol running in your bloodstream.
It was Monaco. Glorious, glamorous, the country of clubs and billionaires, where, even if you were poor, you were still filthy rich.
You were sure you would be enjoying yourself, had it not been the unfortunate circumstances on your pathetic private life. It was supposed to be a couple’s trip, fancy, much like a honeymoon. You wanted to surprise your boyfriend - well, ex-boyfriend - with tickets to the Monaco race for his birthday, but before you could even wrap a cute baby blue ribbon around the Paddock Passes, you received a text - or rather a picture - from a random girl on your instagram DM’s. The image was clear, your boyfriend was locking lips with some blonde on a random Thursday night. You didn’t know the girl who sent it, maybe she was your guardian angel, maybe someone who knew you from college. It didn’t matter. What truly mattered was the pain breaking your bones, followed by the anger twisting your upper stomach.
He tried to reach out and explain himself, but there was nothing that could free him from the charges once the proof was so unquestionable.
After that, every time you looked at those stupid Paddock Passes you thought about burning them, alongside a few of his t-shirts. But your rational brain was always something you were proud of. Why burn them if you can just enjoy the perks?
Were you a big Formula 1 fan? No shot. It all started off as a way of pleasing your ex on Sundays, and then it quite became an unspoken tradition. You didn’t know all the drivers names, only the ones that won most of the time, and you still couldn’t figure out if Lewis Hamilton was a Mercedes or a Ferrari driver. And, wait, where was Daniel Ricciardo? The thing is, it was never about the sport, to you, it was only about the quality-time in the relationship.
However, with all your apathetic knowledge of races and Grand Prixs, you knew one important thing, Max Verstappen. Your ex’s favorite driver. God, you even had t-shirts with his number on it. You rooted for him, because your boyfriend did. So, now that there was no boyfriend, you wanted Max Verstappen to actually crash his car on Turn 1. Sure, maybe it was a little bit mean to project your anger on a guy who is just doing his job, but the rage inside of you was so sharp that everything your boyfriend once loved, became what you now hate. So what if Max Verstappen is one of those things? He doesn’t know you.
The arrival to Monaco was chaotic. There was no way of getting to it by plane, so you had to spent an unholy amount of euros on an Uber ride. At least you got a chance to ride on a fancy white Jaguar that only existed on a parallel reality to yours.
You packed your best clothes, fancy satin dresses, short flowy skirts, the ones you’ve been saving most of your life for that special occasion that never really arrived. Now it was the time. Young, single, enjoying the salty air of Monte Carlo. You wanted to make sure no one knew you’ve been through a break up and you thought you were doing a good job, but, God, every corner of that country screamed your ex’s name.
Maybe a night out in a club before Qualifying would do you good. From the outside perspective, you looked stunning. Goddess-like. Everyone could tell you were not from Monaco, because there was something about you that stood out from that dystopian place, something which some might like to call a personality. No designer brands sticking out, no fake anything, no trying too hard, just a simple but effective beauty.
“Would you like another shot?”
The bartender’s loud voice overlapped the electronic beat. You looked down at the empty glass shot between your fingers. The image brought back the unbearable taste of Vodka, which made you involuntarily twist your lips.
“Uh… Sure.”
You nodded, but the hesitation was dripping from your lips.
“Maybe you should make her something she actually enjoys drinking.”
You heard the masculine voice coming from your right side. The sentence was filled with confidence, mixed with a sense of humor that was dry. You didn’t dare to look at the man, you were not looking for one, in fact, you much preferred if they were far away from you.
“And how do you know what I like to drink?”
Your answer just slipped your tongue, it was supposed to stay in your thoughts. But that was the Vodka effect. Maybe the stranger was right, you should stop.
“Feisty.” You rolled your eyes. “But no one actually likes the taste of that shit.”
“Well, I’m not drinking for the taste of anything.”
You looked to your right, over your shoulder, with annoyance tattooed on your face. And then you saw him. Black t-shirt, fitted jeans, black cap backwards. Piercing blue eyes. Looking like a frat boy from a sorority or someone from high school you’d have a crush on from afar.
“You could still get drunk on Gin and Tonics and they taste pretty nice. Trust me.” He gave you a polite smile, lips closed. “I’m Max.”
You had to use your sober side to control any facial expression in that moment. Must the universe play such twisted games with you? Does God actually believe you’re one of his strongest soldiers?
It was unwitting the way you relaxed your posture once you managed to understand what was going on. Blame it on the celebrity halo effect. It was like he pushed all your negativity out of the club, even the songs sounded decent now.
He did not look this hot on tv.
“I’m YN.”
He nodded and you noticed his grin. Wild. Trouble.
“So… Gin and Tonics?” He shook the glass cup on his right hand, the ice cubes making a light sound.
“I think I will actually just stop with the drinking.”
Because you wanted to remember every single aspect of that interaction so you could journal it and send it on a letter to your ex-boyfriend. See? I’m talking with Max Verstappen and you’re just dreaming about getting a glimpse of him.
“You are not from around here.”
He wasn’t asking, it was a statement. You didn’t know if you should take it the wrong way, if you looked so pathetically poor or outcasted, but his tone didn’t seem to imply this. Max was curious. He didn’t ask to offend, he asked with admiration.
“Damn, do I look that poor?”
You joked, getting a silent laugh from him.
“No, not at all! I meant it in the best way.” Max looked at the crowd of people dancing around, instantly making you pay attention to it too. The girls were well dressed, out of this world, like the Met Gala happened everyday here. You noticed, but never really paid that much attention. But, honestly, it’s not like you were self-conscious about it. Who care? In a few days you would leave and they would never see you again. “Everyone here is wearing some designer of some sorts, or glitter, or insanely high heels and expensive watches. You’re wearing flat sandals and you hair is beach wavy.”
You blushed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed with the fact that he analyzed you with caution.
“Don’t get me wrong, I would wear Louboutin’s if I had them.” Truth is, there was a part of you that think you would have fun in this lifestyle. There’s nothing wrong with dressing fancy and wearing designer, as long as you’re doing it for the fun and not to show off. “But, following your logic, you’re wearing a plain black tee and backwards cap.”
He raised his now empty glass. Max was never one to flaunt wealth in his fashion. He wasn’t, actually, a fashion guy. He was the type of guy who enjoyed spending his money on other people, or at least on things to do, things to get him out of boredom.
“Am I supposed to be wearing something else?”
“Maybe some RedBull merch?”
That got a loud laugh out of him. That was it for Max. He was officially invested in this. You knew who he was, yet you were still treating him like he was just some random guy flirting with you in a club. Of course, a guy you were minimally interested in. There was no starry admiration in your eyes, just plain acknowledge of his presence.
“A-ha. So you do know who I am.”
“I think everyone in Monaco this weekend knows who you are.”
You didn’t know your words caused his chest to tighten a bit. But, of course, it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t aware of his issues with his public presence and persona. No one was, actually. Max never really said out loud how he hated being famous, although he thought his private manners spoke it loudly for him.
You noticed, however, his shoulders tensed up a bit and the air between you was slightly heavier.
“Are you here for the race, then?”
“It’s a funny, long, too much information type of story…”
You opened the breach. Were you planning on telling about your disaster of a dating life to Max Verstappen? Never in a million years, but he looked like the guy who needed to hear some common human issues. Max craved normality, you could read that. So you were going to give it to him.
“Hm, now you will have to tell me.” Max looked around, aware of the discomfort coming from the loud, stupid electronic track that he actually would like if the sound of your voice wasn’t ten times more interesting. “Follow me.”
Max had no problem walking through the crowd, people would just simply open the space he needed to pass, like he was the prince of Monaco himself, some authority figure that could go anywhere and get anything. That part of his fame he liked it, there was no denying.
You held his hand firmly, like you’d be dropped at the ocean if you let go. His skin was rough and firm, with a few calluses. Hands that could break you if you allowed. The pressure he was applying on your palm was like a reassurance.
You followed Max to what looked like a private room, with a few booths, away from all the noise. The light was dim and yellow, moody, a typical place for flirting. Not necessarily romantic, though. The energy emanating was too sensual to allow space for any fairytale date.
Around you, you could see a few recognizable faces. Celebrities, models with old men, drivers. Lewis Hamilton particularly caught your eye, sitting in a booth, listening to a blonde girl talking. Unlike everybody else who seemed mesmerized by Max’s presence, Lewis didn’t care, in fact, he didn’t even acknowledged your existence, like he was above you, or Max. Truth is, he probably was.
Max guided you to a place in the corner, far away from the others, isolated. It felt like a calculated move. The dutch waited like a gentleman for you to sit down first, taking his seat right in front of you. The black table separating you with a single candle lit by a lonely flame wasn’t enough distance, it felt unduly intimate.
“So… What is the too much information, funny, story?”
He took a sip of his drink, that by now consisted in mere melted ice cubes with whatever was left of a lemon.
“I bought the tickets a few months ago, as a gift, for my boyfriend.” You saw Max’s lips curling in a smirk once you said the infamous word. “Now ex-boyfriend.” The emphasis on the first half of the word was deliberate.
“Tough breakup?”
“I found out he cheated on me through pictures that were sent on my Instagram Directs.”
Max tilted his head, he was convinced that something similar probably happened to him once.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry, he’s a douche.” You brushed it off, a shoulder movement that made explicit that you were, somehow, almost over it. “Second, you said it was funny.”
“Well, here’s the funny part. I never liked Formula 1. No offense.”
“Non taken.”
“But Dylan was, like, obsessed with it. He knew everything, about everything. He had merch, lego cars, watched countless races in person, and the ones he couldn’t attend, he watched on Tv. Never missed a single one.”
Max laughed. Your description of his behavior wasn’t news to him, it sounded like just the average Formula 1 fan, but maybe that was the view from the public who had no idea how much passionate sports fan can be.
“So you bought him Monaco tickets. That’s sweet.”
“When we broke up I contemplated selling the tickets and getting my money back. But why would I do that when I could live the experience he always dreamt of?”
Your comment sparked something in Max’s chest. You were feisty, he could see you had a fire in you. He recognized, somewhere in your eyes and demeanor, that you had the rage and determination he only truly saw in himself.
“So you flew out here?”
“Hoping I could see his favorite driver crash and send a video to him.”
“And who’s that?”
“You.”
Max tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. The fact that you just admitted you were hoping he would crash didn’t even bother him, because the confidence and malice in how you said it, turned him on. It’s like you were a challenge, unlike any other person he ever met. He wasn’t offended by anything you said, he was, on the other hand, completely captivated.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, sweets, I’m not going to crash just so you could get revenge on your pathetic ex-boyfriend.”
You giggled, feeling a rush of goosebumps with the nickname that escaped his lips so naturally, like it was something easy for him to say.
“No, I know. I guess talking to you is enough revenge already.”
You said the word talking, but both of you knew that wasn’t simply it. The air was denser and filled with dirty thoughts both of you had crossing your mind.
“Yeah, except he’ll never know you are here talking to me.”
You shrugged.
“It’s okay. Sometimes revenge is not about a public act, but an act of self gratification.”
Maybe it was the Vodka hitting, maybe it was how beautiful Max’s eyes looked when they were reflecting eroticism, or maybe it was just the confidence that you packed and brought it out like a hidden gun, but your words were explicit enough for him to understand the double meaning.
“So, since plan A is not going to work, your plan B is fucking your boyfriend’s favorite driver and what? Send him a sextape?”
Max was joking, clearly, but every time he thought back about it, he realized he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all.
You raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to agree to a plan HE was the one who created. You never said anything about a sex tape, or sex, at all. Turns out Max Verstappen had the devil in his mind, especially when confronted with a beautiful girl.
“Look, I can’t give you a crash, or a sextape…” He let the phrase prolong, like he had something to add. “But I can give you something else.”
You narrowed your eyes, tempted.
“And what is that?”
“Come to the RedBull garage this weekend, with me. I’ll make sure he sees you.”
You were out of breath for a moment, nearly choking on air. Your mind racing with ideas and ‘what-ifs’. Being on the spotlight was never your thing. Normal job, normal clothes, normal apartment, you would even call yourself basic. Simple. And there was nothing wrong with that. You liked the shadows, you liked doing your own thing without strangers lurking and noticing. It gave you a sense of freedom. If you were not in the spotlight, no one could judge and you could do what your heart truly desired.
Being in the RedBull garage with Max would change everything, your whole way of living. Because once you are seen in public with a guy like him, people never forget. It would give you a new identity, people would gossip, comment on your appearance, on your manners. It was too much.
Max could see the hesitation emanating from you, which sort of made him like you even more. Any girl would jump onto that opportunity, but you seemed actually worried about the consequences.
“I don’t know, Max. He’s not the only one who’s going to see me. People will talk.”
“So?”
“People will gossip. About me.”
“Who cares about what other people think?” You didn’t answer. Of course Max Verstappen didn’t care about other people, he didn’t have to, he would still be successful and talented regardless of what people would say, and he would still be adored. Because unlike you, he had an army of a fanbase to support him. “Look, YN, you’re not going to show up as my girlfriend or anything, people bring guests to the Paddock all the time. It’s really nothing if you think about it, and it will give you exactly what you need.”
Max promised to himself he wasn’t going to push if you said no. But he legitimately wanted you there, not only for the revenge or the ploy around your love life, but so that he could spend a little bit more time with you.
“I suppose we can try tomorrow and if it goes well, I’ll be there on Sunday too.”
Max smiled, ear to ear, a rare Max Verstappen smile journalist would be fighting over a picture. But it was natural and real, like the ones he had when he held his trophies.
“I have a condition though.”
“Oh, a second ago you were begging for me to agree to this, and now you have conditions?”
“I was not begging.” He kinda was though. “And I am the one doing you a favor, so, yes, I have a condition.”
You smirked.
“Ok, let’s hear it.”
“A date on Sunday night, after the race.”
Max had a dirty smirk hidden on the corner of his lips, which made your stomach twist with a familiar sensation you couldn’t quite name it.
“To celebrate your win?” You teased.
“To celebrate both our wins.”
Licking your lips, you couldn’t help but look at him like you were no better than any man. A date with a cute guy who was actually interesting and had a spark of evilness that matched you? Yeah, no one could refuse that.
“You better not crash then.”
Max laughed, relaxing his posture.
“I’m too good for crashing.”
You gave him your left hand, waiting for a shake, like sealing a deal between two powerful businesses.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
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"won't you guess where i am?"
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Saturday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
As soon as qualifying was done, you heard the whispers, from celebrities on the Paddock, from members of the RedBull team, even drivers and their girlfriends. Everyone was polite, cordially polite, but no one dared to ask your name, that day you were simply “the girl that came with Max.” Little did you know people were dying to unravel the mystery surrounding your persona. Who are you? How do you know Max? Are you and Max dating? It made you nervous.
You felt isolated. It was another reality, the people were so rich you were certain they didn’t know what working 9 to 5 felt like, or how it feels to get recognized for your ideas. At least, you had to admit that watching the whole thing in person was way more fun than on TV. Something, perhaps, you could start enjoying.
You were standing alone next to a window in RedBull’s hospitality, holding a glass of champagne that felt rude to decline. The room suddenly lit up, you heard loud claps all around, whistles buzzing. Between the fancy dresses and expensive t-shirts, you saw Max, walking with confidence, like he was royalty.
Max politely smiled and shook hands with everybody congratulating him. Pole sitter. In Monaco. A big thing, from what you learned. However, the excited strangers and members of the team were not able to stop Max from walking straight to you, like he had a duty, like getting pole position was a purpose.
“Hello there, pretty.”
He smiled and you noticed how his features softened. Max was sweaty, hair messy, racing suit falling over his hips. You cursed. God damn it that man was breathtaking. Everything got even worse when he hugged your shoulders, placing a gentle, shy kiss on your cheeks. The room fell silent as everyone paid close attention to Max Verstappen being tender.
“Congratulations!”
“Did you enjoy it?”
You smiled, big, setting off an involuntary reaction on Max, that mimicked your smile as well.
“Way better than from home.”
“Any news?”
Max asked shamelessly, excited for the answer, excited to know if your boyfriend was cursing his own life for letting you go.
“Not yet. Maybe he didn’t see it.”
“Or maybe he is at the hospital, dead by a heart attack.”
You both laughed. Who knew Max Verstappen had a sense of humor? Even better, he had a dark sense of humor. One that sounded like the things you think, but keep it in your mind, afraid others will judge. Not Max. He will never refrain from speaking his truth, maybe that’s how he got to the top, the best of the best.
Before you could say anything, Max got surrounded by people of his team. He gave you a look, a sorry one.
“It’s fine, I’ll go to the hotel, need some rest.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another kiss on your cheek and he was gone. This time, when he walked out of the door, you felt overwhelmed by the looks fallen on you. They weren’t judging, just dying with curiosity. Nobody knew what the two of you had, but it was damn clear that the energy of attraction was so powerful it filled the space and left no place for anything else.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆Sunday˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Race day was chaotic, that was note number one. Note number two was, you were sure there was no way that many boats fit on Monte Carlos’ coast.
Unlike yesterday, you saw Max before he got into his car. You texted him when you arrived and he made his way to you, introducing you to a few people, so you wouldn’t feel isolated. It was uncomfortable having to explain that you weren’t dating, just getting to know each other. What you learned was that Max never really brought any girl over ever since his breakup with his long time ex, or even before her. He was a guy that kept his personal life so private even his family members had no clue if he was still single or not. Which is why people were so curious about you, because Max was treating you like, at the very least, a long time friend.
Your presence during Qualifying alarmed the media. The cameras weren’t shying away from filming you during certain parts of the race, especially when Max won after dominating 78 laps. But nothing prepared the journalists and the fans to when he said it out loud on the radio, proudly, letting everyone know.
If Dylan was already freaking out by one TV appearance, by this time he was for sure throwing a tantrum like a toddler who refused to eat vegetables. He wasn’t the only one. You wanted to crawl into a dark hole and hide from humanity. Or maybe scream and punch Max on his god crafted face. Everyone was speechless from that moment and Max kept going with his duties like he didn’t just create chaos amongst the Formula 1 community.
Thankfully, an angelic, miraculous girl that worked for RedBull managed to take you to Max’s driver’s room, where you could be alone. God, in that moment, if you could kiss her, you would.
You threw your phone in the depths of your purse, where you couldn’t reach to see any messages or take any calls, and especially not open Instagram. Your legs were shaking, like anxiety creeping through every pore on your skin. There was nothing you could do now, the damage was done.
Max opened the door in a brutal movement, like he was rescuing you from a dungeon. The mix of feelings when you saw him was too complicated to point. You were angry, nervous, grateful, amused, all of the above, plus a few more. Max, on the other hand, seemed like he just had another day at the office.
“Hey, told you I’d win, no crashes.”
“Are you fucking insane?”
Max was taken back by the tone of your voice and he replayed in his memories every single second of the day, trying to figure out what he did to get you so worked up.
“What?”
“That fucking radio message!”
And then he laughed. He laughed like he was brushing it off. Like it was nothing, an incident.
“Not a sextape, but it’s the best I could do.” His smile quickly vanished once he saw the seriousness in your semblant. “Are you mad? I thought this is what you wanted.”
You were out of breaths to take. Sure, this was what you wanted, in a way, but maybe it went too far, too public. It was too much. And in that moment you were overwhelmed.
“I… It’s-” You shook your head, sitting back down on the small white couch behind you. Max stood still, watching, studying your movements. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
That was part of it. You weren’t expecting any of this. It took you by surprise and reminded you that you had no control over anything. But to make matters worse, this happened in a situation where you particularly needed to control.
“Would you have preferred if I asked you before?”
“Yes, I very much would, Max.”
He kneeled before you, reaching your height.
“I’m sorry, liefje. You are right, I should’ve asked.”
You softened, not only because he seemed genuine apologetic, but the pet name and sweetness in his voice melted every bad feeling you had, just like magic, he erased every reason you had to be angry in the first place.
Max Verstappen just had that it factor that no matter what he said, people would simply surrender to his ways.
You stood up from the couch, making him turn to you, waiting anxiously for your reaction. The minimal possibility that you would just say no to the date or never see him again was driving him insane.
“So, what time are you picking me up?”
The shape of his lips curved into the most beautiful smile you have ever seen.
“At eight. No need to wear a fancy dress, anything is fine.”
“Thank God I packed my finest sweatpants then.”
Max giggled, playfully.
“Well, actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Of course he wouldn’t mind. You could go to the date dressed in pajamas and he would still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.
“See you later, champ.”
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
Later seemed to never come. Your hotel room was a mess when Max texted that he was waiting for you downstairs, much like a reflection from your insides. You were going out, on an official date, with Max Verstappen. How would you simply return to your job on Tuesday and tell your co-workers what happened?
Max was waiting outside his car, dressed casually, not like he was going on a first date, but as in you were in a established relationship and he could dress comfortably, like he always did. Somehow, that made him even more attractive. There were people around, watching, filming. You were worried, Max was annoyed, he wanted to punch anyone who dared to disturb that moment.
Once you were in the car, it was a relief, all the noise was shut, remaining only the sound of your shaky breathing.
“I promise you I will take you far away from this shit.”
He drove no longer than 10 minutes until he reached the coast. You followed him, like a lost child, watching him in his element, talking to the coast guards and some people that were there to help. And, then, it hit you, the big, white yacht, bigger than your childhood house. The type of thing you could work your entire life and still couldn’t afford.
Max got in first, extending his hand, like a gentleman, helping you. You looked around, mesmerized, like you’ve entered heaven. That place was beautiful, unlike anything you’ve seen before. The look on your face was probably pathetic, but Max found it adorable.
“Is this yours?”
You wanted to curse yourself, what a stupid question, of course it was.
“Yes, welcome.”
Max gave you a quick tour around, showing the place with the lack of interest that only a person who’s been there a thousand times could have. Like it was getting old. The Yatch was so peaceful you didn’t even notice it started to move and you were now somewhere in the ocean.
The tour ended with a table set out in the open, under the dark starry sky. White cloth, a burning candle, in the company of a lonely red rose. Max pulled your chair, sitting in front of you. You noticed he was nervous and you noticed he tried hard. Little did he know you didn’t need an expensive yacht to be impressed, he could do it only by being himself.
“This is really nice, Max.”
Your compliment eased his nerves.
“I hope this isn’t too much.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t too little.” You joked, but he seemed still a little tense. “But I think it’s romantic.”
And it was, indeed. Text book romantic. Straight out of a romcom.
“Are you hungry?”
You weren’t. The nerves were eating you alive, you couldn’t think about food, your body showed no signs of hunger at all.
“Starving.”
He grined, ear to ear. “Awesome.” And got up from the table, walking towards the inside.
You took the moment without his presence to breathe, get yourself together, recompose. You would leave tomorrow and never see him again, which was a shame, but at the same time helped you to get comfortable.
Max was back barely a minute later, holding two white plates. You were expecting some fancy seafood dish, maybe a lobster or shrimp, but instead, he held in his hands the delicacy of a homemade burger, garnished with french fries. You smiled. Maybe you were hungry after all.
Max placed the plates on the table, looking proud.
“I made them.”
“Woah! I’m impressed.” You giggled, quickly taking one of the fries, from his plate. “He can drive and cook? What can’t you do?”
“Anyone can cook a burger, it’s not that hard.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’d be surprised to see how people’s culinary skills are precarious.”
You took a big bite of the burger. Sure, it wasn’t anything elaborated, just a patty with a slice of cheddar cheese and tomatoes, but the simplicity turned it into something special. Plus, the fact that Max took his limited time to make them himself.
He watched you carefully, aching for your opinion, like you tasting his food was somehow validating him as a person, as a man, as a lover.
“So… How is it?”
“Perfect.”
You weren’t talking about the burger at all. You were talking about him, about the weekend, about everything he did for you. It was perfect. Just what you needed. Like God saved Max Verstappen just for you, like all of this was just for you. Suddenly, you felt seen, important, cared about.
The rest of the night flowed like silk. The conversation was stimulating, electrifying. Max learned about your life, your family, your job and you learned about everything that did not involve his career or driving. That night, Max was just a regular guy, with a normal girl, having homemade burgers on a 33 million dollars Yatch.
As the night extended, you both realized how you didn’t want it to end, how you wanted to be there forever. You were laying down on a towel, the chill breeze flowing, standing side by side, stargazing, telling each other childhood stories.
“I really want to keep seeing you.”
Max’s words came out as a fragile whisper, like he was telling a secret, like he never experienced being vulnerable before.
You turned your face, staring right into his blue eyes, that were a little bit darker with the lack of sunlight.
“How are we going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it work.”
And he kissed you. You felt his hand first, barely touching you, almost like he was insecure - as if Max was afraid that instant could break.
The kiss wasn’t rushed. It came with the calmness of someone who knows that time, sometimes, bends before what is real. You sighed slightly, between the kiss, letting the air escape your longs amongst your partial open lips.
The sky fell a bit closer, like all the stars were watching, silently, bearing witnesses to that moment. He moved slowly, shy, like discovering his own name, until he wasn’t. Max leaned in even more, you felt the deepness, not in an urgent kind of way, but in a way in which you were dancing the same song.
And over there, underneath the starry Monaco sky, with his taste invading you, everything stopped moving. Nothing before, nothing after. Just this. The whole world fitted in that kiss, as a promise that would perpetuate for a long time.
˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆
What followed the weekend was not what you expected. You thought that once you boarded that plane back to your hometown, Max Verstappen would fade into a distant memory, a fairytale, something to tell your kids in the future and make them doubt reality. But that wasn't what happened.
When Max wasn’t flying you to nearby races, he was visiting you in his free time. Showing up at your job, unannounced, holding some white lilies or some plush toy that he bought. You visited his home, got introduced to his family, had dinner with his dad. The infamous Jos Verstappen people talked about, like he was an urban legend. Turns out, he wasn’t as scary as people made it sound, or maybe you were just too good at dealing with that kind of man. At the same spectrum, Max also met your family, your dad nearly crashing out once he saw the Max Verstappen sitting on the dining table, like a normal guy.
Turns out that, even with the constant traveling, media, fans following you down the streets, loving Max was so easy. Much easier than you thought. You even told that to him once. Max didn’t believe you, because he has been told the contrary many times before. In fact, he quite believed that he was an unloving person, although he would never admit that to anyone. However, he felt you were genuine in your acts of tenderness. Every time you brushed his hair or kissed his temples, something in him lit up with warmness, like he was experiencing a real life miracle.
Max never officially asked you to be his girlfriend, he didn’t need to, it just happened. When he wasn’t racing or you weren’t working, you were together, glued like birds of a feather. You were familiar with the drivers now, and their girlfriends. Unlike Monaco, every race you attended now you had someone to talk to, you would even dare to call some of the girls your friends. Everyone seemed to enjoy your company, the team, the drivers, Max’s friends. It’s like you were a breathe of fresh air amongst the chaos of the racing world.
Horner wouldn’t lie, he was a bit worried seeing his driver fall in love with someone, because he had never seen Max race while being distracted, while having another priority. However, Christian quickly noticed there was nothing for him to stress about. Quite the opposite, actually. Max - if it was even possible - improved, ruining McLaren’s dominance. He couldn’t quite explain what the chemicals of love were doing to his Dutch Lion, but he prayed you never left.
On Max’s perspective, yes, he wanted to put on a show, to be his best, to impress you. Not in a pressured way, but in a “I want to make you proud” way. And you were proud regardless of his position. You celebrated Max the same exact way, it didn’t matter if he was P1 or P11. In fact, during Singapore, after a disappointing race, finishing at P8, you waited for Max at the hotel room with champagne and balloons. At first he was frustrated, angry, disappointed at himself and definitely confused at your reaction, but that was mainly because he never had someone who supported him so much, to the point which anything was enough. You taught him that he was enough, and you were proud of him as a person, as a driver, he didn’t need to be the best of the best all the time.
That sort of mentality you brought worked like reverse psychology. It took the weight out of his shoulders. And racing without any worries, made him better.
Needless to say your ex, Dylan, was losing his mind with that whole situation. Which, to Max, was only an incentive. He took the cheating personally, like it happened to him. And even though you never talked to that guy again, he wanted to make sure Dylan regretted what he did to the rest of his life. You told him to forget it, reassured that you were over it, that after Monaco Dylan was dead to you, like a nightmare that you forgot the second you woke up. But Max wasn’t the type to let it go.
So, Abu Dhabi 2025, last race on the calendar, he would give his all. The championship was tied between him and Lando. For the entire season, he raced to win, but that exact race he had entirely different motives.
You weren’t nervous unlike the other girlfriends, you put blind faith in Max. That’s why when the race started, you watched with a steady heartbeat. And Max? Reminded everyone why he was the best of the sport.
When he stepped out of the car, the whole team made a priority that you would be the first to see him, per his request. Helmet on, he rushed to you, like you were the trophy, like you were the championship prize. You kissed the helmet, feeling the coldness hitting your lips. His breath fogged the visor for a second as he leaned closer, hands still trembling with the leftover adrenaline of the race. The roar of celebration around you faded into a muffled hum — the crowd, the champagne, the cameras — all of it dimmed behind the shield of this moment.
Max lifted the visor slowly, revealing eyes that had searched for you since the checkered flag. Eyes that only softened when they found yours.
“Fuck, liefje,” he said, voice rough, edged with emotion. “I can’t believe we did it.”
You smiled, blinking against the tears threatening to fall. “You did it, Max,” you whispered, your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, “you’re the best.”
He laughed — a breathy, shaking laugh — and pulled you into him, the hard shell of his suit pressing against your body like armor. “Thank you so much for being here,” he murmured into your hair. “For always being here. Love you.”
You closed your eyes, letting the truth of his words wrap around you like warmth. But then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again — this time with that glint in his eyes. The one you’d seen when he was most dangerous. Most determined.
“And maybe,” he added, with the ghost of a smirk, “just maybe... I wanted him to see this too.”
Your breath caught.
“I wanted him to watch,” he continued, quieter now. “To watch me win everything he lost the moment he let you go.”
The crowd started chanting Max’s name, and behind you, the team called for photos, for celebrations, but neither of you moved. You stayed there in the quiet bubble of his embrace, the world spinning a little slower just for the two of you.
Finally, Max pulled back, cradling your face in his gloved hands. “It’s you and I, now,” he said, not as a question, but as a promise. “Wherever I go next, we go together.”
And you nodded, heart thudding like an engine ready to race. Because this wasn’t just the end of a season. It was the beginning of forever.
The cheers swelled again as Max took your hand, raising it high like another victory. And when he looked back at you one last time before stepping onto the podium, he didn’t see the crowd, the cameras, or the flashing lights.
He saw you.
Always you.
His greatest win.
liked by redbullracing, f1, yourbff and 6,288,494 others
vogue Evertyhing we know about the romance between Yn Yln and Max Verstappen. From how they met to how she became RedBull's princess and fan's favorite WAG. Link in bio.
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user imagine being such an iconic couple vogue wrote a fucking article about you
user they won best paddock couple 😍😍
user she is so pretty!! 😩😩😩
user can yn teach me her tricks? 🙏
yourbff my baby is a star 🤩
danielricciardo finally some real journalism!
> user you're in a max/yn biggest fan competition but your oponent is daniel ricciardo
> danielricciardo you're immediately losing
yourusername what is my life??
> user girl if you don't want it, can i have it??
user how's dylan??
❤️ liked by maxverstappen1
user bro saw his girl got cheated on and made it everyone's problem
user if they don't get married istg
yourmom my loves 😍
zendaya petition for this to be a movie immediately.
user if petty was high fashion, this man just walked Paris.
florencepugh I need her skincare routine and his PR team.
gigihadid love that for her. love that less for her ex 💅
user he said drive to survive and thrive to flex, and I support it fully.
user this is the energy you have when your love life AND tire strategy are in sync.
user it’s giving “revenge dress” but in the form of an entire Grand Prix.
f1gossip she got cheated on and responded with a WDC boyfriend. this is not a win, this is a legacy.
user he’s not just her man — he’s the man your ex warned you about.
user if Romeo drove a car and Juliet wore a paddock pass.
liked by yourusername, RedBullRacing and 9,293,555 others
maxverstappen1 This one's for your girlfriends.
view all comments
user this is actually insane
user mad!max is back 🥵🥵
user may this love find me! 🙏🙏🙏
redbullracing the dutch lion is still here! 💪🦁
user 5 times world champion, hot girlfriend, rich, talented. will he ever lose?
user i'm so invested in whatever this drama with this dylan guy is
> user i hope he is suffering wherever he is
> user starting a fuck you dylan campaign
user max is in his protective!boyfriend skin
yourusername the best of the best! 💗
> user she is such a queen 😍
lando congratulations mate!! 🍾
charles_leclerc chat we tried, we can't stop him
> maxverstappen1 maybe when I retire 😎
lando blocked by at least 6 exes after this post probably
user championship + main character energy = unstoppable. respect 🫡
georgerussell63 ok but do you offer classes in pettiness? asking for a friend
user imagine being the ex watching this with dry cereal and regret 😭🥄
user no because he didn’t win a championship he won her and THAT’S revenge 🔥
user idc what anyone says, this is peak motorsport content and I love it
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Summary : How Jack married her, and their life with the kids.
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 12,2219
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3.
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
The Morning She Left For Japan
The room was quiet in the way hospital rooms always were — not peaceful, just suspended. The kind of quiet that existed between emergencies.
Jack was propped against the headboard, a book open in his lap, though he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. Across the room you were closing your briefcase. The suit was on. The schedule was running in your head.
He watched you check the briefcase clasp twice.
"You said I'm your priority," he said.
You looked up. Not guilty — you never looked guilty — but something close to it. "I've been here for three days. Besides, the doctor said you're fine. Also the President asked me directly to go with him."
Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.
The President.
He couldn't fight that. There was absolutely no universe in which that was a reasonable argument to counter. He looked back at his book. "Fine."
A knock at the door saved both of you from the silence that followed. It opened without waiting for an answer — Robby's particular brand of entry — and he leaned against the frame with the expression of a man who had been looking forward to this moment.
"Look at that," Robby said, taking in Jack flat in the hospital bed, book in hand, thoroughly stationary. "The most restless man I know, horizontal and staying that way." He shook his head with theatrical sadness. "Adrenaline junkies really do crash hard."
"Tell him," you said, already sliding your phone into your jacket pocket. "Oh, it feels good not being a patient this time. "By the way, Robby, do you want new medical tools? Japan has a lot."
Robby blinked, he looked at Jack. Then looked back at you. "It's your call."
"Great." You pressed a brief kiss to Jack's temple, your hand resting on his shoulder for just a second. "I'll bring more toys."
And then you were gone. The door clicked behind you. The room resumed its suspended quiet.
Robby stayed where he was, listening to the sound of heels on the corridor floor until they faded. Then he turned to Jack with a specific expression. "Did she realize Japanese medical equipment runs to millions?"
"Don't," Jack said. "That logic doesn't resonate with her."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and she had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on her laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something she had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched her for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told her he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby huffed a quiet laugh and pushed off the doorframe, pulling a chair closer to the bed. He sat down, the amusement settling into something more genuine. "She never left your side," he said. "Three days, Jack. I had to practically order her to sleep."
"I know," Jack said.
He did know. He had woken up twice in the night and you had been there both times — not hovering, just present. Working quietly on your laptop or simply sitting, like being nearby was something you had decided and didn't need to explain. He had watched you for a moment each time before closing his eyes again. He hadn't told you he'd noticed. He wasn't sure why.
Robby reached into his coat and pulled out a folded set of papers. "Speaking of which." He held them out. "Administrative update. Everyone's redoing emergency contacts and next of kin. Yours are blank."
Jack took the papers without comment.
Robby stood, patting the back of the chair. "Oh — and before I forget. You're not allowed to work. Not for at least three weeks."
Jack looked up from the papers. "Hmm."
"I thought you'd fight me on that."
"I promised her I wouldn't work for a while," Jack said. "And I'm going to try golf again."
Robby stared at him. "You hate golf."
"Yeah," Jack said simply. He looked back down at the papers.
Robby shook his head slowly. "She's done something to you, Abbott." He said it without any edge, just quiet observation. "Something permanent."
He left without waiting for an answer.
Jack sat with the papers in his lap for a moment. Then he uncapped his pen and started filling them out. Name, position, department — the routine information moved quickly. He turned the page.
Next of kin.
He stopped.
The line sat there, blank and official, and he looked at it for longer than made sense. He thought about the hallway outside the OR. The way Robby had said your girl is here and the words had reached him through the fog of blood loss like something physical — a rope thrown into dark water. He thought about the limits that existed because of what you weren't, technically, legally, on paper.
If something happened again — another callout, another surgery, another night where it all went wrong — you would be back in that hallway. Waiting. Powerful enough to move governments and helpless in the one moment it mattered because there was no form with your name on it.
He looked at the blank line.
Your name should be here, he thought. Your name should be the first one written.
He finished the rest of the form. Left next of kin blank for now. Folded the papers and set them on the nightstand.
Outside the window Pittsburgh was gray and ordinary and moving without him. Somewhere above it, a private jet was climbing toward Japan.
He picked up his book. Didn't read it.
He had three weeks and a golf course he hated and a next of kin line he couldn't fill in yet.
He thought about that for a long time.
The next morning Robby appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
"She bought the Pitt a hinotori system," he said.
Jack looked up from his book.
"Japanese surgical robot," Robby clarified. "Medicaroid. The director got the shipping confirmation an hour ago. He's been sitting very still ever since." A pause. "And an AI endoscopy suite. For the ER specifically."
Jack said nothing.
"The endoscopy system isn't even widely available in the US yet," Robby continued, with the measured tone of a man reading from a fact sheet he was still processing. "She apparently went directly to the manufacturer. In Tokyo." He paused. "While accompanying a head of state."
Jack looked at him for a moment. Then back to his book. "She mentioned the equipment there was good."
Robby stared at him. "That's what you got from that."
"Robby."
"Yeah."
"She bought it for the ER," Jack said quietly. Not a question.
Robby was quiet for a second. "The endoscopy suite, yeah. Specifically." He watched Jack's face. "She didn't tell you."
"No."
"Hm." Robby pushed off the doorframe. "You should probably figure out that next of kin form."
Jack didn't answer. He looked back at his book.
He didn't read it.
**********
When He Helped You Make A Business Deal
Jack had been following you around for two weeks.
In those two weeks he had probably covered more ground than most people did in a year. Singapore on Monday, back by Thursday, Dubai the following week, and somewhere in between a twenty minute video call conducted from the back of a moving car that apparently closed a nine figure deal. Your schedule was insane. He worked twelve hour night shifts in a trauma bay and your schedule made his look leisurely.
But Greg had pulled him aside on day three with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose prayers had been answered. "The schedule is better since you've been here," he said. "There's time to eat now. Actual meals. And she slept eight hours last Tuesday. Eight. I almost cried."
Jack had said nothing. But he started showing up earlier.
He also learned quickly that almost none of your real business happened inside an office. The office was for paperwork and appearances. The actual work happened elsewhere. Golf courses, private clubs, invitation-only dinners where the menu was secondary to the conversation. Your world operated on proximity and leisure dressed up as relaxation.
Like today.
"I hate this," you said, looking at the building in front of you.
Jack looked at the sign above the entrance. A private shooting range. Clay shooting, from the look of the equipment visible through the glass. "Why? I thought you liked hunting."
"I don't."
Greg appeared at your other shoulder without looking up from his tablet. "She can shoot you dead with a balance sheet from three continents away. With an actual gun?" He tilted his head toward the sky with the expression of a man searching for diplomatic phrasing. "I believe the last bullet she fired is still out there somewhere. Wandering. Lost. Looking for purpose."
"Shut up, Greg," you said.
Jack looked at you. The specific look of a man filing away new information with great interest. "That's why you mentioned the hunting week with the King of Britain."
"I'm bad at sports," you said, with the dignity of someone refusing to elaborate.
"Most sports," Greg murmured.
"Greg."
"Yes, boss."
You turned to Jack and pointed through the glass at a broad, silver haired man already positioned at the range, waiting. "That man has been making fun of my aim for three years. Every single time." You looked at Jack. "Could you do it for me?"
Jack looked at the range. Then at you. "Of course." He straightened slightly, something shifting in his posture. "Let's shut him up."
The three of you walked in together.
Your business partner turned at the sound of the door, his face opening into a wide, familiar grin when he saw you. He was the kind of man who filled a room without trying, the sort that had shaken hands with presidents and still preferred to conduct business outdoors. "Ah. Trying to beat your previous record?"
"Not today," you said smoothly. "I hurt my fingers." You held up your hand as evidence, the picture of regret. It was an absolute lie and everyone in your immediate vicinity knew it. "My boyfriend will be shooting for me."
Your business partner's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. He looked at Jack with the assessing curiosity of a man who had spent years wondering what kind of person had managed to become important to you. "So. Finally I meet the famous surgeon boyfriend." He extended a hand and Jack shook it. "I heard they're good with their hands." He held out the gun with a grin. "Show me what you've got, doc."
Jack took the gun.
He checked it first. Quietly, efficiently, with the automatic habit of someone for whom this was never casual. He tested the weight, checked the sight line, settled his stance. Not performing. Just preparing.
"One at a time to start," your business partner said to the operator, nodding toward the clay trap machine at the far end of the range.
"Throw five at once," Jack said.
The range went quiet.
Your business partner looked at him. "I'm sorry?"
"Five," Jack said. "At once."
Your business partner looked at you. You looked back at him with an expression that said you had absolutely no idea what was about to happen either, which was the truth.
"You're sure," the operator said.
"Do it," Jack said.
The operator shrugged and reset the machine. Everyone took a small, instinctive step back.
Five clay discs launched into the air simultaneously, scattering across different angles and heights, the mechanical crack of the trap cutting through the quiet of the range.
Jack fired.
Five shots. So fast the sound bled together into something almost continuous. Clean, precise, no hesitation between them.
Five fragments rained down.
Nobody spoke.
Greg started clapping. Slowly at first, then with genuine enthusiasm. "New record. And that concludes our portion of the meeting."
You stared at the empty sky where five clay targets had been approximately four seconds ago. Then you started clapping, and you were not a person who clapped easily.
Your business partner let out a laugh that came from somewhere genuine. He turned to you with an expression of absolute delight. "What kind of surgeon is he?"
"He's a war veteran," you said.
The man stopped laughing. He looked at Jack with an entirely different quality of attention. Then he stepped forward and shook Jack's hand again, slower this time. "You should have told me that before." A pause. "That is genuinely impressive. I mean that."
"Thank you," Jack said simply.
Your business partner shook his head, still smiling, and turned back toward the range. "Alright. I'll admit it. I'm not following that." He glanced at you sideways. "Your fingers healed fast."
"Remarkable recovery," you agreed.
He laughed again and waved you both toward the seating area. "Come on. Let's talk business. Your boyfriend just bought you at least an hour of goodwill."
You fell into step beside Jack. Quietly, low enough that only he could hear: "Thank you."
Jack handed the gun back to the operator. "You owe me a vegetable at dinner."
You gave him a look.
"One," he said. "Your choice."
You considered this. "Fine."
Greg, two steps behind you both, looked at the sky again. This time with an expression of complete peace. Then he leaned slightly toward Jack and lowered his voice. "You just helped close a billion dollar deal."
Jack stopped walking.
You were already three steps ahead, already in conversation with your business partner, already working.
"What?" Jack said.
"One clean shot at this range means ten minutes of his time," Greg said, with the calm of someone explaining a rule everyone else already knew. "That's the tradition. He established it years ago. Nobody gets more than that unless they impress him." He paused. "You shot five in one go. Nobody has ever done that." Another pause. "Ever."
Jack looked at you across the room. You were laughing at something the man had said, easy and genuine, the meeting already moving at a pace that suggested it would run well past ten minutes.
"So that's why she wanted me to shoot," Jack said.
"She didn't know it would go like that," Greg said honestly. "She just didn't want to embarrass herself again." He straightened his jacket. "The billion dollar part was you."
Jack stood there for a moment.
He had thought it was a simple favor. A business lunch dressed up as a day at the range. The kind of thing her world did instead of conference rooms. He had picked up a gun because she asked him to and because shutting up a man who made fun of her for three years had seemed like reason enough.
He had not considered that five clay targets might be worth a billion dollars.
**************
The Time He Met Your Family (He Hates Them)
It wasn't planned.
The private jet had just landed in London, the car moving through the grey afternoon toward the hotel, when Greg looked up from his tablet with the specific expression of a man who had been waiting for the right moment and had decided this was it.
"Your cousin is getting married tomorrow," he said.
You looked up from your phone. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if I told you earlier you wouldn't have come," Greg said simply. "And your father would have called me. For a long time. Loudly."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you exhaled the sigh of a woman who had lost this particular battle before it started and knew it. "My aunt. Is she going?"
"She said she'll attend if you do," Greg said. "I've already ordered the dress. Doctor Abbott's suit. My suit." A brief pause. "And the makeup artist is booked for eight."
You looked at him.
"I also confirmed your seats at the family table," Greg added, returning to his tablet. "Next to your aunt. Away from the three cousins you don't like."
"Which three?"
"All of them, technically, but I've narrowed it to the worst three."
You hummed and looked back at your phone. The matter apparently settled in your mind, one way or another.
Jack watched this exchange from the seat beside you. He waited until Greg had gone back to typing. Then he asked, quietly, "Is this normal?"
You glanced at him. "Greg planning my life without telling me?"
"Greg planning your life without telling you and you accepting it."
You considered this for a second. "He's been doing it for four years. I just write the cheque." You turned a page on whatever document you were reading. "He always wins."
From the front seat Greg said, without looking up, "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment," you said.
"I know," Greg said. "Thank you anyway."
Jack looked out the window at London moving past. Grey skies, familiar chaos, the kind of city that felt like it was always in the middle of something.
"Your father's side," he said.
"Yes."
"You don't like them."
"Most of them."
"But you're going."
You were quiet for a second. "My aunt will be there." Something in your voice shifted, just slightly. The professional register dropping a degree or two into something more honest. "She was close to my mother. She's the only one from that whole side who ever." You stopped. Started again. "She shows up. That's all. She just shows up."
Jack nodded. He didn't push.
The car moved through the city. Greg typed. You read. Jack watched the streets and thought about a woman who flew across the world for business without blinking but needed a reason — one specific aunt who showed up — to walk into a room full of her own family.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
You looked at him.
"About the family," he said. "Before tomorrow."
Something crossed your face. Not quite surprise. Something softer than that. You lowered your phone.
"How long do you have?" you said.
"We're twenty minutes from the hotel."
You looked at Greg. "Greg. Brief him."
Greg straightened with the energy of a man who had been waiting for this exact assignment. He turned slightly in his seat, tablet already open.
"Right," he said. "So. The father's side. Here's what you need to know."
Jack settled back in his seat.
It was going to be a long twenty minutes.
***********
At The Wedding
The church was beautiful in the way that only old money could produce — flowers along every pew, light coming through stained glass in warm fractured colors.
You and Jack sat toward the middle. Close enough to see clearly, far enough from both sides of the family to breathe.
At the altar your cousin stood in white, holding the hands of the man beside her. You studied him briefly. Steady. Unhurried. Different from the others. You had lost count of the engagements somewhere around the fourth one. But this felt different.
Good for her, you thought. Finally.
Beside you Jack went still in a specific way. You recognized it immediately.
Then, from three rows back, just loud enough to carry:
"Three months, I'm telling you."
"I say eight. He looks committed."
"Committed or not, fifty says they don't see a second anniversary."
"I'll raise you a hundred. One year maximum."
Quiet laughter. The sound of money changing hands during a wedding ceremony.
Jack turned to you slowly. "Did they just make a bet?"
"Yes," you said.
"On how long the marriage lasts."
"Yes."
"During the ceremony."
"It's tradition," you said. "It started after my father's third wedding." You kept your eyes forward. "I hate it."
Jack looked at the group once more. Then back at the altar. His jaw had that specific set to it — not anger exactly. Just a man filing something under wrong and leaving it there.
"The Pitt makes bets," he said quietly. "Not like this." He found it disrespectful. Making bets on someone's wedding day, in the middle of the ceremony, while the couple stood at the altar believing the people behind them were there to wish them well.
He Meets Your Family
At the wedding reception, Jack met your aunt from your mother's side. Warmer than your father's family but with a different kind of intrusiveness — the kind that wraps nosiness in affection so you can't object without seeming rude.
She takes both of Jack's hands when she meets him, which visibly surprises him, and looks at him with the searching intensity of someone conducting an evaluation.
"So you're the doctor," she says. "She never brings anyone. Not once. Not in years."
"Auntie—" you start.
"I'm talking to him." She doesn't release Jack's hands. "Do you love her?"
The question lands in the middle of the conversation like a dropped glass. Around you, a few nearby relatives go slightly quiet.
Jack doesn't hesitate. Doesn't perform. Just looks at the aunt steadily and says "yes."
She studies him for another long moment. Then she releases his hands, pats them once, and says to you: "Keep him."
She walks away. You stare after her. Jack watches her go with something like genuine respect.
"I like her," he says.
"She's the only one," you looked at your aunt back. She actually doesn’t want to come here, but she’s here because of you.
********
He saw your aunt really nice, but only her. Because the rest of them are… He saw why you don’t want to come within the first ten minutes.
"Is that really him? The doctor?" A short scoff. "I thought she was smarter than that."
You had heard it. Jack could tell by the specific quality of your stillness as you stepped into the corridor. You walked toward your cousin with an unhurried pleasant expression that didn't reach your eyes.
"Cousin," you said warmly.
He turned. Smiled. "I was just—"
"I know." You stopped in front of him. "I was thinking about you recently. About the race car team."
The smile began its retreat.
"Ten million," you said, conversationally. "No conditions. No timeline. No expected return." You tilted your head. "Do you know what I recorded it as internally?"
He said nothing.
"Charity," you said. "I watched ten million dollars finish fourteenth and filed it under charity and never mentioned it again. Not because I forgot. Because I decided you weren't worth the conversation."
You stepped closer. Your voice dropped.
"I have a favorite hobby. Finding a business that deserves to be taken apart and doing it so quietly the owner doesn't realize what happened until there's nothing left to sell." You held his gaze. "I have never pointed that at family. Family is a courtesy I extend by choice." Another step. "So the next time you want an opinion about who I bring into my world, ask yourself whether your current ventures could survive my full attention."
The corridor was very quiet.
Your cousin looked at Jack. Really looked this time. Not the dismissive scan but the look of a man recalculating everything. Jack sat with his coffee, watching with the calm of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
"I'll watch my words," your cousin said. Smaller than he intended.
You patted his shoulder once. Light. Final.
"Good. Very good."
But, it seems like your warning to stop looking down at Jack is still not clear enough. Your uncle found you during the cocktail hour, glass in hand, with the particular energy of a man who had been waiting to say something and had decided now was the moment.
"So," he said, looking Jack over with an undisguised assessment. "He's the one who made you cancel the meeting with the Prime Minister."
"Because he's my top priority," you said simply.
Jack heard it land before he had time to prepare for it. Something moved through his chest, quiet and immediate. You had said it the way you said everything that was simply true — without ceremony, without softening, without looking to see how it was received. Just a fact you had already decided on.
He kept his expression neutral. But he felt it.
Your other cousin found Jack near the drinks table forty minutes later.
He was the kind of man who wore his ambition loudly, the sort who treated every social event as a pitch opportunity and every new face as a potential investor. He had a startup. He always had a startup.
"I'm developing an AI system," he said, sliding into the space beside Jack with rehearsed casualness. "Hospital efficiency. Faster processing, smarter scheduling, reduced overhead." He smiled the smile of someone who had given this speech many times. "The kind of thing that could transform how a place like the Pitt operates."
Jack went still in a specific way.
Your cousin read the stillness as interest. He leaned in slightly, already calculating. If Jack was interested then perhaps you would be interested. The investment practically walked itself in.
"The ROI projections are significant," your cousin continued. "We're talking about real transformation. Smarter systems, better data, faster throughput—"
"Throughput," Jack said quietly.
"Exactly, faster patient—"
"You're not saving time," Jack said. His voice was level and unhurried, the voice he used when he had already assessed a situation completely. "You're clearing the schedule so the board can push five more patients into every shift. That's not efficiency. That's how you burn out a doctor."
He tilted his head slightly. "And the patients? They're already being squeezed by insurance on every side. Now you add licensing fees on top of that. Then the hospital spends a fortune on cybersecurity to protect the database your system runs on." He paused. "You get richer. The hospital looks efficient on paper. And the patient gets a bill they can't afford at the end of it." A beat. "Don't call it care. It's just better math."
The space around them had gone quiet.
Your cousin stood very still with the expression of a man whose rehearsed speech had been taken apart with surgical precision and handed back to him in pieces.
Jack picked up his drink and took a calm sip.
You had caught the last half of it from three feet away. You looked at Jack with an expression you rarely wore in public. Genuine, unguarded surprise.
"How do you know all of that?" you said.
Jack glanced at you. "Being with you twenty four hours a day teaches you things."
From your left your aunt appeared, materializing the way she always did, at exactly the right moment. She looked at Jack. Then at your cousin's retreating back. Then she leaned close to your ear.
"He's a doctor," she whispered. "He understands business. And he just made that smug boy very quiet." A pause. "I like him."
************
The Kids
You didn't see them coming.
Suddenly there were small hands grabbing your dress and a chorus of voices saying your name with the shameless urgency that only children under ten could produce.
Three of them. Your cousin's kids. Dressed in miniature formal wear that was already coming undone — a loosened tie, a flower crown slightly sideways, a jacket abandoned somewhere entirely.
"Auntie!" The oldest grabbed your hand with both of hers. "We didn't know you were coming!"
"Auntie, Star cleared the oxer last week!" she continued, squeezing your hand. "Papa said she might be ready for junior circuit next year."
"She better be," you said. "I didn't pick that bloodline for leisure riding."
The middle one tugged your sleeve. "Can we get another one? For competitions?"
"Let's see if you can stay on the first one before we discuss a second."
All three erupted in protests simultaneously.
Jack leaned toward you. "Star?"
"I bought them a horse," you said simply, patting the oldest one's head. "He joined equestrian. Wants to be in the Olympics."
"Yes!" The youngest grabbed your arm and started pulling toward the dessert table. "They have the little cakes. Come on, come on!"
You looked back at Jack over your shoulder. The expression on your face was something he had never seen in a boardroom or a hospital. Pure and unguarded and completely unaware of itself.
Jack held up a hand. Go.
You disappeared into a wave of small formal wear.
He watched you go. The woman who had once calmly asked if hackers should be neutralized was currently being dragged toward a dessert table by a five year old and letting it happen. Willingly. With something that looked unmistakably like joy.
He stood there with his drink and thought quietly that there were entire rooms inside you that most people never got to see. The world knew the shark, the CEO, the woman who made boardrooms go quiet. Almost nobody knew this.
He wanted to be the person who always knew this.
"The doctor."
Jack turned. Your father had materialized beside him with the unhurried ease of a man who moved through rooms on his own schedule.
"The father," Jack said.
They stood side by side. A silence settled between them, not hostile, just two people deciding how much to say.
"I heard you were shot," your father said.
"I survived."
Your father looked at him properly, with the measuring gaze of a man who rarely updated his conclusions. Something in it seemed to satisfy him. "You have more balls than any man in this room." A short genuine laugh. "No wonder my daughter likes you."
Jack said nothing. He took a quiet sip of his drink.
Across the room you reappeared from the dessert table, the three kids still orbiting you like small overdressed satellites. The youngest held a miniature cake. The oldest was telling you something with elaborate hand gestures. You were listening with the same full attention you gave boardrooms and crises.
Your father watched this. "Where is their nanny," he said, less a question than an observation.
You rolled your eyes without looking at him. The gesture was clearly decades old.
Your father glanced at Jack and tilted his head toward you. "This is why the children have no respect for her."
The kids shuffled immediately behind your back, using you as a shield. The youngest peered around your hip at your father with enormous eyes.
"And this," you said pleasantly, "is why they're afraid of you."
"They need structure," your father said. "A proper nanny. Boarding school when they're old enough."
"That's how you did it," you said. "And look how well that turned out."
"I will hire help when I need it," you continued. "But I am not sending my children to boarding school."
"Your children."
"Hypothetically."
"You're already decided."
"That's why I turned out more human than the others," you said quietly. "Because my mom was there for me."
The words landed with the weight of something long overdue.
Your father went still. Not the boardroom stillness. Something older. He looked at his glass for a moment, then at you. The sharp edges of his expression shifted into something that looked briefly like a man confronting an accounting he had been avoiding for years.
"She was," he said finally. Just that.
It wasn't an apology. You both knew that. But from him, in this room, it was the closest thing to one you had ever received.
"Regardless," he said, voice returning to its usual register. "You cannot run a company and raise children without proper structure."
"I didn't say it without help," you said. "I said without shipping them off so I don't have to look at them."
"That is not what boarding school is."
"It's exactly what it is for people like us and you know it."
"It builds character."
"It builds distance. I've seen enough of the results to know the difference."
"You are so."
"Like you," you finished. "I know."
He pointed at you. "That is not the compliment you think it is."
"It wasn't meant to be one."
Greg appeared quietly behind Jack, materializing from nowhere the way he always did.
Jack looked at him. "How long are they going to argue like this?"
Greg considered this with apparent sincerity. "Oh, this is actually them getting along."
Jack stared at him.
Then he looked back at you, still holding the youngest child's hand, still squaring up to your father with complete calm, the other two kids peering around your back like you were a personal fortification.
Jack thought about the blank line on the next of kin form. He thought about it for the rest of the evening.
**************
After The Wedding
The car was quiet on the way back.
Jack was looking out the window, and you recognized the particular quality of his silence. He was processing. Filing things away in the careful methodical way he processed everything that mattered to him.
"I realized something tonight," he said finally.
You looked at him.
"It's not just your father who talks down to you," he said. "It's most of them."
You were quiet for a moment. Outside the city moved past in the dark. "They have loose mouths," you said. "Always have."
"How did you live through that?"
You considered the question honestly. "Spite," you said. "My spite toward them fueled me to be better. Every time one of them wrote me off or talked over me or bet against me, I went back to work." You shrugged one shoulder. "It was useful."
Jack crossed his arms slowly. "It'll destroy you."
"It already destroyed my appendix," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back at him with the calm of someone stating a simple fact.
He shook his head. Then he reached over and pulled you into him, his arm coming around your shoulders, steady and certain. You let yourself lean in without making a thing of it.
"I don't like it here," you said against his shoulder. "But with you here it's bearable. A bit."
Jack rested his chin lightly against your hair. "Next time just send Greg."
********
The Proposal
After months of traveling, Jack finally came back to the Pitt.
He found Robby between cases, the way he always found Robby, leaning against the nurse's station with a coffee and the expression of a man with five minutes before the next thing arrived.
Jack told him everything.
The wedding. The betting. The cousin and the ten million dollars and the way you had dismantled him in a corridor without raising your voice. Your father and the conversation that was somehow both a confrontation and a consolidation. The kids grabbing your hand at the cocktail hour, dragging you toward the dessert table, and the look on your face when you let them. The way you stood at the back of the reception watching the couple on the dancefloor with something quiet and unguarded in your expression.
The way you had said, almost to yourself, "somewhere like that."
Robby listens to all of it. Then sets down his coffee.
"Marry her."
Jack is quiet.
"You already know," Robby says. "You've known for a while. So stop thinking about it and do it."
That's it. That's the whole conversation. Jack doesn't argue because there's nothing to argue. Robby is right and they both know it.
He goes home that night and calls Greg.
******
The Night He Asked
It was quiet on the drive home.
That was the first sign something was off. Greg was never quiet. Greg filled silence the way other people filled paperwork — efficiently, continuously, without being asked. But tonight he drove without commentary, his eyes on the road, his tablet conspicuously closed on the seat beside him.
You looked out the window. The road wasn't the way home. "Where are we going?"
"There's a firework event," Greg said. "At the park."
You checked your watch. At least half an hour to spare. You didn't want to keep Jack waiting too long at home. "There's time."
Greg had been driving you here for years when the pressure built past a certain point. You didn't always ask him to. He just knew. The walking helped. The trees helped. The fact that it was a place with no conference rooms and no agendas helped most of all.
He pulled up to the entrance and you got out without waiting, already feeling the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just from the smell of the air. Grass and evening and something cooling after a long day.
You walked.
The park was quieter than you expected for a firework event. The path was lit softly, small lights threaded through the trees on either side, and you followed it without thinking, letting your mind go through its usual process of unwinding. A problem here, set it down. A meeting tomorrow, noted and released. The accumulated weight of the week, item by item, left on the path behind you.
Then you stopped.
Ahead of you, where the path curved toward the open space near the water, there was a flower arch. Your favorite — white and soft and full, lit from within by small warm lights that made the whole thing glow against the darkening sky. More lights were strung between the nearby trees, catching the last of the evening and turning it into something else entirely. A small table. A musician sitting quietly to one side, an instrument in his lap, not yet playing.
You stood there for a moment just looking at it.
You had wondered why the firework event felt romantic. You understood now that it was not a firework event.
And then you saw Jack.
He was standing at the center of it, under the arch, in a suit you recognized because you had watched Greg pack it three weeks ago and hadn't thought anything of it at the time. He was watching you with the expression he used when he had made a decision and was completely at peace with it.
Your feet carried you toward him before you consciously decided to move.
"You did all this," you said. It came out quieter than you intended.
"Greg helped," Jack said.
You looked around at the arch, the lights, the musician, the table set for two. Then back at him. "Greg helped," you repeated.
"Significantly," Jack said. "He cried twice during the planning process."
"He cries at everything."
"He cried at the flower selection," Jack said. "Specifically."
A breath of a laugh escaped you. Unexpected and unguarded, the kind that came out when your armor was already gone without you noticing. You looked at him and felt the full weight of the moment settling around you like something physical.
"Jack," you said softly.
"I know you don't need anything I can give you," he said. His voice was steady but there was something underneath it that you had never quite heard before. Something he was choosing to let out. "I know that. I've always known that. You have everything. You've built everything. You don't need someone to take care of you financially or professionally or in any of the ways people usually talk about when they talk about partnership."
He paused. Not because he lost the words. Because he was choosing the next ones carefully.
"But I've watched you carry things that nobody else sees," he continued. "The weight of your name and your father and a company you've been fighting for your entire life. I've watched you sit in hospitals and boardrooms and cars and planes and I've watched you hold all of it together without ever once asking anyone to help you hold it."
His voice dropped slightly.
"You came back from Japan when I was in surgery," he said. "You left a head of state. You sat in a hallway where they wouldn't tell you anything because you weren't family and you stayed anyway." He looked at her steadily. "I don't want you to ever be in a hallway again where you're not family."
You were very still.
"I can't give you what you can give yourself," Jack said. "I know that. I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He took a breath. "But I can give you somewhere to put it down. All of it. I can be the place where you don't have to hold anything. Where you don't have to be the CEO or the shark or your father's daughter or anyone's successor." He held your gaze. "I can be your person. Permanently. Legally. Completely."
He reached into his jacket pocket. The ring caught the light from the arch as he held it out — and you recognized it immediately. Your mother's ring. Your grandmother's before that. The one that had never belonged to your father's story.
Your hand came up to cover your mouth before you could stop it.
"I went to your aunt," he said simply.
"She cried," you managed.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "Before she said yes."
You let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Your eyes were doing things you would never normally allow in front of anyone. Jack had seen them before. He was the only one who had.
He went down on one knee.
"You're the most capable person I have ever met," he said, looking up at you. "And you deserve someone who sees every part of you. Not just the part that runs rooms." A pause. "I see all of it. I want all of it."
A beat.
"Marry me."
Not a question. A statement of intent from a man who had already decided and was simply informing you of the facts, the way he always did, the way that had somehow always worked on you more than anything else ever had.
You looked at the ring. At him. At the ring again.
Your aunt had kept it all these years. Jack had found it. He had gone quietly and carefully and found the one thing that connected you to the version of love that hadn't been ruined yet, the version that existed before your father made a mess of everything, and he had brought it here and gotten on one knee in your favorite park under your favorite flowers and said the truest thing anyone had ever said to you.
You took the ring from him. Slid it onto your own finger, which made him exhale something that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," you said. Your voice was steady. Mostly. "Obviously yes."
Jack stood. He took your face in both hands, careful and certain, and kissed you once. Quiet and complete.
Behind you, at a distance he had calculated to be respectful but not so far he couldn't see, Greg lowered his phone from recording position. His other hand was pressed flat against his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
The musician began to play.
Somewhere above the park the first firework went up — a real one, as it turned out, because Greg had arranged that too — and the light broke open across the sky in a wash of gold.
You didn't look up at it.
You were already looking at Jack.
*******
The Preparation
It started with a question, the way most things between you did.
Jack had been leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, watching you work through your morning emails with the focused efficiency of someone who had already mentally scheduled the next six months. He waited until you looked up.
"Where should we have the wedding?"
You went quiet. Not the thinking quiet, not the calculating quiet. Just still for a moment, like the answer had been sitting there already and only needed to be collected.
"Pittsburgh," you said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."
"We could do it abroad," you said. "But it would take a lot of work. And I want the Pitt crew there." You looked at him. "I want people who will actually wish us well. Not people who will bet on how long we last."
Jack was quiet for a second. Something moved across his face that he didn't try to hide. You had said it simply, practically, the way you said most things. But the fact that his people, his second family in their scrubs and their chaos, were the ones you wanted around you on that day, that you had chosen Pittsburgh not for convenience but for them. It settled in his chest like something permanent.
"There's a hotel we own," you continued, already reaching for your phone. "I'll have Greg reserve it for three days. Full building."
"We?" Jack said.
You looked up. "You own my business, Jack Abbott." A small, certain smile. "You married into this. No turning back. Welcome to the board."
He stared at you. "I didn't sign anything."
"Greg will send the papers."
"Of course he will."
You were already typing. "Have you told your family?"
"Yup. Have you told yours?"
You didn't look up. "I only want my father and my aunt. That's it."
"Perfect," Jack said. He picked up his coffee. "I was this close to preparing sleeping pills for the rest of your relatives anyway."
You looked at him.
"Medically appropriate dosage," he said pleasantly. "Nothing they wouldn't wake up from."
"Jack."
"They'd miss the wedding. Feels terrible about it. Send very expensive gifts out of guilt." He took a sip. "Everyone wins."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then you looked back at your phone. "I'm pretending I didn't hear that."
"That's probably wise," he agreed.
The Wedding
The guests arrived through the afternoon.
There were not many of them. That was the first thing people noticed. No sprawling guest list, no industry names, no faces borrowed from a networking spreadsheet. Just people who actually knew them. The room felt like breathing space rather than performance, and everyone in it seemed to understand, without being told, that this was intentional.
The Pitt crew arrived together.
This was not a surprise. They had carpooled from the hospital with the coordinated chaos of people who spent twelve hour shifts in close proximity and had stopped pretending they needed personal space. They came through the hotel entrance in a cluster, still mid-conversation, and then stopped collectively as the lobby registered.
Mateo turned a slow circle, taking in the ceiling, the floors, the fresh flowers arranged at every surface. "She rented the whole hotel," he said. "For three days."
"Yeah," Shen said.
"The whole hotel."
"That's what three days means, Mateo."
Ellis was already moving toward the front desk with the focused energy of a woman who had been promised a spa and intended to locate it immediately. "We have free rooms," she said, mostly to herself. "Free spa. I cannot wait to see my room." She paused at the desk and looked back at the group. "Do you think the robes are the good kind?"
"They're her hotel," Dana said. "They're the good kind."
Mateo found the coffee machine in his room twelve minutes later and sent a photo to the group without comment. The photo was of the machine. Just the machine. Centered. Well lit. It required no caption.
Shen sent back a single word. Same.
*******
Down the corridor, in the room set aside for the groom, it was considerably quieter.
Jack was standing at the window in his shirt and trousers, jacket hanging on the back of the chair, tie not yet on. He was looking out at Pittsburgh with the stillness of a man who was not anxious exactly but was feeling the full weight of a moment.
Robby came in without knocking, which was his way, and closed the door behind him. He looked at Jack. Jack looked at the city.
"You good?" Robby asked.
"Yeah," Jack said.
Robby crossed the room and stood beside him. They were quiet together for a moment, the way they were quiet in the Pitt between cases, comfortable and unhurried.
"She reserved the whole hotel," Robby said. "For the crew."
"I know."
"She didn't tell anyone. It was just ready when we got here."
"That's how she does things," Jack said.
Robby nodded slowly. He looked at Jack's profile for a moment. "You nervous?"
"No," Jack said. Then, after a beat. "Maybe a little."
"Good," Robby said.
*************
Upstairs, in the suite at the end of the east corridor, the morning had been considerably more emotional.
Your aunt had cried three times before the makeup artist finished the first eye. She had been escorted out gently but firmly after the second round of damage, still dabbing at her face with a handkerchief, still trying to say something coherent through the tears, and told that she could come back when she had collected herself.
She had not yet collected herself.
The room was quiet now. You stood in front of the mirror in your dress and looked at yourself for a long moment. Not checking. Just looking. The person looking back at you was the same one who had walked into a trauma bay years ago clutching her stomach, refusing surgery, convinced that stopping for even a day would mean losing everything.
She had been wrong about that. It had taken a night shift doctor and a plastic chair and a prescription slip to show her how wrong.
A knock at the door.
"Come in," you said.
Your father stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably, as always, not a detail out of place. But he stopped when he saw you and something happened to his face that you had seen perhaps twice in your entire life. The careful architecture of his expression simply came apart for a moment, undone by something he hadn't expected to feel this strongly.
"What?" you said.
"You look beautiful," he said. Quietly. Like the words surprised him on the way out.
"Thank you," you said. The two words came out softer than you intended.
He moved further into the room. He looked at you the way people looked at things they knew they were about to let go of, taking inventory, trying to hold the image.
"Is he the right one?" he asked. "There's still time. If you have any doubt at all."
You turned to face him fully. "You should have asked yourself that question. Approximately three marriages ago."
He had the grace to absorb that without deflecting. "I went through it," he said. "Those were my mistakes. I know what they cost." He paused. "You're my only daughter. I don't want you to go through any version of what I put your mother through."
You had not expected that. Not the words and not the look that came with them, something tired and honest and stripped of the usual performance. He was not making a point. He was not positioning. He was just a father standing in a hotel room looking at his daughter on her wedding day and meaning what he said.
"He's the one," you said.
Your father was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded once, the nod of a man who has updated a position and will not revisit it. "Good," he said. "I believe your judgement. I always have. Even when I made it harder than it needed to be."
He offered his arm.
You looked at it for a second. This man who had turned your inheritance into a competition, who had made you fight for every room you walked into, who had driven you to a hospital bed and a stranger's plastic chair and accidentally, unknowingly, to the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You took his arm.
It had never once crossed your mind that you would walk down the aisle with your father. Too much history, too many rooms where you had stood on opposite sides of everything. But here you were, his hand over yours, moving together toward the doors at the end of the corridor.
"You're not going to cry, are you," you said.
"Absolutely not," he said.
A pause.
"Your aunt has cried enough for both families," he added.
"She has," you agreed.
The doors opened.
The hall was warm and full of light, flowers arranged along every surface, candles burning in rows that turned the whole room golden. And the faces. You saw them before anything else. The Pitt crew, cleaned up and dressed in their best, looking like a completely different set of people from the ones you usually found in scrubs over a trauma bay. Mateo in a suit that actually fit. Ellis with her hair done, sitting straight and bright-eyed. Shen looking quietly emotional already and trying not to show it. Dana watching the door with an expression she would later describe as composed and which was not composed at all.
Your aunt in the front row, handkerchief already raised.
Greg, three rows back, recording everything on his phone with the focus of a man documenting history.
Lilly, standing at the front, who had been holding herself together all morning and was now very clearly not holding herself together.
And Jack.
He was standing at the altar in his suit, hands clasped in front of him, and he was watching you walk toward him with an expression that had nothing held back in it. No clinical neutrality, no careful composure. Just him, fully present, completely undone in the quietest possible way. His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright.
Robby, standing beside him as best man, noticed. He leaned slightly toward Jack and pressed a folded tissue into his hand without a word, with the efficiency of a man who had come prepared.
Jack took it without looking at him.
You kept walking. Your father's arm steady under your hand, the room warm around you, every face you passed a person who had genuinely wished for this.
When you reached the altar your father stopped. He looked at Jack for a moment. The two men regarded each other with the particular understanding of people who had already said the hard things and arrived somewhere on the other side of them.
"Take care of her," your father said. Not a command. Not a warning. Something quieter than either.
"I know," Jack said.
Your father took your hand and placed it in Jack's. Then he pulled you into a brief, firm hug, the kind that said more than he would ever find words for, and stepped back to take his seat.
You turned to Jack.
He was looking at you the way he had looked at you in the ER the very first time, like you were the clearest thing in the room. Like everything else was background.
"Hi," you said softly.
"Hi," he said.
His thumb moved once across the back of your hand. Steady and certain and very him.
The priest began to speak.
The room settled into a hush, warm and full and held by everyone in it. Outside Pittsburgh moved through its ordinary afternoon, entirely unaware that in a hotel ballroom two people who had found each other in an emergency room were making it permanent.
Inside, it was everything you had said you wanted.
Small. Real. People who knew you.
The rest of it, the rings and the words and the moment the priest said what he said and Jack looked at you and you looked back at him, that part belonged only to the two of you.
Some things don't need an audience to be true.
They just need to happen.
And this one did.
*************
The Reception and The Morning After
The reception was everything a wedding should be and nothing it didn't need to be.
The food came out in waves, each one better than the last, the kind of meal that made people stop mid-conversation just to acknowledge what was happening on their plate. The DJ read the room perfectly, pulling the energy up and letting it breathe at exactly the right moments. A singer came on after midnight and the dancefloor, which had started cautiously, became something genuinely joyful.
It was loud and warm and real in the way that only happens when every person in a room actually wants to be there.
But the moment that made the hotel truly erupt was later.
When the guests finally made their way upstairs, full and happy and slightly overwhelmed by the evening, they found their rooms waiting. The coffee machine they already knew about. The massage gun they had discovered earlier. But on the desk beside them was something else. An envelope. Inside, a cheque.
Each one different, each one specific. Some covered rent. Some cleared medical school debt that had been sitting quietly for years. Some handled bills that people had stopped mentioning out loud because mentioning them had stopped feeling useful.
The calls started within minutes. Room to room, corridor to corridor, voices spilling under doors and through walls. Mateo's laugh was audible from two floors down. Someone, nobody admitted who, started crying in the stairwell. The hotel, which had been built for quiet luxury, handled the noise with grace.
Greg, sitting in the small office he had commandeered near the lobby, listened to the sounds traveling down through the building and allowed himself exactly one minute of satisfaction before going back to his tablet.
******
The next morning the hotel restaurant was warm and unhurried, sunlight coming through the tall windows, the kind of breakfast that had no agenda attached to it.
You and Jack came down together.
The crew was already there, spread across two tables that had been pushed together at some point without asking permission. They looked up when you walked in and the table got louder immediately.
Dana stood first. She crossed the room and hugged you before you could say anything, properly, with both arms, the way Dana did everything when she decided to do it. "Thank you," she said quietly, close to your ear. "For all of it. The room, the cheque, everything." She stopped. Started again. "Just. Thank you."
Ellis was next, which surprised you because Ellis expressed warmth in precise, careful doses. She took your hand in both of hers and looked at you with the direct, steady gaze she used when she meant something completely. "You deserve every good thing," she said simply. "Both of you."
Mateo bypassed formality entirely and hugged Jack first, which Jack endured with the expression of a man who had accepted that this was happening. "Best wedding I've ever been to," Mateo said, pulling back. "And I've been to eleven. This was the best one. It wasn't close."
Shen raised his coffee cup from across the table without getting up, which was entirely Shen. "Congratulations," he said. "Long marriage. Many years. And please keep the coffee machine coming."
Then Robby stood up.
The table went quiet on its own, the way it always did when Robby had something to say. He was holding an envelope in one hand, different from the others, thicker. He had not opened it at the table. You knew he had opened it last night, alone in his room, because Greg had told you so in a single text message. Just the words: he sat with it for a while.
He looked at Jack first. "You're the best doctor I've ever worked with," he said. "And I've worked with a lot of doctors. Most of them insufferable." A beat. "You're only occasionally insufferable. That counts for something."
Jack said nothing. But something in his face shifted quietly.
Then Robby looked at you. He held up the envelope slightly. "Round the world tickets," he said. His voice was steady but carrying something underneath it. "For two." He paused. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," you said.
"She mentioned she wanted to see more of the world," Robby continued, and you knew without asking that he meant his girlfriend, the cardiologist who had borrowed your jet and changed everything. "I don't know how you knew that."
"She mentioned it to me," you said simply.
Robby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the envelope for a second, then back at you both. "I've watched a lot of people come through the Pitt," he said. "Patients, staff, families. You learn pretty quickly who people actually are when things get hard." He looked at Jack. Then at you. "You two are the real thing. Anyone who's been paying attention knows that." He raised his coffee cup. "Long marriage. Many years. And maybe some kids who inherit her bank account and his patience."
"Hear hear," said Mateo immediately.
"Strongly seconded," Ellis added.
You looked at Jack. He looked back at you. "I told you," you said. "I told you they would wish us well." You felt it settle in your chest, warm and certain. "Not a single bet. Not like my family."
Jack pressed his lips together. Something in his expression shifted in a way you recognized.
"Jack," you said slowly.
"Hm."
"They're not making bets."
A pause. Brief. Telling.
"Jack Abbott."
He leaned toward you and lowered his voice so it landed only at your ear. "The bet," he said carefully, "is on how many kids we're going to have."
The heat reached your ears before your brain finished processing the sentence. You turned to look at the table. Mateo was studying the ceiling. Shen had become very interested in his orange juice. Dana had her coffee cup raised high enough to cover most of her face. Ellis was the only one who met your eyes, completely unashamed, with the expression of a woman who had put money on a specific number and felt good about it.
The laugh came out before you could stop it. Sudden and real and completely unguarded, the kind that turned heads at the neighboring tables.
Jack watched you laugh with the quiet, settled expression of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
"How much?" you managed finally.
"The pot is considerable," Jack said.
"Who started it?"
Everyone at the table found something else to look at simultaneously.
"Greg," Jack said.
*********
The Abbott Kids
Just like the Pitt crew had wished, you and Jack had two kids. Robby, Dana, and Ellis won the bet. Their names were Nora Abbott and Leo Abbott.
By the time Nora turned six and Leo turned five, the Pitt staff had collectively accepted that the Abbott children were simply part of the hospital's ecosystem now.
Nora was yours in every way that mattered. She had your energy, your confidence, and your absolute refusal to accept any situation she hadn't personally approved of. She walked into rooms like she already owned them or was actively considering the purchase. She could negotiate her way out of anything and expressed her opinions with a directness that made grown adults briefly reconsider their positions. She was six years old and she already had a preferred table at two restaurants in Pittsburgh.
Leo was a different story.
He had Jack's eyes. Jack's quiet. Jack's way of standing slightly apart from a situation and watching it fully before deciding to enter it. He followed Jack to the Pitt on weekends with the focused dedication of someone who had already picked a direction and was simply gathering information. He was five and had already correctly identified two ear infections and one case of strep throat among the neighborhood kids. Jack confirmed all three without comment, but something in his expression each time suggested he was filing it away carefully.
They were nothing alike. Except that both of them were completely certain of themselves.
Jack said this was good. You said it was inevitable. You were both right.
************
Leo had been following Jack around the Pitt since he could walk fast enough to keep up.
He was quiet about it the way Jack was quiet about everything. He watched the nurses with careful attention, sat at the station with a juice box and said very little, but his eyes moved constantly. The staff had adopted him completely. Mateo taught him card tricks. Ellis let him listen through her stethoscope. Shen had made the mistake of explaining blood pressure readings and now Leo checked his own wrist with two fingers every morning at breakfast.
He was five and the Pitt already felt like home.
Which meant he had opinions about it.
"Dad," Leo said, falling into step beside Jack between bays, small legs working double time. "You could be the director."
"No thanks," Jack said.
"Mom doesn't officially own the hospital. But you're her husband. You have authority."
"I've seen your mother run things," Jack said. "I know what it costs. No thanks."
Leo considered this for two seconds. "Then why stay if you could have more power?"
Jack stopped. He looked down at his son and gave him the real answer, because Leo always knew the difference.
"Because the director gets nervous when I'm around," he said. "And I find that extremely entertaining."
Leo stared at him. Then came the slow quiet smile — Jack's exact smile.
Robby appeared from around the corner. He looked at Leo. Then at Jack. "What kind of vocabulary are you teaching him?"
"His kindergarten is already teaching him to buy gold," Jack said.
Robby looked at Leo. "Is that true?"
"Next week we learn about stocks," Leo said seriously.
Robby patted his head slowly. "Good job."
Leo accepted this with a small dignified nod and kept following Jack down the corridor.
Robby watched them go and shook his head.
"He's going to take over this place someday," he said to nobody.
From the nurse's station Ellis didn't look up. "He already knows which attending to avoid and where the good coffee is." A pause. "He's halfway there."
*************
Nora had been following you to work since she was four.
It started because you had a breakfast meeting, the nanny called in sick, and Greg said with complete confidence that it would be fine. It was fine. Nora sat at the corner of the conference table with a juice box and a coloring book and didn't make a single sound for two hours. Three board members commented afterward that she had better meeting presence than most of their junior executives.
She was six now and Greg had stopped pretending she needed supervision.
She walked beside you through the office with the proprietary ease of someone who had decided this was also her domain. Occasionally her small hand would reach up for yours in a crowded corridor, but otherwise she moved with complete independence.
"Greg," she said, passing his desk without stopping. "The eleven o'clock ran over yesterday. It shouldn't run over."
Greg looked up from his tablet. Then at you. Then back at Nora. "You're right," he said seriously. "I'll adjust the buffer."
"Thank you," Nora said, and kept walking.
You looked at Greg over your shoulder. He was already typing, completely unbothered.
You caught up to Nora. "You're six," you said.
"The meeting ran over," she said simply.
You had nothing to argue with that.
The harder moments came at family events.
Your father's side had not entirely adjusted to the fact that you were no longer available to be pressured into financial decisions. Most had learned this the hard way. But there were always one or two who tried again at gatherings, convinced that the presence of children would soften you.
They had not accounted for Nora.
At a family lunch one of your cousins cornered you near the drinks table, already three sentences into a pitch, when Nora appeared at your side.
She looked up at him. He looked down at her with the instinctive softening people had around small children. First mistake.
"My mom is busy," Nora said.
"I'm just having a conversation—"
"She's busy," Nora said again. Final.
He looked at you. You looked back with the neutral expression of a woman genuinely curious how this would resolve.
He tried again. "I just wanted to discuss a small opportunity—"
Nora's face crumpled. Carefully. Gradually. The lip wobble, the glassy eyes, one single tear tracking down her cheek with impeccable timing.
"I just wanted to spend time with my mom," she said, at exactly the frequency that activated guilt in every adult within ten feet. "But someone always takes her away."
Your cousin looked like he had committed a crime. He muttered something about catching up another time and retreated quickly.
Nora watched him go. The tears stopped with the efficiency of someone turning off a tap.
You looked down at her. "Where did you learn that."
"Learn what?" she said.
You studied her face. It gave you nothing.
Later you stood in Greg's doorway. "Did you teach my daughter to fake cry."
Greg maintained eye contact with the composure of a man who had prepared for this. "I taught her that emotional intelligence is a valuable tool in high pressure social situations."
"Greg."
"She asked," he said simply. "She was very specific. I provided educational support."
You stared at him. Then left without responding because you didn't entirely disagree.
That night at dinner Jack watched Nora and Leo eat their vegetables unprompted. Unlike you, they like to eat veggies.
"What did she do?" he said quietly.
"Made a grown man feel guilty for existing," you said. "Using tears."
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
Jack looked at Nora. Nora looked at her plate. The picture of innocence.
"She took it seriously," Jack said.
"It was you?.”
"I told her to guard you when I'm not there," he said simply. He picked up his fork.
You turned to Nora. She looked up and caught you both watching her. She smiled. Your smile, arriving with complete confidence, knowing exactly what it was doing.
"She's yours," Jack said.
"She really is," you agreed.
*********
It started at the dinner table, the way most things in the Abbott household started — without warning and with complete commitment from both parties.
"Doctors don't make as much money as CEOs," Nora said, with the casual authority of someone stating a fact she had verified personally.
Leo looked up from his rice. "Doctors save lives."
"CEOs create jobs," Nora said. "Which also saves lives. Indirectly."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's related."
Leo put his chopsticks down, which in Abbott family body language meant he was taking this seriously. "Dad pulled someone back from a flatline last week."
"Mom pulled three companies back from bankruptcy last month," Nora said. "That's three sets of employees who still have income. Which means they can afford healthcare." She tilted her head slightly. "Which means they can afford doctors."
Leo stared at her. "You can't put a price on saving someone's life."
"You can't run a hospital without funding," Nora said. "Who do you think pays for dad's equipment?"
A brief silence.
"Mom," Leo said.
"Exactly," Nora said.
You and Jack had stopped eating approximately thirty seconds into this exchange. You were both sitting very still in the way of people who had recognized something extraordinary was happening and did not want to interrupt it.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
Leo picked his chopsticks back up, regrouped, and tried a different angle. "Dad works nights. He misses sleep. He misses dinners. He does it because people need him." He paused. "That's noble."
Nora considered this genuinely, which you recognized as a dangerous sign. It meant she was about to say something that would end the argument.
"Dad is noble," she agreed. "Mom is powerful." She picked up her glass. "Noble people make the world better. Powerful people make it possible for noble people to do that." She took a sip. "They need each other."
Leo was quiet for a moment.
Then he looked at Jack. "Dad."
"Yeah," Jack said.
"She's right."
Jack picked up his chopsticks. "I know."
"That's annoying," Leo said.
"Yeah," Jack said again. "Get used to it."
Nora said nothing. She returned to her dinner with the composure of a woman who had made her point and saw no need to elaborate.
You pressed your lips together very hard.
Jack nudged your foot under the table without looking at you.
You nudged back.
Above the table your two children ate their dinner in the temporary peace of people who had reached a conclusion and were already, quietly, preparing for the next disagreement.
After a moment Jack leaned slightly toward you. Low enough that it stayed between the two of you. "Noble and powerful," he said.
"She's six," you said.
"She quoted supply chain logic at dinner."
"She learned it from me."
"She applied it correctly," Jack said. "That part was her."
You looked at Nora, currently eating with perfect posture and the satisfied energy of someone who had filed the evening under completed business. Then at Leo, who was asking Jack something about blood pressure with the focused intensity he brought to everything that interested him.
"We made interesting kids," you said quietly.
Jack considered this for a second. "Terrifying kids."
"Same thing," you said.
Jack picked up his glass. "Yeah," he said. "Same thing."
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
date night gets interesting when robby unknowingly interrupts yours and jack’s dinner with a date of his own—and no one is more nosy than the Abbots.
contents: smut, references to erectile dysfunction (i couldn’t help myself, sorry), being lil judgy and sexy together 🫶, a whole lotta fluff and smut tbh, lighthearted bullying of robby (he deserves it sometimes).
[jack abbot x fem!reader; wc: 6.0k ]
masterlist | other jack abbot fics
The restaurant was crowded for a Tuesday night.
Clinking glasses and consistent chatter, it would have been easy to get lost in the noise but when Jack was in front of you, smiling with those eyes that never seemed to leave you, it was practically impossible to be distracted by anything but him.
“…So Henderson came around looking around for an attending and of course—” Jack gestured to himself proudly and you scoffed over the rim of your glass.
“How humble of you.”
“Of course.” You motioned for him to continue, biting the side of your lip to disguise the effect of his charm.
“He takes me to this guy, maybe thirty years old, who can’t sit down. The reason? He lost a bet and shoved a piece of wood up his asshole.”
“Jesus, Jack!” You shushed. Your eyes darted around to the surrounding tables. “We’re in public!”
“And I’m a doctor,” he replied casually. “Things happen. I can’t keep them bottled inside or I’ll implode. Besides, this was like… a ‘you need to know this kind’ of thing.”
You lifted your glass again to wash the taste of his story out of your mouth. “I think I want to be left out of the ‘need to know’ from now on. Save that discussion for Dr.—”
Just as you felt the wine hit your tongue enough to muffle his therapist’s name, you caught a figure over Jack’s shoulder. Tall and unmistakable, the wine shot out from your lips and back into the glass like a waterfall.
“Holy shit,” you mumbled.
“What?” Jack asked concerned. His hand flashed across the table, clattering with your utensils. “What’s wrong?”
“Robby.” You coughed, “He’s on a date. Here.”
Jack’s neck careened in question as if he didn’t catch your words. You tried not to bring attention to the table, muffling your coughs with a napkin, and Jack took the glass from your hand carefully.
“He didn’t say anything at rounds this morning.”
“I’m not kidding.” You put the napkin back down. “He’s literally right there. Did you tell him we were coming here?”
“No.” Jack shook his head. He spared a fraction of a second to glimpse over his shoulder and clock Robby and his date near the host stand at the front of the restaurant.
Goddamn. Perlah was right. The rumors, which he had always taken with a grain of salt, were true.
“I thought he wasn’t dating anymore.”
Jack shrugged. “Every time he dumps someone he swears it off. But he’s a shit liar and gossip spreads fast whenever he makes eyes at someone.”
Your face curled in aversion of Robby’s romantic life. Just the thought of him… yeah, it made you want to seek out therapy too.
Michael Robinavitch was a serial dater—or, a serial wine, dine, and “leave someone behind” type of guy. Nothing ever worked out for him and you were always glad to give him a list of things to work on when he and Jack watched a Steeler’s game in the garage.
You’d seen it hundreds of times. Well, maybe not hundreds of times but enough for you and Jack to both come to the conclusion that Robby was never going to be one to marry. It wasn’t in his cards because he made stupid decisions and you, more than Jack, felt terrible for the women who fell into Robby’s little trap.
But you were a woman. There were some things that even if Jack tried his absolute best to understand, he wouldn’t be able to.
“So the woman is…?” You asked curiously.
As they stood behind rows of tables and decor, Robby and his date conversed differently than you and Jack did. It was new, a little nervous, and complete with a layer of discomfort anyone with a soul could feel 20 feet away. The uneasiness of their stature didn’t surprise you in the slightest. After a certain age, what people expected out of dating wasn’t the same as if they were young and without commitments. Robby had a million of them, you’re sure the woman did too, and that’s a tricky path to navigate.
“Noelle Hastings,” Jack said flatly before grabbing a piece of bread from the basket at the center. He ripped it in half and handed you one.
You took it without thought. “Who is…? Jack, you gotta be more specific here.”
“She’s a nurse—more often a case manager of insurance cases that fall through. She’s a rain cloud in a suit but works a lot of days so I don’t see her much.”
“High praise,” you droned and he sighed, chewing hard on the bread.
“One of the day shift nurses said it’s been goin’ on for a while.”
“And he didn’t tell you?”
Jack shook his head. The glass of water in front of him was suddenly more interesting than the conversation and you quirked a brow. His morose imitation of disappointment was cute.
Maybe they weren’t really good friends, he thought disappointedly. Was he really going to be stuck with his friends at the VA, some first responders, and the six elderly women who harassed him, sweetly, at the YMCA?
He didn’t even want to think about the women of your once-a-month book club.
He didn’t need to read about hockey players who fucked and World War II nurses who fell in love with soldiers.
You had a soldier right in front of you. You could just live out those fantasies with him instead.
“Are you upset that he didn’t tell you he was dating again?” You asked him and Jack pursed his lips in annoyance.
“No.”
“Yes,” you corrected with a chuckle.
“I think it’s a dick move not to tell your best friend that you’re dating someone.”
“Just like it was a dick move to not tell him about your little blue pill incident?” You pried with a smile and he met your eyes in a flash. Jack’s finger pointed at you accusingly.
“Hey now,” he warned. “I’m drinking water on purpose this time for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to, honey. I’m only joking.”
“That’s unconvincing.”
“Okay, soothsayer.” You grinned, elbows on the table and chin resting against your locked fingers. “You think you know everything? Let’s play a game then.”
“Baby, this was supposed to be a nice dinner.”
“A game won’t ruin it.”
Jack breathed in hard. He loved the dramatics; acting like the world was going to fall to pieces if he wasn’t one hundred percent present in the moment. It was a game, not a blindfolded eating contest where he’d accidentally eat a bug instead of his steak.
“What kind of game?” He settled instead.
“Better strangers.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“That’s not a why.”
“I don’t really want to imagine whatever the fuck Robby is talking about just to get into that woman’s pants,” Jack explained but it was choppy and his eyes bounced around the tables behind you rather than look directly at you.
“You’re so jealous, Mr. Abbot,” you gave a playful accusation. “They’re being sat—should I call them over? Let them join date night instead?”
Jack’s fingers dug into his eyes. “Why are you such a menace today? After all I do for you?” His tone lifted. “And what happened to Doctor? I’ll also option Staff Sergeant or Professor—for your choosing, of course.”
“Jack,” you lamented. “You worked two doubles and two SWAT shifts this week. I’m allowed to be a pest.”
Touché.
He was the one who made the reservation to make up for his absence in the first place. Jack knew, he always did, when he wasn’t being the A+ worthy husband he should be. It was a casualty of his species, or, perhaps just his sanity, but he knew what to do to make you feel wanted when his career shifted things around.
“Fine. We can play.”
“Kinky, Dr. Abbot,” you winked. “Just beware. They’re sat in a booth—” you counted the tables with your eyes “—seven tables away.”
“Well it’s not like I’m gonna scream Robby’s fictional conversation across the room.”
You picked up another piece of bread and repeated what Jack had done before.
“Save the screaming for later. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
“Now who just said that in a public place?” Jack tipped his head to the side, accepting the air kiss you sent hurling in his direction as a result.
“You know it’s true.”
“Yeah,” he murmured lowly. Jack’s eyes crinkled at their sides, appreciating the light he’s caught you in at the moment.
Robby’s presence couldn’t ruin date night. It was an intrusion into your bubble, sure, but Jack would swim through a million Robby’s to reach your shore and he would play a thousand silly games with you to hear you laugh. If you wanted to make shit up about Robby and Noelle? Fuck it. He did too.
“So…” you tapped your fingers on the table. “What do you think they did before they got here?”
Jack sipped on his water in consideration. “I think Robby worked until 7 but she got off a little earlier or didn’t work today. He showered at work, brought his stupid sweater with him, and picked her up on the way here.”
“Solid choice.”
“How do you think they met?” He asked you.
“Work, obviously,” you said, matter-of-fact.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Jack snickered. “I meant… romantically.”
“I think someone set them up on a blind date. Maybe someone from her side of the hospital—not someone from the ED.”
Jack nodded and caught the server returning to your table with your dinners in hand. Over Jack’s shoulder, you watched the back of Robby’s head turn to their own server and order drinks.
You didn’t think for a second that your constant glancing in their direction would be an issue.
With thanks, the server left you both to eat but the questions kept going.
“Alright.” You halved the portion of hericots verts on your plate and scooped them onto Jack’s one-note plate. “Why do you think they’re at this same restaurant, right here, right now?”
Jack ate one of the beans first. “Destiny.”
“That’s a lame answer.”
“I thought it was transcendent and that’s your opinion.”
“You really think it’s destiny? To be at the same place as his very annoying, very married, friends?”
“He might have a problem with himself getting married but I don’t think he hates hanging out with us. It’s like a little family of sorts.”
“Ah yes,” you awed. “The child I never wanted to have: Michael Robinavitch.”
“I don’t know,” Jack replied truthfully this time. “It’s a pretty popular place and not far from our work so I think it was probably out of convenience. Do you think he’s in love with her?”
You laughed, audibly, and not quietly. Eyes flicking back to the booth and accidentally catching Noelle’s gaze at the same time.
It didn’t change your answer.
“Fuck no.”
“I agree,” Jack smiled. “Fuck no.”
“But I’ll give him a chance,” you admitted, sipping on your drink. “He deserves to be happy with someone… even if it’s hard to imagine.”
Jack cut a piece of his steak and held his fork out to you. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“Work.” You eyed the piece of meat to see if it was cooked enough but you should have known Jack would have cut up his entire dish to find the one piece you’d eat.
“Boring,” Jack heckled.
“Were you not talking about a piece of wood up someone’s—” you motioned with your fist “—you know?”
“That’s different.”
Your eyes narrowed in a challenge. “Not really, honey. It’s basically the exact same thing.”
“Well it’s different because we’re married. And when you’re married, you can talk about boring stuff.”
Now your eyes rolled. Jack smirked, cutting up another piece for himself.
“I wish I knew that when you talked about MREs.”
“You wound me,” Jack quipped. He popped the steak into his mouth and chewed when you came back with:
“No—an IED did that for me.”
He just about choked.
“Careful,” you warned him casually. The light glint in your eye didn’t disappear. “You can’t die on me yet. We have plans later.”
“What the fuck happened to the game?” He asked, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Why am I catching these strays, baby?”
“Catching strays? Did you learn that from the kids at your work?”
“They’re like twenty-two,” Jack corrected. “And yeah, I did. I think I used it correctly.”
“Mhm,” you hummed and finished off your wine. “What do I think they’re talking about? My answer hasn’t changed: work.”
“Still boring.”
“Agreed.” You nodded.
A quiet lull met the table as the food became more important. For all the nights you had to eat alone, having Jack present was a gift enough. He silently invaded your space. Filling every nook until shapes of him left indents in places he hadn’t existed before—at the kitchen table, on the couch, a second toothbrush in the holder, and a dip on his side of the bed.
As you ate, your gazes would meet across the table for brief moments in time.
No one ever looked at you like Jack did. Whatever he was feeling, you saw it in the curve of his eyes. The lines, as they stretched in pleasure and listened to you animatedly talk about anything, grew in adoration the longer you were together.
You imagined by the time you are old and the wrinkles have overtaken what you looked like in the present, Jack would still see you in the same light.
And not everyone is that lucky.
Jack cleared his throat and reached out his left hand onto the table top. You grabbed it as his thumb ran back and forth over your knuckles.
“Sorry about picking up the extra shifts.”
Two doubles. Two SWAT shifts in one week.
“Sometimes I don’t realize that I’m even doing it,” he admitted.
“I just want my husband home, Jack,” you squeezed his hand. “I think you need to start putting your schedule on the fridge.”
“Maybe… do you think Robby ever apologizes for not being a great… partner?”
“Oh hell no,” you amused. “He’s never apologized for anything in his life.”
“No he has not.” Jack agreed with a grin. “But really, sweetheart. I’m sorry about that.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “I love you, you know that?”
“I think you’ve told me once or twice.”
“Possibly a few times more.”
“Yeah,” he hummed. “I love you too.”
Seven tables away, Noelle Hastings was trying not to overthink on her fourth date with Robby.
Her hands folded over her napkin thrice in two minutes and as they waited for their beverages, she couldn’t help but feel the nerves of dating begin to catch up to her. Robby had been nothing but a gem—different from what she had heard and seen around PTMC and unexpected, based on the looks she’d been getting the last few weeks whenever she stepped foot into the ED.
Noelle took in the restaurant. She observed the people in the room to calm herself down—people watching, it was easy. She could imagine their lives and not focus so heavily on her own before she spiraled completely.
There was a gaggle of friends in a booth on the opposite side of the room chatting animatedly; an elderly pair of sisters catching up at a table in the center of the room, and then, a pair she couldn’t stop looking at.
The first thing she noticed was the smile on the woman’s face. Noelle was never the most confident in her abilities to read exactly what people wanted, but she knew what it was like to be in love and to feel it in every ounce of your body. She knew the ways in which a smile could stretch across a face, blurring your vision during fits of laughter. Noelle knew when a woman leaned across a table to take the hand of her lover’s in hers—only to press a kiss into his palm and bring it back down—was something only those truly at peace with their adoration did.
And she couldn’t stop staring.
The ring on the woman’s finger glinted every time she talked. Occasionally, also with a knife waving around unknowingly—to which the partner (the assumed husband) would try very hard to make her put down. Noelle glanced down at her own barren finger and wondered if that would ever be her fate if she kept chasing men like Robby.
“You alright?” Robby asked her after fifteen minutes of spotty conversation.
Noelle nodded, straining a wry smile. “Yeah, fine. Just tired.”
Robby accepted the excuse. “Shifts have been long lately?”
“Very. It doesn’t make for great conversation though. I’d rather not go over the mountains of Medicare paperwork sitting on my desk right now.”
“I don’t blame you.” Robby shook his head, picking up his glass and holding it out to her to toast.
“To a week done and a… weekend free of distractions.”
Their glasses clinked softly in the space around them. As Noelle drank, her eyes strayed from Robby again and landed back to the table of the married pair but as she looked, the woman caught her eye and lost it in an instant.
“You know,” Robby started. “I’m not really believing you when you said everything was fine.”
“It is. I just—nothing. It’s fine. Truly, it is.”
“Then why do you keep looking everywhere else but at me?”
Noelle looked at the table again, catching the woman’s sight another time before Robby followed the trail. Like a hound on a scent, he turned around, arm perched on the back of his booth seat, and fell on the table of Noelle’s attention.
“Oh, fuck.”
Noelle’s face dropped. “Do you know her?”
Robby turned back around and ran a hand over his beard. His head wobbled from side to side before deciding on the easiest way to answer.
“Yes, I know her,” he said slowly.
“Okay,” she nodded just as deliberately. “And is this like an… ex-girlfriend situation or…”
“Oh no,” Robby blurted. “Hell no. I would never—she’s,” he laughed “I would be six feet under if I even had an inkling of a thought about her.”
“Well she keeps looking over here, so.”
Robby glanced back over at you and Jack.
“See the man she’s with?” Noelle acknowledged it. “That’s her husband—Dr. Abbot, from the night shift.”
“Oh,” Noelle said. “The Abbots, then.”
“Mhm. And from where they’re sitting, they’re probably just as confused.”
“Confused about what?”
“You see, Jack there, he’s a friend. A good friend. Maybe my best friend but I don’t know… you know I don’t have a ton of those. I told him that I wasn’t looking for anyone right now because I didn’t want him to—”
“Know about us?” She finished for him.
Robby agreed with a bob. “Yep.” He popped the ‘P’ and drew his finger around the lip of his scotch glass.
“If it makes you feel any better, I haven’t told anyone about us either.” It did make him feel better.
“Do you mind if I?” Robby gestured with his thumb to your direction.
“Are you going to ask them to join our dinner?” Noelle asked jokingly. Robby’s mouth quirked but he ignored it because of course not. The last fucking thing he wanted was for you and Jack to start interrogating him about his love life.
He had married friends. He had married co-workers. But you and Jack? Together? It was like he was handling a live grenade and if it went off, half of it was for the amusement of you both and the other was out of spite for his… lackluster history.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Shit, Jack,” you sputtered. “I think Robby saw me.”
Jack put his fork down and rose his eyebrows. “You weren’t being very subtle, baby. Every five seconds you’re looking over there.”
“I was trying to be,” you explained.
“Let me just—”
From your peripheral, Robby slid out of the booth and straightened out his sweater before pivoting on his feet and walking toward your direction.
“—he’s coming over here.” You gave Jack a giant smile. “Do I have anything in my teeth? Jack.” He wasn’t looking fast enough. “Teeth?”
Jack squinted, barely able to see a speck of anything because of the lighting—he had to pull out his readers to even read the menu. “No you’re fine.”
“Robby?” You feigned innocence, dazzlingly him with a toothy grin. “What a small world.”
“Hey!” Jack played it off too. Fairly well, you thought. He could have been an actor. “What are you doin’ here?”
Robby’s eyes bounced between you and Jack. He thought it was slightly hilarious how, even though he’d caught you staring, that the niceties and horror-like smiles the two of you were giving were cute.
“Oh you know,” he started, “just on a date.”
“Really?” You gasped, suddenly interested and Jack kicked you under the table with his bionic foot. “You’re dating again?”
Robby shrugged. “Here and there.”
“Well good for you. Really.”
“I came over here because—” he cleared his throat and dipped his head as he stepped closer to the table, “—you’re being really fucking weird to my date.”
You scoffed, seeking out Jack who sat back against his chair casually. Your eyes shrunk in distrust that he was going to make you fend for yourself.
“Please. I was just shocked to see you, that’s all.”
“And you, Jack?” Robby asked.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” Jack said and you kissed your teeth.
“Really?” Robby laughed. “That’s funny.”
“A small world after all.”
“Alright, alright.” Robby didn’t believe either of you. You two were also shitty liars. “Actually, Jack, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something anyway. I heard it a few months ago and I just never got around to it.”
Jack glimpsed at you in caution.
“Yeah, brother, what’s up?”
Robby glanced at you, quirking his head to decide whether or not it was worth it. “You know what… nevermind.”
“You sure?” Jack asked with a critical stare.
Robby thought on the rumors he’s heard and the uncontrollable embarrassment that would follow Jack. The man would be mortified to have those words, the idea of him exposed for the sake of Robby’s pettiness.
“It’s nothin’ that can’t wait until next shift.”
“That’s in a few days.”
“Still,” Robby said. “It can wait.”
“So a co-worker?” You asked Robby not meaning to be overly judgmental. “Again.”
“And you’d rather see me with one of your reading friends, huh?” Robby observed dryly.
“Not sure.” You placed your napkin onto the table beside your finished meal. “I just think that someone outside of the field might give you peace of mind.”
“Well, maybe if you met her, your perspective might change.”
Robby looked back over his shoulder at Noelle and gave her a tight smile. Jack shook his head, disbelief washing over him at Robby’s assumption that this one will stick.
“You gonna let her eat by herself or do you wanna pull up a chair?” Jack wondered aloud.
“I just want to make sure that our… business won’t be intruded upon.”
“Business?” You couldn’t help the laugh that came out. “Shit, Robby. Do not call her ‘business’ ever. You’ll never get her to come out with you again.”
“And how did Jack get you to go out with him more than once, let alone marry him?”
Now he was just being petty.
“Have you seen him?” You feigned trivial spite. “He could be mute and still have more charisma than you.”
“I think we see Jack in two different lights.”
“Jack is right here,” Jack spoke up. “Please include said man in your conversations. And I bagged her, she didn’t bag me, brother. A good man knows that.”
Jack sent a wink tumbling into your direction and you felt your cheeks warm.
“You two are… something.”
“We’ll leave you alone,” you told Robby. “We’re almost done here anyway.”
“Thank you,” Robby said half-heartedly.
“Now go back to her. She’s probably more bored than she was before,” Jack waved him off.
Robby retreated back to his table and Noelle gave him a coy face as they settled back into their date and you and Jack made amends with the end of half of yours.
“And that’s why we don’t play games at dinner,” Jack followed Robby’s absence with.
“Oh, please,” you mourned with a flair. “Don’t act like you didn’t like getting to knock him down a peg.”
“I’d much rather—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot.” You warned.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Maybe it’s time to leave, huh?” You pushed your plate further away from the edge. “Move on to something…new.”
“Yeah?” Jack said wisely. “Got any ideas?”
“A few.”
He dug into the pocket of his dinner jacket and flipped open his wallet before the check had been printed. Jack’s mind began to wander to a million different places, impatient to make it to the car and speed home for the sake of his own wants.
“What if we just dine and dashed?” He asked seriously.
“And be banned here forever? I can already see the headline: local veteran flees establishment for sex.”
“They don’t know it’s ‘for sex,’ though.”
Your eyebrows lifted in incredulity. “Sure, Jack. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“I think we will both sleep very well.”
“Is that a challenge?” You asked him, leaning forward on your elbows.
Absentmindedly, Jack rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt and your eyes locked onto his arms immediately. Anyone else there, Robby and his date, be dammed. What the fuck were you thinking? A game to guess whatever Robby was talking about when you had a fucking feast of a husband right in front of you?
Dipshit. You scolded yourself the more time he took rolling the fabric over each crease.
Jack nodded lightly. His head barely moved.
“I’ll have you out like a light by ten.”
You short circuited for a second. A glitch in your matrix running scattered, barely coherent thoughts by your brain.
“Where the hell is our server?”
It had taken Jack a long time to love his body after he came home. Though it had been many years and he’d come to accept that his memory of self would never be the same, when he was naked beside you, there was nothing to protect him from his thoughts.
And after the many attempts at trying the little blue pill? He performed sporadically and each time was a shot in his armor already scuffed with damage.
Yet you held his face in your hands so gingerly that it paved over the cracks in his facade. It helped build him up, strengthening his conviction that he was still worthy to be the man who pleased you and was able to satisfy you in the end.
A softness in your countenance made the muscles in his back contract. You felt him tense beneath your fingertips, the sides of his torso drawing rigid. You loved so deeply. It poured from every ounce of you but most in the way you looked at Jack. He witnessed you in vulnerability; the sheen of sweat on your forehead a testament to it. Your eyes flicked down between your bodies and he grunted as your reflex made your walls constrict around him.
Your breath hitched. Hands sliding from the sides of Jack’s face to his neck, pulling him in closer until one inch more would contort your view. His gaze turned hooded. The side of his mouth pulled, lines forming as he thought about you and nothing but you.
Jack’s pace picked up, challenging himself and his position. Leg be dammed—he’d deal with the soreness later. He pressed his thumb in the spot behind your ear; the joint of your jaw moving it as your mouth fell open softly, a whine he hadn’t heard in awhile meeting the audible thwop of his cock thrusting into you. It was an obscenity he’d welcome time and again so long as it meant he could feel you like this, have you between his hands, and loving him all at once.
“Shit,” you let out a quiet, warm laugh that tickled his face. “Holy shit, Jack.”
He kissed the side of your mouth and let his lips linger there.
Your chest blossomed with tenderness that nearly hurt. You loved him. You loved the curls on his head and the way his heart burned with empathy; his drive to keep moving forward amidst nights where his memories consumed every bone in his body. Jack was unyielding in his support of you and God, you could feel it in the way he moved.
“Keep breathing, love,” he whispered.
A hand fell down to grasp his forearm hovering above your chest. Small indents of crescent shaped moons met his graying hairs and defined veins before smoothing out. Your hand was damp with toil, seeking to mark him with remnants of you he’d never want to wash away.
His voice was honeyed around words of soft reassurances. Jack’s eyes rarely left yours when so vulnerable. Even when your body was arching into his, chasing after a high only he could help you reach, he watched you and your lips and your sighs.
His teeth pulled back on his bottom lip as he drank you in. And before he even realized he had let go, your hand was splayed against his jaw, thumb gliding over the same lip.
Jack leaned forward, pushing his mouth against yours. You opened up for him without him needing to ask. His tongue slipped against yours, pulling a sound from you that the heavens created just for his ears. Jack took the your hand resting against his face and guided it back to the pillow above your head. His fingers slotted between yours as he slowed down his hips, rocking his cock into you as deeply as it could go.
“Oh fuck,” you careened. Eyes fluttering and rolling with your head tipped back against the pillow.
Jack’s free hand slinked from your head to between your breasts to your clit where it settled with pressure. He bobbed his head at you, urging you to continue down that path.
“Baby,” he said lilted. “I got you. I got you.”
“Ja—” you started but he nodded as though he knew what you were going to say. His fingers moved fast and rough with the help of the lube that left its residue around you.
“You’ve got me too, yeah?” Jack said lowly and it vibrated within your bones.
“Of course,” you exhaled.
Jack’s muscles trembled in an effort to hold himself back because he knew you weren’t there yet. He felt your toes curl in as they brushed the back of his legs. Your left leg dug into the mattress behind the clean line of what existed before and the other into his thick calf.
His voice continued barely above a whisper. “God, I fucking love you. So much. I love you so fucking much.”
Maybe it was the tone, or combination of his hands and his unrelenting pace but you groaned, a cry of appreciation, straight into Jack’s heart.
“You almost there, baby?” He begged. “I’m there. I’m there. I wanna feel you. I’m gonna wait for you.”
You couldn’t remember the last time you finished together. Usually it was half and half. Jack would get you off, then you’d fuck and he’d come later. Swap it a million different ways but it still didn’t happen together frequently. Except it had been days. Long, tiring days of wishing to be beside one another and finally you were as close as you possibly could be.
And Jack pleaded for you.
He coaxed an orgasm from your body that had been dormant for days. Your shoulders trembled, quivering when you felt the delicate pulsing of his own fill you as his hand in yours nearly crushed the feeling left in it. His fingers removed themselves from your clit and grasped your hip tightly.
Jack’s mouth captured yours immediately.
You both chased the electricity that sparked on all nerves. There was no time to allow breaths to catch up. Every second that surpassed as the high faded into a tired relief lingered in a gentle preserve of desire.
You bit down gently on his lip and tugged. Jack’s hand loosened its grip on yours but didn’t let go completely.
His eyes stayed closed.
He listened to you recover and felt himself soften against the spasms you had no power over. There was no rush to clean up, to change the sheets, or lay down completely. Jack held you close and reminded himself that his time outside of your union could be reduced for the sake of these moments.
Your hands ran up his back and around his shoulders, pulling him closer. They burrowed into the back of his head and into his hair damp with sweat.
“I’m so proud of you,” you sighed.
For all that he’s done, all that he’s given, and whatever might come next. A small piece of him rewarded himself on not needing his support in the back of the medicine cabinet for the first time in months—a strange, selfish reason to be proud of himself. But you were proud.
And he prided himself in that.
“Come on.” He rubbed his thumb into your hip. You shook your head, placing your lips to his again.
“I don’t wanna,” you murmured against his mouth. “Five more minutes.”
“If we shower, you can wash my hair,” Jack suggested as though it would move you—it didn’t. Nevertheless, he still kissed you back.
“Lay with me, Jack.”
Five minutes turned into ten… then you got to wash his hair.
And you were asleep by 10:05, just like he promised.
Four days later, Robby arrived in the ED with a newfound pep in his step. Everyday was unpredictable for him lately and the good days were far and few between, so, he took an inch and made it last a mile when the satisfaction rattled through his soul.
Jack was already talking to Dana at a computer about a patient in South 17 when Robby joined them, setting his bag down on the floor where Jack’s was already packed and ready to go.
“Did I miss hand offs already?” Robby asked both of them.
“Jack asked me to come in early so he could get a jump start home,” Dana detailed and Jack logged out.
“I’ve got places to be, people to see,” Jack said causally. Robby scoffed, eyes looking around the hub at his staff.
“You mean your wife.”
Jack nodded once. “And if I get out of here in—” he glanced down at his watch “—five minutes I can catch her before she gets out of bed.”
“Isn’t that sweet,” Dana cooed. “Take notes, Robinavitch. You might need it someday.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Robby put his glasses on, dipping them low on his nose. “Abbot might not have the best advice.”
Jack saddled his bag onto his shoulder. “Did the date not go well?” His brows lifted in no apology. “It was quite a fun thing to experience, if I do say so myself.”
Robby laughed an “uh oh” as though he were being challenged.
“Well, I’d hate to be on the other side of what dates look like.”
Jack narrowed his eyes, gazing at his friend with speculation before walking out of the hub. Dana backed off as Princess came snooping with an air of gossip waiting to be unleashed.
Robby gave Jack a few steps head start before jogging up to catch him.
“It actually went very well, if you care,” Robby said quietly. “We’re getting drinks after work tonight.”
Jack stopped. He looked at Robby’s face and knew in an instant that he was being honest. He did like Noelle—even if he had a strange way of showing it.
“Good for you, brother.” Jack slapped a hand on his back. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks…” Robby tilted his head. “Is she?”
“Is she what?” Jack asked. “Who?”
“Is your wife happy?”
Jack’s enjoyment broke. “What?”
“Oh, sorry,” Robby chuckled. He shook off an imaginary thought. “I was gonna talk to you about this, remember? I heard from someone a few months back that there was a little… problem? An age related one?”
“An—“ Jack paused, lightly offended. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“I don’t know… just this like… little blue pill problem?”
God. Jack’s face lit on fire. Who the fuck blabbed?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Who the hell talked? Who told the only person that Jack specifically wished never knew about his Viagra problem?”
“No?” Robby’s mouth quirked into an amused frown. “Okay, so nothing’s wrong in that department?”
“N-no.” Jack could have slapped himself for the stutter. “But it’s not fucking age related, Robinavitch. And you’re older than me, fucker. So, don’t even go there.”
“I’ve never had a problem.” Robby shrugged and Jack began walking away before anymore questions could be asked.
“At least I’m married!”
“See ya, Abbot!” Robby bid easily as Jack threw up his middle finger. “Mind your own business next time!”
“Fuck off, Robby!”
And the ambulance bay doors closed behind him with a swish.
a/n: jack has such vibes that i simply can’t resist him. he’s an itch we can’t (don’t want to) scratch.
reblogs, comments, and likes keep writers writing. thank you for reading! plus reblogging is like… super cool tbh
and if you’re looking for a little more jack abbot erectile dysfunction lore that can totally be tied in here, check out fic: i got a bad desire
SUMMARY:: requested: Tywin Lannister is married to the wild sister of Ned Stark.
WARNINGS: Explicit Content, p in v, oral, multiple times, pregnancy trope (sorry, I love a good pregnancy trope), Robert being him. Cersei and Jamie twincest mention.
AN: I really like this idea, I have a few more ideas tied into this one, alsooooo, I have a Celtigar reader insert dropping soon and I really hope you guys like that one too!
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The Rock rose all around you, a fortress of red and gold, yet in the chambers of the Lord of Casterly Rock the air felt close and heavy. A fire guttered low, throwing long shadows across carved lion-shaped pillars. You sat astride your husband, the Lion himself, your skin flushed from his touch. Tywin Lannister was undone in a way the realm would never believe: his hair mussed, his broad chest bare, his eyes fixed on you with a hunger he would never confess aloud. His hand clamped hard upon your waist as though to hold you there forever, while your fingers curled possessively about the strong column of his neck.
“Husband,” you breathed, lips curving into a slow smile, “my brother has sent word.”
Tywin’s voice was low, dangerous even here, in this moment of intimacy. “What is it? He wages war again?”
“Not war,” you whispered, wild hair spilling across your shoulders like a wolf’s mane. “Ned has never been so foolish. He had joined Robert’s cause in the Rebellion long ago. He is my Quiet Wolf, The realm knows this. But he writes now…to say he would see the babe. And me. His glorious sister once again.”
His mouth pressed thin, his pale eyes glinting as a blade unsheathed. “Would he? And where, pray, does he propose this tender reunion?”
“In the North,” you answered, soft as snow falling. “At Winterfell.”
Tywin’s hand tightened on your waist until you drew a sharp breath. “No.” The word came swift and cold.
You laughed low in your throat, leaning closer, pressing your forehead to his. “No? You speak as though my brother were some common foe, and not the blood that made me.”
“Your blood is wolf,” he said, cruel as ever, “and wolves snarl at lions until their throats are torn. Do you think Stark invites us north for feasting and song? He despises me. He despises the gold that binds you here.”
“And still,” you murmured, lips grazing his ear, “I wish you to come. I wish him to look upon us — upon me, upon our son — and see I am not cowed. I am wife to the greatest lord in Westeros.”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but there was no true fire behind them, only thought, calculation. His voice lacked the conviction it once carried. “The North is barren stone and bitter snow. I have no need of it.”
“Yet I have need of you,” you said, with the stubbornness only a Stark could wield. “If I go alone, he will see me as stolen. If I go with you, he will see me as chosen. Let him learn that I have not been broken, nor kept in some gilded cage.”
Tywin tilted his head, studying you as though weighing a battle yet unfought. His hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your wild hair. “You would drag me into that frozen waste to play at happy kinship with a man who would put a sword through my heart, given half a chance.”
“You will not die by Ned’s sword,” you replied fiercely. “He would sooner cut his own hand. He loves me too well.”
Silence stretched, long and taut. At last he exhaled, a sound almost like a growl, his mouth brushing the corner of yours.
“You play a dangerous game, wife,” Tywin said. “But perhaps it is time the wolves remembered that lions do not yield.”
The chamber soon smelled of fire and sea-salt, the great waves crashing below the Rock as if to remind you of the world beyond those golden walls. The hearth burned low, gilding his bare skin in red light. You sat astride him still, hair wild as a storm-tossed wolf’s mane, your lips close enough to taste the sharpness of his breath. His hand clamped to your waist, bruising, unrelenting; his eyes, pale and green, never wavered from you.
The conversation had dissolved, “Husband,” you whispered.
“Wife?” His voice was low, heavy, as though he already dreaded what you would say.
“Say you love me,” you breathed, tilting your head, wild smile tugging your mouth. “I would like to hear it once, before I die a tragic death.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “You will not die.”
“I might,” you teased, with the drama only a Stark could muster in the face of lions. “The gods are cruel, war is crueler. One day I may find myself speared, or cast from a tower, or slain in my bed. Say it once, husband. Let me die knowing you loved me.”
His eyes narrowed, fierce and wounded all at once. “Do not mock me with your foolish tongue. You know what I feel.”
“I know what you command,” you answered, pressing closer, your hand cupping his neck. “I know what you hold. But what you feel? That you never say.”
His hand shifted, sliding up your spine, fingers curling into your wild hair. He dragged your head back just enough to force your gaze into his.
“Words are wind,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Love is not a vow murmured into the night. It is a hand that holds fast, a will that does not falter. It is this.” His grip tightened, keeping you there, bound to him. “I would sooner let the Rock crumble into the sea than let you go.”
Your lips curved into a defiant grin. “You say everything but the words, husband.”
“Then be content with that,” Tywin growled, though the sound was almost a plea. His mouth brushed the line of your throat, rare softness breaking through the steel. “You are mine, wife. That is love enough.”
You laughed softly, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “One day, when I am old and grey, I shall haunt you as a wolf-spirit for never saying it plain.”
Tywin’s hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you against him with bruising need. “One day,” he muttered against your skin, “you may force the word from me. But not tonight.”
The fire burned low in the hearth, throwing your tangled hair into a crown of wild shadow. You sat astride him, your hands cupped at his neck, his pale eyes drinking you in as though he might never look away. The gold lions carved into the chamber walls seemed to leer down in judgment, but here, in this chair, he was not the great Lord of Casterly Rock. He was only your husband, undone beneath your touch.
“Fine,” you sighed, dramatic as only a wolf-maid could be, and loosened your grip on him. “I shall leave, then. Find love elsewhere, if my lion cannot speak the word.”
You made to rise from his lap, but his hand clamped down on your waist with a bruising force. His voice came rough, low, edged with something perilously close to panic.
“You will not leave.”
Your lips curved, sly, testing. “You said you would not follow. Perhaps another man would, with softer words—”
That was as far as you got before he hauled you down against him, teeth bared in something not quite a snarl, not quite a kiss. His mouth claimed yours with the desperation of a man who could not abide losing. His hands—always so steady, so sure—shook faintly as they gripped your hips, dragging you down until you felt all of him, hard and unyielding.
“You will not speak of other men,” Tywin hissed against your lips. “Not in this chamber. Not ever. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, husband,” you whispered, voice taunting, your hair spilling into his face.
“Say it again.”
“Yes, husband.”
He groaned low in his throat, lifting you and driving you back down upon him with a force that made your breath break. The rhythm began rough, punishing, his jealousy spilling into every thrust, as though he meant to brand you from the inside out. Yet beneath the fury was something deeper, something wordless, a truth he would never name.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, wild and untamed as your own. “Is this how you cage a wolf?” you gasped.
“This is how I keep what is mine,” he rasped, dragging your mouth down to his again. “You are mine, wife. There is no elsewhere for you. No other hands, no other bed. Only this.”
The words poured from him in place of the one you craved: not love, never love, but possession, devotion carved in iron. His lips found your throat, your breast, your shoulder, each kiss fierce as a claim. The chair groaned beneath the violence of his need, yet he never loosened his grip on your waist, as though the very thought of you rising away would unman him.
Your pace met his, stubborn and wild, turning the rhythm from conquest into battle. He tried to command, to hold, but you met him stroke for stroke, defiance in every gasp, every shudder. He cursed you, low and hoarse, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dampening his unkempt hair.
“Gods damn you,” Tywin groaned, his voice breaking in a way the court would never know. “You’ll be the ruin of me. Do you know that?”
You were astride him still, your hair wild and unpinned, your hand curled about his neck, his pale eyes fixed unblinking on yours. The lions carved into the chair pressed cold against your skin, but Tywin was hot beneath you, taut with a fury he could not name.
“Say you love me,” you whispered against his mouth.
His answer was a growl, a sharp snap of his hips that made you gasp. “Do not ask me again.”
“Say it,” you demanded, defiant even as your body arched to his. “Say it once, husband. Is it so difficult?”
Another thrust, harder, deeper, until your breath shattered. His grip bruised your waist as he dragged you down. “What I feel does not need a name. You will know it here.” His hands tightened, his voice low, cutting through your moans. “Every time I take you. Every time I hold you fast. This is love enough.”
You laughed breathlessly, though it broke into a whimper as he drove into you again. “You think thrusts are words?”
“They are stronger than words,” Tywin bit back, sweat dampening the strands of his usually ordered hair. “Words are wind. This is truth.” He snapped his hips again, each movement deliberate, punishing. “Mine. Mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “But husband—”
“No.” He cut you off with another deep, brutal rhythm, his hand threading into your hair, pulling your head back so he could see your face, hear every broken sound you made. “No more foolish questions, no more childish pleas. I will not prattle like a bard.” His lips brushed your throat, your jaw, your ear. “I give you myself in deed. That is more than any vow.”
Your nails dug into him, half in defiance, half in surrender. “You are cruel,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Too proud to give me the word.”
His jaw clenched, his breath hot against your cheek. “Cruel?” His pace slowed suddenly, each thrust long, deliberate, dragging fire through your body. “Cruel is letting you think there is any man alive who would dare take you from me. Cruel is what I would do to him, if he tried.” His hand cupped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You are bound, wife. In blood, in bed, in every breath you take. Do not speak of leaving me again.”
The rhythm built again, faster now, his jealousy bleeding through every movement, his body claiming you with more eloquence than any sonnet could.
“Say you love me,” you whispered one last time, your voice breaking under the force of him.
His answer came in a ragged groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts near desperate now. “I will say it in the only way I can.” His mouth captured yours, brutal and bruising, his hand clutching your waist like iron. “I will say it until you can no longer speak at all.”
Your body moved with his, the rhythm sharp and relentless, yet you found your tongue even as your breath caught. “I only want you to say it once, husband,” you gasped, your lips brushing his ear. “Is it so much to ask?”
He gave you nothing but another punishing thrust, his jaw hard, his eyes burning.
You smiled, wicked as any wolf. “Perhaps your son, Tyrion would say it. I see it, the way he looks at me—”
His grip turned brutal, your gasp breaking as his pace snapped faster, fiercer. “Do not speak of him. Not here.”
“Or Robert,” you taunted, though your voice shook with the force of him. “He would drunkenly say it until his ears fell off—”
Tywin’s mouth crushed yours, silencing you with a kiss more savage than tender, his teeth grazing your lower lip. When he pulled back his breath came ragged. “If Robert Baratheon so much as breathed the word in your direction, I would spill his entrails on the floor of his hall.”
You laughed breathlessly, even as you clung to his shoulders, you moaned loudly, as drove deeper into you. “And the Dornish prince…he was—”
The growl that broke from him shook through you. His hands seized your hips, slamming you down upon him with such force that the chair itself groaned. “Enough. No Dornishman, no king, no son, no man alive will claim you. Only me. Do you hear?”
“Then say it,” you whispered, your voice breaking into a whimper. “Say the word I beg for.”
His thrusts slowed suddenly, deep and measured, drawing pleasure out until your cry caught in your throat. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice low, almost tender. “I will not cheapen it with sound. I will show you. I will carve it into your bones with every breath I take inside you.”
You trembled, half in defiance, half undone by the way he said it — not love, never love, but everything else.
“Say it,” you pleaded again, your wild hair tangling with his.
His lips brushed your jaw, then your throat, his words hot against your skin. “No one else. No one. You are mine, wife. That is the only truth that matters.”
The rhythm built again, furious then soft, possession tempered with a tenderness he would deny come morning. He talked you through every movement, each thrust a vow unspoken: mine, mine, mine.
And though he never gave you the word, you felt it burn hotter than any flame, in the way he held you, in the way he broke against you, in the way he would not let you go.
Your laugh was breathless, your hair wild as the waves crashing against the cliffs beneath the Rock. You arched against him, your lips brushing his ear as your smirk curled sharp as a dagger.
“I will never say it to you again,” you moaned softly, the words rolling off your tongue like a taunt.
He stilled. Not entirely — his body still moved within you, but the rhythm faltered, slowed, softened, betraying him. His pale eyes fixed on you, hard as glass, yet flickering with something else, something dangerous.
“Do not,” Tywin said, his voice ragged, “do not mock me so.”
Your smile only deepened, though your moans caught as he rocked into you slow and deep, dragging fire through every nerve. “Am I mocking you? Or am I only speaking truth? If you will not say it, then why should I?”
His grip on your waist trembled, not from weakness but from restraint. You felt it — the crack in his armor, the word trembling on the edge of his tongue, held back by sheer force of will.
“Say it,” you whispered, cupping his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Once, husband. Give me what I beg of you.”
His thrusts grew languid, torturous, each one slow enough to make your body writhe. His lips hovered at your throat, his breath hot, uneven. “You…you know already. Gods damn you, you know.”
“But I want to hear it,” you sighed, your smirk faltering into something softer, needier. “You have given me gold, a son, your name, but never the word. Am I so unworthy?”
His forehead pressed to yours, his hair damp, his eyes burning with war between pride and surrender. His mouth opened, the shape of it forming against your lips, almost —
Almost.
Then his jaw clenched, his teeth gritted, and instead of the word he groaned into your mouth, breaking against you in silence. His body gave you everything, every thrust, every tremor, every shred of himself, but the word died on his tongue.
When it was done, when the fire of it left your body trembling, he gathered you against him, still inside you, his hand in your hair.
His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke: “Do not ever say such things again. You will not speak of leaving. You will not speak of other men. You are mine. That is the only vow you will ever need.”
You smirked faintly, though your voice was little more than a breath. “One day, husband. One day you will say it.”
His eyes flickered, soft for the span of a heartbeat, before hardening once more. “Pray that day never comes. For if it does, it will be the end of us both.”
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Dawn broke over Casterly Rock, pale light seeping through the high windows, gilding the chamber in muted gold. The cries of gulls carried in from the sea below, harsh and distant.
You stirred beneath furs, hair still tangled, and turned to the sight that stole the breath from your chest. Tywin Lannister stood tall at the hearth, bare save for the crimson cloak thrown hastily about his shoulders. In his arms, he held your son.
Five moons old, dark hair like a raven’s wing already curling at his temples, grey eyes sharp as any Stark’s before him. No lion’s golden mane, no Lannister green gaze. He was Winterfell’s child, Winterfell’s son — despite the blood that carried him south.
Tywin’s hand, so often wielding quill or sword with unshaking precision, curved now around the babe’s small body. He held the boy firm, steady, as though daring the world itself to challenge his claim.
“Steady your head,” he murmured under his breath, adjusting the infant with surprising gentleness. “A lord does not bow, even in his mother’s arms.”
Your smile came unbidden. Always commanding, even now. Even to the smallest life he had made with you.
Servants bustled about the chamber. At his orders, food was set, horses readied, gold counted, guards doubled. The Lion of the Rock never faltered; his voice cut clear, his commands brooked no question. Yet you watched him closely, saw what no bannerman ever would — the way his arm never shifted far from your son, the way his eyes flicked back to the boy as though to anchor himself.
You knew then, as you had known in the firelit night, that he would go North. That your words had lodged deep, thorn-sharp, in the pride of him. He was jealous — of Robert’s drunken longing, of Tyrion’s wandering eyes, of every man who had dared to glance your way. He would not admit it, but it burned in him all the same.
Always jealous. Always yours.
And so you smiled to yourself, drawing the furs close, watching the most powerful man in Westeros cradle a Stark son as if the boy were the heart of the realm.
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The solar smelled of ink, wax, and parchment. Sunlight cut in narrow beams through the high windows, glinting off the golden lions worked into every surface. At the far end, your son slept in a cradle newly built at Tywin’s command — oak inlaid with gold, the lion of Lannister snarling across its sides. Lion pride, you thought with a smile, and for all its grandeur there was sweetness in it too: the most calculating man in Westeros had wanted his child close, even in the seat of his power.
Tywin sat at his desk, quill scratching, pale eyes sweeping line after line with the hunger of a man who had never known leisure. His hair, washed and combed back to its proper order, gleamed like pale fire in the morning light.
“Tell me, wife,” he said, his voice low, controlled, never lifting his gaze from the parchment.
You leaned against the carved pillar, your smile sly, your hair still unpinned. “Tell you what, my sweet lion?” you whispered, drawing out the words.
The quill stilled a moment, just the faintest pause, but he did not look up. “You know well enough.”
You drifted toward him, hips swaying beneath your gown, soft steps meant to tease. “Do I?” you asked, voice mocking in its sweetness. “Am I to guess at the secret cravings of the Lord of Casterly Rock?”
His jaw shifted, clenched. His eyes did not rise. “Do not toy with me.”
You came to stand at his side, hand resting upon his shoulder, fingers slipping into the folds of his crimson cloak. “Toy with you?” You bent, lips brushing the line of his jaw, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with his skin. “No, husband. I only wish to please you.”
“Then say it,” he muttered, the mask of command fraying for but a heartbeat. His hand tightened on the quill until the feather bent. “Say it, and be done with your games.”
You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow beneath his ear. “You want it too much,” you whispered. “You crave it more than you admit. That is why I will not give it yet.”
At that his quill snapped, ink spilling across the parchment. His head turned sharply, pale eyes finally catching yours. The fire in them was near desperation, though his mouth twisted into disdain.
“You are a cruel woman,” Tywin said.
“Cruel?” you echoed, brushing your nose against his, your lips hovering a breath away. “No, husband. Only a wolf. And wolves do not yield so easily to lions, no matter how they roar.”
From the cradle, your son stirred faintly, and for a moment the room held nothing but the sound of his small breath. Tywin’s eyes flicked to the boy, then back to you. His hand rose, cupping the side of your face with a roughness that bordered on tenderness.
“You will say it,” he vowed, voice rough, low, as though the words cost him dearly. “One day, wife. You will break, and you will say it.”
You kissed him then, slow and taunting, tasting the edge of his pride. “Perhaps, my lion. But not today.”
The quill snapped between his fingers, black ink bleeding across his parchment like a wound. He did not move to clean it, only stared at you with that pale, unblinking fury that was not truly fury at all.
You gave him a wolf’s smile, daring, and began to drift back toward the cradle, toward the door beyond. Your skirts whispered across the stone as though you had dismissed him from his own solar. But before you could pass the threshold, his voice cut low and sharp.
“Where are you going?”
You turned, slow and languid, tilting your head. “Away. If you will not say it, then what is left for me here?”
His hand slammed flat upon the desk, the crack echoing off golden walls. Your son stirred faintly in the cradle, but did not wake. Tywin’s gaze followed you, taut as a bowstring.
“Come back,” he ordered.
You laughed softly, wild and sweet. “Commanding, always commanding.” You stepped closer again, eyes glinting as you leaned against the pillar. “I want to hear it first, husband. Say it, and I will give you what you want.”
His breath came heavier, though he masked it with stillness. “You dare barter with me?”
“I dare,” you whispered, the word a challenge. “You would have me speak, but you never do. I am not some bannerman to obey your wordless will. Give me truth, or I will withhold mine.”
His chair scraped back as he rose, taller than the pillar, every inch the lion. In two strides he had you caged between stone and his body, his hand at your chin, forcing your eyes to his.
“You think I cannot break you,” Tywin said, voice low, dangerous, his body pressing you into the cold pillar. “You think I need words to hold you. But you are wrong, wife. You are mine without them.”
You smiled against his grip, lips curling sly. “And yet, I still ask. Still taunt. Perhaps you are not so certain as you pretend.”
His eyes darkened, narrowing. “I will not speak it.”
“Then I will not either,” you breathed, your lips brushing his knuckles where they held your chin. “And we shall see who breaks first.”
His mouth came down on yours then, hard, furious, yet shaking with the need he denied. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you against him, already betraying that he would give in to you before he ever gave you the word.
The cradle creaked softly as your son stirred again, the carved lions glinting in the sunlight. Tywin broke the kiss only long enough to mutter, rough and ragged:
“You will say it, wife. One day, you will beg to say it.”
And you laughed softly against his mouth, defiant as any Stark. “Not before you do, my sweet lion.”
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The road unwound like a serpent, one moon’s march of dust and stone. Each day Tywin rode at the head of his men, crimson cloak a flare against the gray skies. You watched him from the carriage, your son stirring beside you in his gilded cradle. At night, the inns were cleared at his command, chambers emptied, tables laden, fires stoked. Always, the lion took what he required.
He watched you, making a mental note that your bleed should be soon. He packed that dried meat just for you, some fruits that you craved and the sweets he demanded his men to procure for you but in the nights, when the babe lay quiet in his traveling cradle, it was you he sought most.
You felt it in the way his hand lingered at your back when he drew you against him beneath heavy furs, in the restless turns of his body, in the silence that pressed too long between you. He was a man who conquered kings, who bent lords to his will, yet you had left him with a hunger he could not master.
It came one night as the hearth burned low, shadows crawling long across the walls. He pulled you into his lap, his arms wound tight around you, his mouth hot at your temple.
“Say it,” Tywin muttered, low and hoarse, voice stripped of its iron. “Say it now.”
You smiled into his shoulder, your fingers toying with the gold chain at his throat. “I told you, husband. Not until you give me the same.”
His grip tightened, his body tense. “Do you delight in tormenting me?”
“Yes,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw. “I delight in seeing the lion beg.”
The words struck him like a blade. He turned your face up to his, eyes pale and fierce, yet unsteady in a way you had never seen. His breath shuddered against your cheek.
“You think me unbending stone,” he said, voice near breaking. “But you—you are the one thing I cannot master.” His mouth brushed yours, desperate though his tone remained sharp. “I need it from you. Do you hear me? I need it. I have built kingdoms on obedience, on fear, on loyalty bought with blood. Yet I cannot still my own thoughts until you say it. Gods damn you, wife—say it.”
You cupped his face, your smile soft now, though your eyes still glinted with wolf’s fire. “There it is. My proud lion admits need.”
He groaned low, pressing his forehead to yours, his hands running through your hair as though he meant to hold you together by sheer force. “You will ruin me.”
“Then let me,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But first—you must earn it.”
The words made him shudder, his restraint crumbling, his body betraying what his pride would not allow. He kissed you then, hard and desperate, each breath thick with the word he would not say.
And though the night stretched long with his hands, his mouth, his desperate rhythm within you, he never gave the word. But in the breaking cadence of his body, in the rare admission he could not take back, you knew it all the same.
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 The fire in the Great Hall roared, shadows leaping across stone and timber, the banners of direwolf and stag stirring in the draught. The king sat slouched upon the high seat, goblet in hand, his voice thick with wine and frustration.
“She was meant to be mine,” Robert said, low but heated, his eyes fixed on the dark red in his chalice as though it held her reflection. He drank deep, then slammed the cup down with a rattle. “Wild, beautiful — gods, she kissed me before I went to war. Told me to gut that Targaryen cunt, and I swore I would.”
Ned’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. He remembered — remembered you at his side in those bitter days, begging him to march with Robert. You had seen your father burn, your brother strangle, and still you had fire in you. The Mad King had a softness for you, though, and Ned had barred you from the field. Stay, he had said. Stay, for your safety. You obeyed, though it near broke you. You were the first to hold Jon when he came squalling into the world, and for a time the boy had called you mama. You had known the truth, but sworn silence at Ned’s bidding.
“She is happy,” Ned said now, firm though quiet.
“Happy?” Robert barked, half rising from his chair. “She is caged, Ned. A wolf upon the Rock, surrounded by gold and lions! You call that joy? She was meant to run free, to roam — not to rot in a gilded cage. And now…” His voice lowered, bitter. “Now she bears that Lannister cunt’s son.”
The word snapped in the air like a whip.
Cersei’s eyes rolled, her smile tight. She sipped her wine, saying nothing, though she had more claim to your heart than any of them knew. She had never despised you, not wholly, though she had little fondness either. Yet in girlhood, you had never judged her — never called her cruel, nor whispered poison about her name. When you caught her once with Jaime, tangled in shadows, you had not threatened or condemned. Instead, you had smirked.
“He’s handsome, Kingslayer,” you had teased her, lips curved with mischief. “I would too. Gods, Ned’s far too ugly — I’d sooner cut my own cunt out.”
Despite herself, she had laughed.
And one night, with the candles guttering low, you had told her another secret, voice soft with wine: “I once bedded a girl. She was blonde — not as golden as you, but close. She kissed me softly.”
Cersei had arched a brow, lips curved. “You’re telling me this?”
“Because I will not judge you,” you had said, smiling that wolf’s smile. “You know mine, I know yours. We could both be burned, both be shamed. But we will not.”
And you had left her with that, the bond unspoken, the secret shared.
Now her green eyes snapped back to the hall, to the men still debating your name as though you were not flesh and blood but prize and possession.
“She will be fine,” Catelyn said with a soft smile, ever the gentle lady. “She writes and writes. Her letters speak of her son — ‘handsome,’ she calls him.”
Robert slammed his goblet again, wine spilling down his beard. “Complacent. Caged and complacent! That is what she is. The lion has snuffed the fire from her.” Ned’s jaw clenched. He said nothing, but gods help him — he feared the king was right.
The children waited in the Great Hall, restless beneath the high stone arches. On rare occasion Jon was allowed to linger with them, and tonight was such a night — for you had made it clear you would brook no slight against the boy. If Jon was kept from greeting you, the castle would know your fury. Even Catelyn, though she held her tongue, had come to respect you for it. She loved you as though you were her own sister, though the words would never pass her lips.
“She named the boy Arys,” Catelyn said softly, a smile curving her lips as she bent to kiss little Arya on her dark head. “A winter’s name, for a Lannister child.”
Before Ned could answer, the hall doors slammed wide, and your voice rang bright across the cold stone.
“Eddard!”
It was wild and warm, carried on the wind of travel, full of laughter and life. You came striding through the doors as if the Rock itself had never tried to cage you. Your hair was loose, untamed, spilling down your shoulders like the northern wind. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, your smile broad enough to banish the shadows in the hall.
Ned stood at once, the children with him, his breath caught in his throat. Gods, you looked unchanged — wild as ever, untamed by lion’s chains. His eyes fell to the babe in your arms: hair dark as a raven’s wing, grey eyes bright. A Winter’s son. He breathed a sigh he had not known he was holding. No lion there. No gold.
Behind you, Tywin Lannister entered, red cloak sweeping, his guard flanking him like twin shadows. His hand went to your back, firm, possessive, tugging you close as though to remind the North of what was his. His voice was low at your ear, sharp as steel.
“Behave, my wild wolf. Remember, you belong to me. All of you.”
You smirked, flashing him a look over your shoulder, half-taunt, half-promise, before turning your face back to your kin.
You moved to Ned with the grace of a wolf, your arm sweeping around him even as you cradled the babe close. He caught you up in his own embrace, his eyes soft, his jaw tight.
“Arys,” you said warmly, glancing down at your son as though the whole world lay there in your arms.
Ned gave a low laugh, rough with relief. “Sounds like Arya.”
“Well, yes!” you said with a grin, voice full of mischief. “It’s all I could get away with. No Rickon, no Rickard. He wanted to name him Lyon!” You threw your head back dramatically, laughter ringing across the hall. “Can you believe it? A Stark babe, named Lyon!”
“He’s a Lannister,” Tywin’s voice cut in, cold as a blade. His eyes swept the hall, daring anyone to dispute him.
You turned, fire in your smile, voice bright and defiant. “He belongs to Winter. My winter’s child, born when the moon was brightest and fullest.” You looked down at the babe, your hand stroking his soft hair. “He is ours. A Stark son, whatever his lion-father may say.”
Jon lingered on the edge, as though afraid to step forward, though his eyes never left the babe. At last he cleared his throat, awkward as a boy grown too fast for his years.
“I will always be your first son…right?” he asked, voice low, a shy laugh softening the words.
You turned at once, bright as sunlight in Winterfell’s stone hall, and cupped his face between your hands. “Of course!” you said, joy bubbling in your voice. “My first son, my first everything. You taught me all I know, Jon. You were so fussy, always pulling at teats. You wouldn’t go to the nursemaids, wouldn’t go to Ned. You were worse than Robb!”
Jon flushed crimson, ducking his head, but his smile showed.
“That he was,” Catelyn agreed, her voice gentled, a rare softness in her eyes as she remembered.
You laughed, pressing a kiss to Jon’s dark curls. “You were mine, no matter what anyone says. You will always be mine.”
Jon took Arys then, careful as if cradling glass. The babe blinked, little fists waving, and Jon’s smile broke wide as the boy gurgled against his chest. Your heart clenched at the sight, wolf sons together.
Catelyn moved close, her hand brushing Arys’s hair with surprising tenderness. “He looks like Arya when she was born,” she murmured, a smile softening her stern face.
A low snort cut through the moment. “He is no Arya. He is a Lannister. My son.” Tywin’s voice rang cold, every word a steel edge.
You only smiled, your warmth refusing to bend to his chill. “He is both,” you said softly, still watching Jon rock the babe. “A lion by blood, a wolf by soul. Winter claimed him first — and I will not see it denied.”
Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, but he said no more. The hall had gone quiet, all ears turned toward your words, and you stood as you ever had — wild, untamed, and unafraid, even with a lion’s hand pressed to the small of your back.
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The hall roared with firelight and voices, meat sizzling on spits, cups brimming with wine. Yet for all the din, you felt the weight of eyes upon you. Wolves and lions and stags alike watched as you sat near the king, your son cradled in your arms, your smile bright as ever.
Robert leaned forward, his cheeks flushed with drink, his eyes lingering too long on your face. “Gods,” he muttered, loud enough for those closest to hear, “you were meant to be mine. I should’ve taken you when I had the chance. You kissed me before the war, do you remember? You told me to gut that silver-haired bastard.” His laugh was booming, but there was bitterness in it still. “I’d have given you freedom, not a cage of gold.”
The hall quieted, ears pricking at the king’s confession.
You smiled softly, though your hand tightened protectively on Arys. “You gave me much, Robert. A brother’s protection when I needed it, and laughter when the world was grim. That is no cage.”
Across the table, Cersei’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. She caught your glance, and for an instant the hall faded — only you and she, two women bound by shared secrets. She sipped her wine with queenly grace, her eyes glinting, as if to say: you are clever, as I am clever; we will not be judged by men who would own us.
Ned’s chair scraped back as he leaned closer, his voice firm, protective. “Enough, Robert. She is wed, and happily so. Leave the past where it lies.”
Your brother’s hand brushed your arm, his eyes dark with warning, his mouth drawn tight. He had seen too much — father’s bones, brother’s strangled cries — to bear the thought of losing you to another man’s folly.
Robert grunted, waving Ned off with a heavy hand, but his eyes still lingered on you. “A lion’s wife,” he said with disdain, “but still a wolf at heart. Don’t forget that, Ned.”
You lifted your goblet, smiling as though the words had not cut deep. “A wolf I was born, a wolf I remain. Even in Casterly Rock, Winter runs through my veins.”
“Do I cage you, wife?” Tywin asked at last, his voice carrying over the feast, pale eyes fixed only on you.
You laughed gently, your cheeks flushed from wine and warmth. “Gods, yes!” you cried, throwing yourself against his shoulder with mock despair, hand pressed to your brow in dramatic fashion. “A golden cage, with a lion’s head on the lock. I can scarce breathe, husband — I cannot escape!” Your giggle rang bright as the hall chuckled.
His hand, ever instinctive, found your waist, fingers curling with quiet possession. “Good,” he said, his tone cruel as iron, though there was the faintest glint in his eye. “May you never roam free again.”
You leaned close, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for his ear. “Even a caged wolf bites, husband. One day I might gnaw the bars and slip away.”
His mouth curved the barest fraction, though it was no smile. “If you do, I will follow. To the ends of the world, I will drag you back.”
“Drag me?” you teased, eyes gleaming as you tipped your cup to your lips. “Perhaps I should make it a game then — run far, run fast, and see how long it takes the lion to catch the wolf.”
His grip tightened, a warning, his voice low enough that only you heard. “Do not tempt me, wife. I would catch you too quickly. You would not enjoy the punishment.”
“Oh, but perhaps I would,” you whispered back, laughter soft as snow.
Robert’s booming laugh broke through the moment. “Seven hells, Stark, she’s still wild! I told you she was not meant for chains!”
Ned bristled at the king’s words, his hand clenching the cup before him, but you only leaned closer into your husband’s side, your smile as bright as the firelight.
“And yet,” you said sweetly, your voice carrying across the table, “I am here. By choice or cage, who can say? But I am here, and I will not be moved.”
Tywin’s hand pressed firmer at your waist, his silence saying more than words ever could.
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Later that night, Winterfell lay quiet, its halls hushed but for the crack of distant torches in the wind. Catelyn came to you with gentle words, hands clasped before her. “Let me put him to bed,” she pleaded, her eyes soft on the babe. “It has been so long since I held one so small in these halls. Please, sister.”
You glanced to Tywin, his pale eyes already narrowing.
“He is mine,” your husband said flatly, voice brooking no question.
But you only laughed, your smile bright. “He’s all yours tonight, Catelyn,” you said warmly, brushing the dark hair from Arys’s brow before passing him into her arms. “Keep him near the fire. He’ll sleep better for it.”
Tywin’s jaw tightened, his silence sharper than steel. He turned without a word, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as he stalked down the hall.
When at last you entered the guest chamber, he was already there. The chamber was cold stone softened by Stark furs, yet Tywin looked every inch the lion — cloak unbuckled with sharp motions, golden clasp clattering against the table. His hands worked with fury at the belts and fastenings of his doublet, every movement precise, violent in its restraint
“Robert Baratheon,” he spat, his voice low, cold enough to crack stone. “Drunk, loud, boasting before an entire hall that you were meant for him. As if you were some bauble lost in a wager. As if our son were his to jest about.”
You leaned against the bedpost, your smile faint, sly. “He has always been Robert. Loud, foolish, too fond of wine. You should not waste your temper on him, husband.”
Tywin’s head snapped up, pale eyes narrowing. “Do you think me blind? He covets you still. He dares speak of your kiss, of what he believes should have been his.”
“Covet, perhaps,” you said with a little shrug, “but coveting and having are different things.”
His jaw flexed. “It should not have been spoken at all.” He stepped toward you, hands curling at his sides. “No man should speak of you in my presence and live unscathed.”
You laughed gently, shaking your head. “Always commanding. Always furious. Tell me, do I live in your protection, or in your cage?”
Tywin stopped, eyes flashing. “You mock me.”
“I soothe you,” you corrected softly, crossing the chamber to lay your hand against his chest. “If I were caged, do you think I would laugh so? Do you think I would taunt a lion, if my chains were real?”
He caught your wrist, holding you still, voice rough. “You think this is a game, wife? Robert, Ned, your northern lords — all of them watch, all of them whisper. They see a wolf they think has been tamed. They cannot know what you are to me.”
You tilted your head, eyes gleaming. “Then tell me. What am I to you?”
His breath caught. He turned sharply away, bracing his hands on the table, shoulders rigid. “You are mine. That should be answer enough.”
“It never is.” You came behind him, sliding your hands up his back, your lips brushing his ear. “Mine, you say. But what else? Speak plainly for once, Tywin. No command, no title. Speak as a man.”
He spun then, sudden, seizing your face between his hands. His mouth was inches from yours, his voice low, ragged, stripped bare.
“You are the woman that I love.”
The words rang louder than any shout. His eyes burned with fury at himself, but his grip did not falter. For once, the lion could not take them back.
Your lips parted in shock, then curved into a wolf’s grin. “Gods, husband,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, “you nearly sound human.”
He growled low in his throat, kissing you hard, as if to smother the words he had loosed. But the fire had already burned them into the air — and into you.
You had teased him before, begged him, laughed at his silence, but never had he said it. And now, fury had ripped it free from his tongue.
He kissed you hard, crushing, his hands seizing your face as though he feared you might vanish. You gasped against him, half-wild with the suddenness, your fingers clawing at his doublet. He tore it open himself, cloth and clasps scattering across the floor.
“Damn you,” he rasped, his mouth against your jaw, your throat, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Damn you for making me say it. You should never have heard those words.”
“And yet I did,” you whispered breathlessly, your laugh catching in your throat as he lifted you, carrying you to the bed like a man in battle-madness. “Say it again, husband. Once more.”
He laid you down with more force than care, climbing after you, his cloak pooling red across the furs before he snatched it off. “No,” he growled, tearing at your gown until your skin gleamed in the firelight. “Not again. Never again. Once was too many.”
You arched beneath him, your hands tangling in his hair, drawing him down. “Then prove it,” you gasped, teeth grazing his ear. “Prove your love if you will not name it.”
His control shattered. He thrust into you with a fury that was half-jealousy, half-desperation, his rhythm rough at first, as though to punish you for the word wrung from him. But his voice betrayed him, ragged and unguarded.
“You are mine,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closing as though the sight of you undid him. “Mine in the sight of gods and men. Not Robert’s, not your brother’s, not the North’s. Mine.”
Your nails dug into his back, pulling him closer still. “Then love me, husband. As a man, not as a lion.”
He groaned low, his pace faltering, slowing — not to ease but to draw it out, to make you feel every inch of his need. His lips brushed your cheek, your temple, your mouth, softer now, trembling in a way you had never known from him.
“I do,” he whispered against your skin, the words torn from him in spite of himself. “Gods curse me, but I do. I love you.”
The admission broke him. His thrusts turned desperate, uneven, each one driven more by need than control. He clutched you as though the world itself might steal you away, his breath ragged in your ear.
You held him, kissed him, laughed softly through your gasps. “Say it again.”
He shook his head, jaw clenched, but his body betrayed him. “No more words,” he growled, but when release came, it was with your name torn from his lips and the word buried in it, unspoken yet unmistakable.
His body moved over yours, every thrust a clash of fury and need, his jaw clenched tight against words he would not loose.
“Say it,” you gasped, your arms winding around his neck, your lips grazing his temple. “Say it again.”
“No.” His voice was a growl, sharp as steel. His hips drove harder, rougher, as though each stroke could silence you. “You will not take that from me. Once was too many.”
You laughed softly through your moans, your hand cupping his cheek, forcing his pale eyes to yours. “I take nothing, husband. I only want what is already in you.”
He shook his head, teeth bared, sweat shining at his brow. “No,” he rasped, thrusting deeper, slower, punishing, “you will not make me—”
You kissed him then, slow and tender, your mouth brushing his in a way that robbed him of fury. When you pulled back, your voice came sweet as snowfall.
“Say it for me, Tywin.”
His body faltered, the rhythm breaking. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut as though he could force the word back.
“Say it, husband,” you whispered, soft as prayer, your thumb stroking his jaw. “Please.”
Something cracked. His thrusts grew desperate, uneven, as though the strength of him was pouring into each stroke faster than he could bear. His mouth trembled against yours, and at last, ragged, broken, the word tore free.
“I love you.”
It came low, hoarse, ripped raw from him. He buried his face against your neck, repeating it once more, as though he hated himself for yielding, yet could not stop.
The chamber was stifling with heat, the fire snapping in the hearth, the furs twisted and damp with sweat. His body moved above yours in a rhythm that had lost all command — no longer the measured precision of a lion in control, but the desperate, faltering pace of a man undone. His pale eyes burned into yours, his jaw clenched as though he could grind the words back into silence.
“Say it again,” you gasped, your nails raking across his back, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Say you love me.”
He groaned, low and ragged, thrusting harder, as though he could drive your plea from existence. “No,” he hissed, his forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping between you. “Do not ask me. Not again.”
You laughed softly through your moans, wild as a wolf in the snow. “Husband,” you whispered sweetly, tilting your head so your lips ghosted his. “Please.”
His control cracked. His thrusts slowed, deepened, every stroke shaking through his body. His mouth trembled over yours, and then the words broke free, hoarse and raw.
“I love you.”
Once, with his lips on yours.
Again, against your cheek, almost a prayer.
And again, muffled in your throat, as though he hated himself for yielding but could not hold it back.
Your body arched to him, clutching him closer, your wild smile breaking through your gasps. “Then give me another,” you pleaded, your voice fierce with longing. “Another heir, Tywin. Another Winter’s child.”
He froze mid-thrust, his breath catching, eyes locking on yours. The world stilled in that heartbeat — lion and wolf, fire and frost.
“Another…” he rasped, his voice breaking.
“Yes,” you whispered, cupping his face with both hands, your hair spilling wild across the furs. “Give me another child. Fill me with Winter again. Let the Rock hear the cry of wolves.”
His mouth fell open, and for once no command, no cruelty, only need spilled from him. He thrust again, deep and shuddering, his words torn free with every movement.
“I would give you anything.” His lips crushed yours, broken between gasps. “Anything you asked. Gods curse me, wife, I would give you everything. Another child. Ten. The whole world, if you wanted it.”
You cried out, his name spilling from your lips as his rhythm faltered into abandon, desperate and uneven. He clutched you as though he would never let go, his mouth on yours, your cheek, your throat, whispering the word he had sworn never to give.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Each one sharper, rougher, until he broke with a groan, his body trembling, his seed spilling deep inside you. He collapsed against you, still moving in languid aftershocks, his weight heavy but his arms holding you as if you were too precious to be lost.
At last he lifted his head, his face pale and damp, his eyes stripped of all their armor. He smoothed your wild hair back from your brow, his fingers trembling faintly.
“Do not ask me again,” he whispered hoarsely, though his lips brushed your temple with rare tenderness. “For each time you do, I will yield. And I cannot bear to yield to anyone but you.”
You smiled, pressing your lips to his cheek, then his nose, then finally his mouth. “Then I will ask, husband,” you murmured, soft but certain. “Until the end of days.”
He closed his eyes, forehead to yours, the lion undone by the wolf.
And though pride would make him silent come the morning, you had torn the words from him, and the fire knew them, and so did you.
━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━
The bow was light in your hands, familiar. The string snapped as you loosed, and the arrow sank deep into the painted circle. Bullseye. Arya shrieked in delight, Bran clapped, even Jon grinned as if it were his own victory.
Tywin’s pale eyes narrowed, his voice cool. “This is unbecoming of a lady.”
“I am no lady, Tywin,” you retorted, tossing your wild hair back as you reached for another arrow.
“You were once,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “I recall you blushing like a maiden, dressed in silk, laughing too eagerly at my jests.”
“That was strategy,” you said loftily, drawing the bowstring back. “I wanted you, so I planned and I got you.” The arrow flew, striking near the first.
The Stark children laughed, Arya bouncing on her toes.
Tywin’s mouth curved, though faint. “Not how I recall. You came to Casterly Rock wild-haired, your tongue sharp, mocking me in my own court. And after one supper, you declared I was courting you.”
You turned to him, mock-offended. “Declared? I assumed! You asked me to stay five days. Five. You said I was to oversee the process and keep you company. What else was I to think but that the lion was courting the wolf?”
The children erupted in laughter. Ned, standing nearby with Catelyn, hid his smile poorly in his beard.
Arya darted forward. “She’s right! That is courting. Why else keep her there?”
Jon crossed his arms, smirking. “If my lady-aunt says it was strategy, then it was. She won. Look at you now.”
Tywin’s gaze cut sharp to the boy, but Robb stepped in with a grin. “No, Uncle Tywin has it right. He didn’t waste five days on anything he didn’t intend to keep. That sounds more like him.”
Sansa nodded primly, her hands folded. “Lord Tywin would never let someone else decide what he wanted. If he asked her to stay, it was because he had already chosen her.”
Arya stuck out her tongue. “Or because she tricked him! Wolves are cleverer than lions.”
“Not cleverer. Quicker,” Jon added, smirking at you. “She cornered him before he knew it.”
Robb laughed. “He’s not cornered now, is he? Look who has the Rock, the guards, the gold.”
Catelyn raised her brows, amused despite herself. “It seems we have sides forming in the yard.”
“Aye,” Ned said, folding his arms as he watched his children bicker, his eyes soft on you. “But whichever way the tale is told, the ending is the same. The wolf sits beside the lion still.”
Tywin’s hand slid absently to your waist, his eyes gleaming faintly. “And the lion,” he said quietly, “does not let go what he claims.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder, grinning at the children. “Or what the wolf steals,” you teased.
The yard rang with laughter, split down the middle — wolves against lions, each convinced their version the true one.
━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━
The guest chamber was hushed but for the fire and your mingled breaths. The weeks in Winterfell had worn on, one moon on the road, near another beneath Stark stone. And yet no blood had come. He had checked the sheets himself each morning, when you stirred late and he rose early. No stain of red, no sharp scent of iron.
He knew your ways — how you demanded meat, salted heavy, during your bleed. How you drank near like a sailor to dull the ache, how you lay beneath him after, letting the weight of him ground you. But there had been no requests, no salt, no wine-drowned nights.
So he watched you. Always watching.
Tonight, he touched you softer than he had in many moons. His lips brushed your temple, your jaw, the hollow of your throat as he moved above you. His hand skimmed down, possessive and reverent both, lingering over the faint swell of your stomach. Not yet visible, not yet certain — but his pale eyes burned on it as though the proof were plain.
You laughed softly beneath him, brushing back the gold-streaked hair that had fallen loose from his temples. “Why so tender, husband? Have you grown weary of your cruelty?”
His mouth brushed your ear, his breath warm. “I have no cruelty for you, wife.” His thrusts were slow, deep, each one drawn out as though he meant to carve them into your very bones. “Not tonight.”
You arched, your nails dragging along his back, your voice breaking into a moan. “Then what is it? Speak to me.”
He cupped your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to his. “Because you may carry another heir of mine.” His voice was low, nearly a growl, yet soft in its own way. “Because I will not let the Rock, or the North, or Robert Baratheon himself, take from me what I built in you.”
Your breath caught, your lips parting, but his mouth claimed yours before you could answer. He kissed you fiercely, then pulled back only to whisper, words uncharacteristic of him, words he could not stop.
“You are mine. My wild wolf. My lioness. My love.”
Each thrust followed the words, his rhythm steady but tender, as if he worshiped what he feared to name. His gaze kept straying down to your stomach, his hand pressing there, thumb circling gently as though to coax life into being.
You smiled through your gasps, tears bright at your eyes. “Then speak it again, husband. Tell me.”
And though he had sworn before that he would never say it twice, he did — breaking against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice hoarse with surrender.
“I love you. And if the gods are kind, you will give me another child. Another Winter’s child, born of you.”
When you cried out beneath him, he kissed you as though he could drink the sound into his very soul, his body trembling with release, his hand never straying from the place where he already claimed his legacy.
The fire hissed low in the Winterfell chamber, the wind battering the shutters, the howl of wolves carrying over stone. You lay half-asleep against him, but Tywin Lannister did not sleep. His arm anchored you close, yet his eyes were fixed on the hearth as his thoughts marched on like soldiers.
“The North is peril,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm, as if speaking to a council of one. “It clings to old gods, old ways, savage and stiff-necked. Even here, in your brother’s hall, I feel the weight of suspicion. They will always whisper that our son is wolf, never lion. That his blood is theirs to claim. They are wrong.” His hand brushed your belly, lingering. “He is mine.”
You shifted faintly, your lips brushing his throat, but he pressed on, relentless.
“Our legacy cannot be left in Winter’s hands. Too cold, too soft, too stubborn. They dream of honor while the Rock builds kingdoms. I will not see my line diluted by northern filth — not Robert’s drunken claims, not Stark mutterings, not even these children who look at you as though you are theirs.” His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “You are mine. The babe is mine. And the next will be mine.”
He exhaled sharply, his voice steady but edged. “It will be a daughter this time. I have decided it. You will give me a daughter.” His thumb traced a circle over your stomach, almost possessive. “And you will name her something northern, I have no doubt. Some stone name, some Stark relic. But I will not have her diminished. No long-winded grave-name dragged from crypts. Something simple. Strong. A name that can be spoken in the Rock’s halls without shame.”
You stirred at that, murmuring, but he kept on, the commander unspooling his plan.
“She will not be a plaything of this place. She will not run wild with wolf pups, nor be buried in furs and forgotten. She will be raised to rule. She will stand where lions stand, but she will have the wolf’s steel as well. And they will bow to her — here, in the North, and in the South. A daughter of mine will command, not beg.”
His hand slid to your hair, smoothing it back, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “And you will guard her as you guard that boy. Fiercely. Wildly. Even if it kills you.”
At last he stilled, his chest heaving faintly, his eyes hard in the glow of the dying fire. He had spoken as though to himself, but his hand had never left you — your hair, your waist, your belly.
You smiled against his chest, eyes closing once more. “Then we will give her both, husband. Wolf fire and lion pride. A true daughter of ours.”
He said nothing, but his grip tightened, the commander already planning her place in a world that did not yet know her name.
The fire was nearly spent, the chamber washed in shadow. You lay curled against him, your cheek on his chest, his hand never leaving the gentle swell of your belly. His voice broke the quiet suddenly, cold and clipped, though you could feel the faint tremor beneath it.
“It will be a girl,” he muttered. “And you’ll name her something northern. I can see it already. Gods forbid it be Lyanna.” His jaw tightened. “Every bard in the realm would croon songs, and Robert Baratheon would never shut his drunken mouth.”
You smiled faintly against his chest, offering no reply, only a soft kiss to his skin.
“Alys, then? Too simple. Too common. A daughter of mine is not some hedge knight’s wife.” His tone sharpened as though the name itself had offended him. “Wynafryd? Ridiculous. She would sound like a serving maid before she could walk.”
You stifled a laugh in his chest, kissing him again. He did not falter.
“Barbrey?” He scoffed, the sound harsh. “A bitter woman’s name, fit for a widow clinging to past grudges. No.” His hand pressed firmer to your stomach, as though the child might hear him already. “Not Rowena, not Wylla, not some wildling-sounding nonsense you dig from a snowbank.”
You hummed softly, lips brushing the base of his throat, and he sighed as if your silence only urged him on.
“Lyarra,” he continued, voice dripping disdain. “Another relic buried in Winterfell’s crypts. You would choose it to spite me, I know. Gods, I can hear the whispers now: the lion’s daughter, named for Stark bones.”
You kissed the line of his jaw, and his pale eyes narrowed, though his mouth curved faintly at one corner.
He exhaled sharply. “I will not have it. Not a name that stinks of stone and ice. I will not have my daughter called Marna or Sera or whatever dull scraps the North remembers.”
Your hand smoothed over his chest, but still you gave him no answer.
He shifted, settling you closer against him, though his eyes never left the fire. “Rowena. Old, brittle, all bone and no bite. My daughter will not be some relic, walking history to be pitied. She will have a name that cuts. Cerelle. Lanna. Names with teeth.”
Your lips curved against his chest, though you never spoke, only kissed him gently as he went on.
“Walda,” he muttered suddenly. “Fat, foolish Walda. The North is riddled with them. Would you make me suffer that shame? No. A lioness is lean. Sharp. She bears names that command. Not Walda. Not Goodwife-this or Widow-that.”
“Something simple,” he muttered, half to himself now, his voice like a general reviewing a battle plan. “Strong. Short. A name with bite. Not every half-forgotten lady who ever bred wolves in this cursed land.” His eyes flicked down at last, meeting yours. “And do not think your silence tricks me, wife. I know your game. I will know the name, sooner or later.”
You only smiled, kissed his cheek, and closed your eyes again. His mutterings continued long into the night, names sharp as arrows, dismissed one by one. And you, his wild wolf, listened and kissed him gently, the lion pacing circles even in his own bed.
The fire cracked low, shadows heavy on the walls. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, your voice soft but clear.
“Elira. I like Elira husband.”
Tywin stilled. His hand tightened on your waist, his pale eyes narrowing as though he weighed the sound on his tongue. Slowly, he spoke it back to you.
“Elira.”
Once, clipped. Again, longer, savoring the syllables. “E-li-ra.” He sat straighter against the headboard, his jaw working. “It is Stark enough to please your brother, but lion enough to echo in Rock’s halls. It bends, but it does not break.”
You smiled faintly, lips brushing his throat, but he kept going, as though in council.
“It is not a whimper. Not a relic. Not a milkmaid’s call. Elira… no, that is a name a hall will rise to. A name men will bow before. Not Wynafryd, not Lyanna, not some crypt-ghost. Elira.”
He said it again, firmer, like a general presenting his line. “Lady Elira of Casterly Rock. Our daughter.” His hand drifted down to your stomach, thumb pressing there as though to seal the name into the flesh. “Not theirs. Not Ned’s. Not the North’s. Mine.”
You kissed his temple, murmuring, “Ours, husband.”
His mouth twitched — not a smile, never that, but something softer in the firelight. His voice dropped, quieter, almost reverent. “Elira Lannister. My daughter.”
And though the babe was yet only a thought, you felt the weight of it — a lion already carving a place for her in his legacy.
─ summary: The peace you and Baelor have built together begins to shatter when your father begins to speak of your remarriage. Thankfully, Baelor has a son available.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x reader
─ word count: 9k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | cheating | arranged marriage | explicit smut | affairs | angst | fluff | manipulation | age gap | jealousy | a man going through it| p in v| oral female recieving| possesion and jealousy
─ a/n: Sorry for the long wait. I wanted to get this right and it took longer than I thought. Lowkey made me a little emotional. ANYWAY!!! The long awaited part 2 to A Fair Husband. I could easily be convinced into a part 3. Thank you all for your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The sunlight pressed against Baelor's eyelids, a warm, heavy weight, dragging him slowly up from the edge of sleep. The bark of the oak tree was rough against his back, grounding him in the present, while the rustle of leaves above sounded like the ocean in a shell. But it was your voice that truly anchored him. It was soft and melodic, rising and falling with the words you read.
Baelor felt the gentle pressure of your fingers interlaced with his as your thumb stroked the back of his hand. He was seated comfortably against the trunk, legs stretched out on his cloak, with you nestled securely between them. Your back was flush against his chest, your head leaning near his shoulder, the scent of lilies and sun-warmed skin filling his lungs.
"You are sleeping," you murmured. You stopped reading, tightening your hand around his.
Baelor opened his eyes, blinking, focusing on the waves of your hair spilling over his arm, and squeezed your hand in return, pulling you closer against him.
"I am not," he rasped. "Just resting my eyes."
"You can sleep if you need to, my love," you said softly, tilting your head back to look up at him. "I know you are tired."
He looked down at you, tracing the line of your jaw with his gaze. Tiredness was a constant companion these days, a dull ache at the base of his skull from the weight of responsibility but here, with you, the weight seemed to lift.
"And miss a moment with you?" He shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Never."
You hummed and turned your face forward again, settling back into his embrace. You picked up the book where you had left off and resumed reading.
Baelor let the words wash over him, though he did not track the plot. It was one of your romances, no doubt, a tale of star-crossed lovers and chivalrous deeds. He didn't need to know the story, all he cared about was the sound of you.
He tightened his arm around your waist and felt the rise and fall of your breath. Loving you was terrifyingly easy, natural, simple. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there, breathing you in. In this quiet, sun-drenched corner of Kingswood, he thought of how he knew he would love you forever.
The chapters turned, the shadows lengthening slowly across the blanket until the light took on the golden hue of late afternoon. Finally, you closed the book with a soft thud, resting it on your lap.
"I will miss you when you are in the Stormlands," you said quietly, staring out at the patches of blue sky visible through the leaves.
Baelor sighed, the reality of the coming weeks encroaching on this sanctuary. He rested his chin on your shoulder. "I wish I could bring you."
"I know," you replied. "But perhaps... one day." You turned your head slightly. "You will have to take me somewhere. Maybe Dorne? I would like to be in the sun."
He chuckled. "I would like to see you in Dornish dress," his eyes dropped to your bodice. "Or perhaps out of it."
You laughed, swatting his shoulder playfully. "Your thoughts are always filthy, Baelor."
"I am only honest," he countered, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss. "But truly — I will take you wherever you wish to go. Just say the word."
Your expression softened, the playfulness fading into something deeper. You shifted, turning fully within the circle of his arms and climbing into his lap properly, straddling his legs. You placed your hands on his chest.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
You leaned in and kissed him again as he held you against him, one hand on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. The world narrowed down to the heat of your body, the softness of your lips, and the dappled sunlight playing over your skin. You stayed like that for a long time, content to simply exist in each other's space, two people stealing a lifetime from the afternoon.
"We must return my love."
You sighed but nodded and climbed off him, smoothing down your skirts and retrieving your book.
"I will see you tonight?"
"Yes."
Baelor helped you onto your horse and watched you go until he was sure you were safely on the path back to the castle. Only then did he lie back on the cloak, folding his hands behind his head. He stared up at the canopy, listening to the birds settling in, letting the peace of the woods seep into his bones one last time.
When he finally rose and mounted his horse, the mood of tranquility clung to him. The ride back to the Red Keep was solitary, but he was in remarkably good humor, his spirits buoyed by the afternoon's intimacy and the promise he had made.
He arrived at the small council chamber a little earlier than usual, but the room was not empty. Lord Tyrell and Lord Rowan, your father, were already in deep conversation near the hearth.
Baelor greeted them both with a polite inclination of his head as he headed to pour himself wine. "My lords."
"You are early, Your Grace," Lord Rowan noted, turning from the fire with a polite bow.
Baelor leaned back against the table. "The ride was short today. I hope I am not interrupting."
"Not at all," Lord Tyrell said, though his brow remained furrowed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking weary. "We were merely discussing the... particulars of the marriage market. It seems to be consuming us all of late."
Baelor kept his face impassive. "Oh?"
Lord Tyrell sighed, stepping closer to the table. "It is a constant burden. I have two daughters and the stress of it is considerable. Every suitor is a viper, every contract a trap to strip my lands. I barely sleep for worry over where to place them."
"Indeed," Lord Rowan replied, his voice dry and pragmatic. "It is a father's duty to secure the future, however tiresome the negotiation."
Baelor glanced at your father. The older man looked tired, his brow furrowed as he shuffled through a stack of parchment. He was a shrewd man, intelligent and calculating, but he had a blind spot where you were concerned.
Your father continued, not looking up from his papers. "My own daughter has been in mourning long enough. It is time for her to marry again."
The wine in Baelor's mouth suddenly tasted bitter.
"Remarriage?" Baelor managed to repeat, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. "Is she... amenable to the idea?"
Your father finally looked up, blinking behind his spectacles. "She is a woman. They are rarely amenable to sense until it is presented to them as a necessity. She has been a widow for nearly two years. She needs a husband to manage her affairs and her boy needs a father figure, not a doting mother."
Baelor set the cup down on the sideboard with a clatter that was slightly too loud.
Husband. Father figure.
He saw it in a horrifying flash: you, his sweet girl, walking down the aisle on the arm of some stranger, your belly swelling with another man's child, your laugh, your touch, your warmth, given to a lord who would take you to the ends of the earth, far away from King's Landing. Far away from him.
Panic, cold and primal, clawed at his insides. He felt the blood draining from his face, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could not breathe.
"My Prince?" Lord Tyrell's voice cut through the haze. "Are you quite well?"
Baelor blinked, forcing himself to focus. He realized he had been gripping the edge of the sideboard so hard his knuckles were white. He released his hold, flexing his fingers, and smoothed his tunic.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the chaos roaring behind his eyes. "Just a sudden chill."
He tried to listen as the conversation turned but the words meant nothing to him. He nodded when appropriate, made vague noises of agreement, but his mind was entirely elsewhere. He didn't remember the rest of the meeting or when the other council members arrived, or even what they discussed.
It wasn't until the meeting adjourned and he was walking through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep that he felt he could breathe again. He needed to see you, touch you, and know that you were real, that you were still his.
He slipped into the passage in his chambers that would lead him to yours. The stone corridor was cold and damp, but he barely felt it. He moved quickly, his footsteps echoing softly, driven by a desperate need.
As he entered your chambers, he heard your voice. You were in the nursery. The connecting doors between your bedchamber and your son's room were open.
"No, my love," you were saying, your tone exasperated but full of affection. "The sun is sleeping, the birds are sleeping, and you must sleep too."
A babble of high-pitched, defiant noises answered you.
Baelor smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing completely for the first time since your father had spoken.
The nursery was warm, lit by a low fire in the hearth. You were standing by the crib, your back to him, wearing a soft, loose gown of thin cotton that clung to your frame. Your hair was unbound, falling in waves down your back.
The little boy, not yet two years old, was standing in his crib, gripping the railing with chubby fists, bouncing up and down with the boundless energy of the overtired. When he saw Baelor, his eyes went wide, and he let out a squeal of pure delight.
"Bae!" the boy shouted, reaching his arms out.
Baelor crossed the room in a few long strides. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek softly, inhaling your scent, grounding himself. "My love."
You leaned back into him, sighing. "You've woken him up fully. He was almost asleep."
"He wasn't," Baelor laughed, reaching into the crib to scoop the boy up, lifting him easily and tossing him gently into the air. The boy giggled, a sound that could melt the hardest heart. "He was just waiting for me."
"Careful," you warned, though you were smiling as you turned to look at them. "If you play with him now, he will be up all night."
"No matter," Baelor said, bouncing the toddler on his hip. He looked into his face, seeing the joy reflected there. "Have you had sweets today?"
The boy squealed again. "Cake! Cake!"
Baelor chuckled, shaking his head. "It appears you have had quite enough," he told him, carrying him out of the nursery and into the main bedchamber.
He laid the boy in the center of the large bed, where he immediately began to roll around, burrowing into the soft linens. You climbed into the bed, pulling your overly energetic son under the covers with you.
Baelor watched you for a moment. The domestic scene was so perfect, so right, it hurt. He quickly shed his own clothes, folding them over the back of a chair with practiced ease.
"Come here," you said to Baelor, patting the empty space beside you.
Your son patted a spot as well, imitating you. "Come here," he echoed.
"I am coming."
Baelor wore only his small clothes as he joined you in bed. Your son immediately scrambled over, flopping onto Baelor's chest with a happy sigh.
The evening passed in a blur of simple, profound happiness. You lay tangled together, Baelor told stories of dragons and knights, his voice low and soothing. You laughed as he did different voices to entertain the toddler, your head resting on his shoulder as you traced idle patterns on his chest. The boy eventually tired himself out, his movements slowing and eyelids drooping until he finally fell asleep, nestled securely between the two people who loved him most.
The room grew quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic breathing of the child. You reached out, stroking your son's back, your brow furrowed slightly.
"I worry," you whispered, breaking the silence. "That I am not doing a very good job with him... by myself."
Baelor frowned slightly. "Why would you think that?"
"He is so wild," you said softly. "He has no father to help guide him. I fear I am too soft, or just not enough. I do not know."
"Valarr was just like this at his age," Baelor said firmly. "He was a terror. He would climb the curtains if you turned your back for a second." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are a wonderful mother. He is lucky to have you. Do not doubt that."
You looked at him, your eyes searching his face, and the tension in your brow smoothed out. You leaned forward and kissed him in a slow, tender press of lips that conveyed more gratitude than words ever could.
"Thank you," you whispered against his mouth.
You pulled back and resumed playing with the baby's hair, twisting the dark curls around your finger. Baelor watched you, the earlier panic from the council meeting beginning to rise in his throat again. He had to know. He had to ask, even if the answer terrified him.
"My love," he started, keeping his voice low. "I spoke with your father today."
You stilled. "Oh?"
"He mentioned... he thinks it is time for you to remarry."
You kept your eyes on your son. "He has said as much for weeks."
Baelor's chest tightened. "Do you want to remarry?"
"If my father wants it, what choice do I have?" you asked, your voice edged with sadness.
"But if you could choose," he pressed. "Who would you want?"
You were silent for a long time, staring at the sleeping boy. Baelor held his breath, waiting. He prayed you would say no one. He prayed you would say that you would rather be alone than with a man who was not him.
Finally, you spoke. "There is someone. Ser Lannister, the Grey Lion's second son," you said, your voice taking on a distant, reminiscent tone. "I grew up with him. He was always very sweet to me when we were children." You looked up at Baelor, a small, sad smile on your lips. "When I was young, I always wanted to marry him... I suppose if I could choose, it would still be him."
All Baelor heard was not you.
Not him, the man who held you now, the man who loved you more than himself. You wanted a second son from the other side of the realm.
Fury, cold and absolute, boiled beneath his skin. You saw the flicker of it in his eyes.
"Oh, my poor dragon," you whispered, reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers were cool against his heated skin. "Do not pout."
You teased him, your voice light and loving, trying to soothe the beast you sensed awakening within him. "You know I love you more than anyone."
That only made it worse. "You have quite a way of showing it."
"You know you are not a viable option as a husband," you responded. "You are already someone else's husband."
Baelor caught your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face to kiss your palm. His eyes bore into yours.
"In every way that matters to me, I am your husband, and you are my wife."
He shifted closer, ignoring the sleeping boy between you. "I will not let some lord take you to the ends of the earth. I will not let you go to Lannisport or Casterly Rock, you belong here with me."
You looked at him, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"I know. If it were up to me, I would stay with you forever, but it is not up to me. I just want to enjoy whatever time we have left."
Time we have left.
The phrase echoed in the quiet room, a death knell to the peace he had found in the woods. Baelor lay back against the pillows, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He listened to the breathing of two people he loved dearly in this world, but he felt no sleep coming. His mind was racing, plotting, seething. The woods and the sun were gone. There was only the cold stone of the Red Keep and the looming threat of a future without you.
The morning light had barely begun to shine on the stone of the Red Keep when Baelor rose. Sleep had evaded him for the past nights, but finally he had come to a solution. The decision had been made in the dark of the night, a cold, hard resolve settling over him like a suit of armor. He would not be a passive observer to your life any longer.
He walked the familiar path to your father's offices, his boots echoing softly in the corridor. He stopped before the heavy oak door, smoothing the front of his doublet, and knocked.
"Enter," came the muffled voice from within.
Baelor pushed the door open. Your father was already at his desk, surrounded by ledgers and stacks of parchment, a cup of wine sitting untouched near his elbow. He looked up, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise as he registered the visitor.
"Prince Baelor," Rowan said, standing quickly. "To what do I owe the honor? Please, sit."
Baelor remained standing for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the older man. "My lord," he said, offering a curt nod. "Thank you. I have a matter to discuss."
Your father sat back down, gesturing to the opposite chair. "Of course. You are always welcome here."
"I wish to continue the conversation we touched upon several days ago, regarding your daughter's future."
Your father's expression shifted from professional curiosity to a guarded wariness. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Yes. Her remarriage."
Baelor took a breath, feeling the weight of his next words. He stepped closer to the desk, resting his hands on the back of the chair he had yet to sit in. "Our houses have been friends for generations, I believe it is time we made that friendship permanent."
He paused, watching the other man closely. "I submit my son, Valarr, as a suitor for your daughter."
The silence that followed was heavy. A deep frown creased your father's forehead. Finally, he looked back at Baelor, his lips thinning.
"You are certain, my prince? She is one-and-twenty, three years his senior."
Baelor waved a hand dismissively. "Three years is nothing. Indeed, she will bring wisdom and maturity to the union."
"She has a son."
"So there is no question of her fertility," Baelor countered smoothly. "That is a worry many young brides cannot assuage before the wedding night."
Your father opened his mouth, then closed it, a strange look crossing his face. Baelor felt a prickle of annoyance. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "Is there a reason, my lord, that you are hesitating to accept a prince? Valarr is the best match any lady in the Seven Kingdoms could hope to make."
Your father sighed, the sound long and suffering. He reached for a piece of parchment lying on the corner of his desk, weighted down by a heavy silver inkwell. "Yesterday afternoon, I spoke with Lord Tyrell. He offered his second son. The terms are... favorable. The young man is known to be virtuous, skilled at arms, and of a cheerful disposition."
Baelor stared at the parchment, sick to his stomach. "You accepted?"
"I verbally agreed," your father admitted, looking slightly apologetic but firm. "I wrote the response last night. It is here, ready to be given. I planned to hand it to Lord Tyrell's this morning. She will be well taken care of. Her son will want for nothing."
"I urge you to reconsider," Baelor said. "Surely Lord Tyrell will understand."
Your father looked at the letter, then at Baelor. "I will... consider it, my Prince."
Baelor held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of deceit. "Consider it carefully," he said softly. "A day is all I ask."
The following afternoon, the heavy oak door to Baelor's solar creaked open. He was reviewing a report from the City Watch, his quill scratching across the parchment, but he looked up instantly at the sound to see it was you.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You had never come to him here, not in the light of day, not to his official place of work. The sight of you, clad in a gown of deep blue velvet, your hair loose and cascading over your shoulders, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. He dropped the quill, ink splattering unnoticed on the desk.
"My love," A slow smile spread across his face as he stood. "You have grown bold."
He rounded the desk, his eyes drinking you in, but as he drew closer, he saw the tension in your posture. Your hands were clasped tightly together at your waist, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes swimming with unshed tears and barely suppressed anger.
"My father tells me I am to marry Valarr," you said, your voice trembling slightly.
Baelor stopped in front of you. He nodded slowly, not looking away. "I have proposed it. Yes."
You let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "You went to him behind my back?"
"He was going to send you to Highgarden," Baelor said, his voice gentle but firm. "I could not lose you."
You rolled your eyes. "I am not a horse to be traded to suit your pride."
"No," he agreed. "You are not."
"I am angry," you continued.
He stepped closer, invading your space, needing to touch you. "I know. I know."
"You are supposed to listen to me, Baelor. You are supposed to put me first."
"I know," he whispered. He reached out, taking your cold hands in his warm ones. "Forgive me. Please."
You tried to pull away, but he held on gently. "I am sorry," he said again, lifting one of your hands to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I was selfish."
He pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around your stiff frame. You resisted for a moment, your body rigid with indignation, but slowly, as he rubbed your back in long, soothing strokes, you began to melt. You rested your forehead against his chest, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
He kissed the top of your head. "I love you," he murmured against your skin. "To the point of losing sense."
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. "You love me that much?"
"I would do anything to keep you with me. Anything."
You let out a soft huff, though the anger had drained out of you, replaced by a weary affection. "I'm still angry with you."
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through your body where you pressed against him. "That is your right. Be angry, yell at me, but stay here."
He leaned down and captured your lips. It was a soft kiss. He poured his apology into it, his devotion, his promise to make it right.
Then, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Baelor pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for a fleeting second before stepping back. "My Prince," a guard's voice called through the wood. "The council has convened."
Baelor cursed under his breath, looking at you with a rueful smile. "Duty calls."
You straightened your dress, your fingers brushing your swollen lips. "Go," you whispered. "I must return before I am missed."
He watched you go, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The die was cast, Valarr would meet you and Baelor would ensure the rest followed.
The formal introduction between Valarr and you took place later that week in the gardens of the Red Keep. It was a carefully orchestrated affair, chaperoned by Baelor and your father, who stood a polite distance away, watching the interaction.
Baelor watched his son with a critical eye. Valarr, usually so composed, looked like a frightened boy. He stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting nervously to the beautiful woman before him. There was no fire in his demeanor.
You, for your part, seemed nervous as well. You sat on a stone bench, offering Valarr a polite, tight smile, gesturing to the empty spot next to you.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady," Valarr stammered. "I... I have heard much about you."
"And I you, my prince," you replied softly.
Valarr blushed a deep crimson. He clearly had no idea what to do with his hands. He gestured vaguely to a flower bush, mumbled something incoherent about the blooms, and then fell silent. He was smitten, that much was obvious. He stared at you with wide, worshipful eyes, completely out of his depth. He would be a fine husband, but he would not replace Baelor in your heart.
Baelor left for the Stormlands feeling that all was right in his world.
A month had passed since Baelor had left King's Landing, but he felt none of the weariness in his bones as he rode through the gates of the Red Keep. He had missed the comfort of his own bed, the familiarity of the court, and most desperately, he had missed you.
You had been there to welcome him, standing beside Valarr. The sight of you stole the air from his lungs. You wore a gown of deep, crushed red velvet that clung to your waist and flared gently over your hips. He had wanted nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and carry you to his chambers.
But duty had intervened, as it always did. There were reports to hear, men to dismiss, and a father to greet. By the time he had washed the road from his skin and changed for the feast, the sun had long since set, and the Great Hall was roaring with the heat of a hundred fires and the clamor of a thousand voices.
He had expected things to be as he left them with him the center of your world. But as he watched, he saw a reality that made him sick.
You and Valarr were inseparable.
You sat together, leaning in to converse over the noise of the feast. It wasn't the polite, detached distance of a betrothed couple fulfilling a duty, this was intimate and easy. Valarr laughed at something you said, throwing his head back, and you laughed with him, your hand reaching out to rest briefly on his face.
Baelor watched, his eyes narrowing. Valarr looked at you the way Baelor looked at you — completely, utterly confidently in love. It wasn't the adoring, puppy-dog look of a boy with a crush; it was the look of a man who knew he was desired. Valarr, who had always worked so hard to be the perfect prince, to follow every rule of etiquette and decorum, had seemingly abandoned all propriety.
Right there in the middle of the feast, Valarr leaned in and whispered something in your ear. You turned your face toward him, a smile playing on your lips, and Valarr didn't pull away. Instead, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering against your skin, and then, bold as brass, he kissed you right there for the entire court to see.
Baelor was secure in what he had with you; he knew your love was deep and real, but he was possessive, and he did not like this at all.
Jena, seated next to him, did not miss his fixation.
She followed his gaze, then turned back to him, a thin, cruel smile curving her lips.
"You were a fool, Baelor," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the minstrels' lute.
Baelor turned to glare at her, the anger flaring hot and instant.
She leaned in closer, the scent of her heavy perfume cloying in the small space between them. "You gave your mistress to our son," she whispered, her eyes dancing with malicious delight. "And now there is no space for you."
Baelor's stomach churned. The image of Valarr's hands on you, Valarr's mouth on yours, flashed through his mind, superimposed over his own memories. "You speak of things you do not understand."
"I understand a man who has lost control," Jena countered. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his. "How many nights do you think Valarr spent in her bed while you were gone?"
The question hung in the air, poisonous and potent. The thought of Valarr having what was his, touching the woman he loved — it was intolerable.
He looked at Jena, his face betraying no emotion. "If you were not so petty and bitter, perhaps I would be in your bed."
The words were cruel, a strike meant to wound, and he saw them land. Jena's mask slipped for a fraction of a second, a flash of hurt and longing crossing her features before she slammed her composure back down. But he didn't care about her pain in that moment. He only cared about extinguishing the fire burning in his gut.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The conversation at the high table faltered, but he ignored the eyes on him as he headed toward you with single-minded focus. As he approached, Valarr looked up, the easy smile staying on his face in the presence of his father. You turned, and when you saw Baelor, your face brightened.
"Am I allowed a moment with my daughter in law?" he asked, extending his hand to you.
"Of course, my prince," you said, accepting his offer, placing your hand in his.
The musicians struck up a slower, melancholic tune. Baelor pulled you close, closer than was strictly proper for a public dance. He missed you so much, the feel of your body against his, the scent of your skin, the way a mere look from you could fill his heart to bursting. He held you tight, one hand splayed against your lower back, pressing you into him.
"You forget yourself," you murmured, looking up at him with a playful, teasing glint in your eyes. "People will talk."
"That is their prerogative," he said, his voice low. "I missed you."
The playfulness softened into something tender. "I missed you too," you whispered. "The keep was empty without you."
"We need never be parted again," he declared. "I will not leave you for so long. I cannot."
You smiled softly, your hand gently stroking his arm. "I would like that."
Emboldened by your response, he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. "Tonight," he whispered, "I am going to spread your legs and bury my face in that sweet cunt until you beg me to fuck you."
You pulled back slightly, your face flushing a furious shade of red that rivaled your dress. Your eyes were wide, dilated with arousal. "Baelor..."
He laughed, a dark, satisfied sound. He still had you.
But before he could savor the victory, a shadow fell over you. The music shifted, a new measure beginning, and a hand tapped Baelor firmly on the shoulder.
Baelor stopped, annoyed. He turned his head slowly, his hand still possessively gripping your waist. He looked into his son's mismatched eyes. Valarr stood there, tall and unyielding.
"Valarr, can you not bear to be apart from your betrothed for one moment?"
"I cannot father," Valarr replied immediately. There was no hesitation. He looked at Baelor, then his gaze shifted to you, softening instantly. "Sorry, but I must have her."
He didn't wait for permission or for Baelor to release you. He simply took your hand and guided you away, his focus entirely on your face, as if Baelor had ceased to exist. You looked back at Baelor over your shoulder, a flash of apology in your eyes, but then you turned away, following Valarr into the swirl of the dancers, leaving Baelor standing alone his hand grasping at empty air.
He turned and marched back to the high table, his blood boiling. When he sat down, he found Jena watching him. She took a delicate sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling with undisguised delight at his frustration.
The heavy oak doors to your chambers clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the Red Keep. You stood before the vanity mirror, the room lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and a few flickering candles. You reached behind your neck, fingers working the clasp of a heavy jeweled necklace, a gift from Baelor. The cool metal slipped away, and you set it down with a clatter, exhaling a long breath. Before you could reach for the matching earrings, the air shifted, charged by a presence you knew better than your own.
Baelor didn't announce himself. He came behind you, wrapping his arms around you. You turned, melting into his arms, a smile breaking across your face. Your body pressed flush against the hard lines of his chest.
"I missed you," you breathed against his neck, but the words were swallowed by his mouth.
Baelor kissed you with the desperate hunger of a starved man. His lips crushed yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim your taste. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against your chest. Before you could steady yourself, his hands grasped your thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, the silk of your gown bunching around your hips as he carried you across the chamber. He didn't stop until he reached the bed, dropping you onto the furs with a gentleness that belied the urgency of his stride.
You scrambled backward, leaning back on your elbows to watch him. Baelor stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze raking over you with a possessive heat that made your skin prickle. He reached for the laces of his doublet, tugging them loose with rough jerks of his wrists. The heavy velvet fell to the floor, followed quickly by his linen undershirt.
Your breath hitched. He was magnificent. Years of training and warfare had sculpted his body into a map of lean muscle and scars. His skin was tanned, a dusting of dark hair trailing from his chest down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. Your mouth watered at the sight of him.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. His voice was a low rasp, leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed instantly, unlacing your dress quickly. You lay bare before him, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your skin. Baelor's eyes darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the flush of your chest, the curve of your hips, and the glistening slickness already gathering between your thighs. You spread your legs slowly, an invitation, a surrender.
"Beautiful," he murmured. He stepped forward, grabbing your ankles and yanking you to the very edge of the mattress.
He dropped to his knees on the stone floor, not bothering to remove his breeches yet. He wasted no time, burying his face between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your wet cunt before his tongue made contact.
You gasped, your back arching off the bed. The flick of his tongue against your clit was precise, devastating. He knew exactly how to touch you, exactly where to apply the pressure to shatter your composure. You buried your fingers in his short, dark hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
He ate you like a man starving, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moans filled the room, high and desperate, spurring him on. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling straight to your core. Then, without warning, he thrust two thick fingers inside your tight channel.
"Oh gods!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.
He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. You tugged hard on his hair, earning another muffled groan from him that sent shockwaves through your nervous system. The pressure built rapidly, a tight coil in your belly ready to snap.
"That's it," he murmured against you, his voice muffled by your flesh.
The praise, combined with the curl of his fingers, pushed you over the edge. Your cunt clenched around his digits, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came with a sharp cry. Your thighs trembled, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you rode out the intensity of the climax.
Baelor didn't let up immediately, lapping up your juices as you pulsed around him, prolonging your pleasure until you were sensitive and whimpering. He stood, his hands moving to the laces of his breeches, freeing the heavy length of his cock as he stepped out of them.
You had seen him naked hundreds of times, but the sight of him — thick, hard, and flushed with blood — never failed to make your mouth water. He stroked himself once, twice, the skin sliding over the rigid shaft, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his arms. His weight settled over you, his knees pushing your thighs wider. He lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
You gasped, your head falling back. You had forgotten how big he was, the way he filled you completely, the slight burn that gave way to a deep, aching fullness. He seated himself fully, his hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust.
He began to move, his strokes steady and deep. He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, the friction delicious. But it wasn't enough. You needed more. You needed him to lose control.
"Fuck me harder," you pleaded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Faster."
Baelor stilled for a fraction of a second, his mismatched eyes burning into yours. A dark, dangerous smirk curled his lips. "You want it hard?"
He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving you feeling empty and desperate. Before you could protest, he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your hands and knees.
You scrambled to arch your back, presenting yourself to him. You felt the mattress dip as he moved behind you. He didn't give you time to prepare. He slammed into you in one hard, brutal thrust.
A scream tore from your throat as he began to slam into you. The bed frame creaked under the onslaught. He poured all his frustrations, his jealousy, his pent-up desire into every thrust. His hips snapped against your ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud and obscene in the quiet room.
"Gods, yes, Baelor!" you cried out, your fingers clutching at the furs beneath you. "Just like that!"
He leaned forward, covering your back with his chest. One hand tangled in your thick hair, pulling your head back until your ear was level with his lips. The sting on your scalp only heightened the pleasure.
"You're mine yes?" he asked.
"Yes! Yours!"
His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. "Every inch of you."
His hot breath panted against your ear, ragged and heavy. The sound of him losing control, of him using your body so thoroughly, was intoxicating. He reached around with his free hand, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed tight, fast circles over the swollen bud, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, his voice strained. "I know you want to come. Give it to me."
The stimulation was too much. The drag of his thick cock inside you, the friction on your clit, the possessive grip in your hair — it shattered you. You came again, your cunt convulsing around him, your vision whiting out. You screamed his name, your body collapsing beneath him as the pleasure overwhelmed your senses.
Baelor didn't stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release as you lay senseless and trembling beneath him. His thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm. He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and stilled.
He groaned deep in his chest, a sound of pure relief and possession. You felt the hot pulse of his seed spilling inside you, coating your insides, marking you as his. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving against your back, both of you lost in the aftermath of the storm.
Baelor rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping himself buried inside you as long as he could.
He pressed a kiss to your damp forehead. "I love you," he whispered, the anger gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.
You curled into his chest. "I love you too," you said softly.
You lay there for a long time, the silence comfortable. The jealousy that had plagued him all night receded, replaced by the reality of you in his arms. Valarr could have the dances and whispers. Baelor had your soul.
But the comfort was fleeting.
A week passed, and Baelor felt his sanity fraying like an old rope. The wedding was now only days away, and you were nowhere to be found — at least, not for him.
You spent every waking moment with Valarr. You were inseparable. The only time Baelor saw his son without you was during the small council meetings, where Valarr sat silently, learning the governance of the realm, his leg bouncing impatiently until the session ended so he could return to you.
The court was abuzz with excitement. Everywhere Baelor went, he heard the same refrain.
"Such a lovely match." "The Prince and his lady." "It is good for the realm."
It made Baelor want to scream.
Worst of all was the time Valarr spent with your son. The little boy had taken to the Prince with an ease that twisted a knife in Baelor's gut.
You were sharing a midday meal. Your father was there with you. Baelor sat at the head of the table, picking at his food, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across from him.
Valarr held the boy on his lap, feeding him small pieces of meat and cheese. The child was giggling, grabbing at Valarr's tunic with sticky hands. Valarr didn't mind. He laughed, wiping the boy's face with a napkin, his expression one of pure adoration.
"And what shall we get you for your nameday, little man?" Valarr asked, bouncing the boy on his knee. "A wooden sword? A pony?"
"Pony!" the boy shrieked.
"Pony," Valarr agreed with a smile.
You sat next to them, watching with a soft smile. "Valarr, do not spoil him. He has too much already."
"He cannot have too much," Valarr argued, looking at you. "He is my son now, or he will be soon."
The words hit Baelor like a blow to the chest. My son.
The little boy grew distracted, his gaze wandering around the room. He saw Baelor sitting at the high table, dark and brooding. The boy's face lit up, and he pointed a chubby finger.
"Papa!" he yelled clearly.
The table fell silent.
Valarr didn't flinch. He caught the boy's hand and kissed his little fist gently, turning him back around. "No," he corrected, his voice soft but firm, his eyes flicking briefly to Baelor. "He is my papa. Do we look so alike?"
The boy frowned, confused, looking between the two men. They did look alike; the same dark hair, same eyes. It was a cruel joke of genetics.
Baelor gripped the edge of the table until the wood groaned. He felt your eyes on him. This was more than he could endure.
Worse still was the coldness of your bed. Since his return, you had not let him touch you. "Not tonight, my love," you would whisper, turning your face to the pillow. "The day has been long."
He believed you, at first. You looked pale, the dark circles under your eyes pronounced. But as the week wore on and he watched you laugh and walk with Valarr all day, the excuses began to ring hollow. You had energy for Valarr. You had smiles for Valarr. You had patience for Valarr. For Baelor, you only had headaches.
The frustration built, he was the one who had orchestrated this entire mess to keep you close, and yet he was the only one being pushed away.
The breaking point came a week after his return. The candles in your chamber had burned low, the room smelling of wax and the lingering scent of lilies. Baelor had cornered you near the bed, his patience frayed to nothing. He kissed you gently initially, backing you onto the mattress, your smaller frame pinned beneath his weight, the heat of his body pressing against you.
"I need you," he growled against your neck, his hand fumbling with the laces of your bodice. "I've watched him play husband all week. I need to feel you."
You squirmed beneath him, your hands pushing against his shoulders. "Baelor, wait."
"I have waited," he snapped, his fingers tugging the fabric down to expose the curve of your shoulder. He dipped his head to taste your skin.
"No." You shoved him hard, surprising him with the force of it. "I have a headache. A terrible one."
Baelor froze, his chest heaving. He pulled back, looming over you, his eyes blazing in the dim light. "A headache?" he spat. "How much longer will these headaches of yours continue?"
You sat up, clutching your bodice closed. "If you are going to be cruel, then leave."
The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating. Baelor stared at you, seeing the hurt and the defiance warring in your bright eyes. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving him hollow and weary.
"I did not mean it," he said, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I do not want to fight. I just... I miss your warmth. I feel as if I am losing you."
Your eyes softened, the anger melting. You sighed, leaning into his touch. "You are not losing me."
"I know," he murmured.
You pulled him down, meeting his lips. This time, there was no desperation, only a slow, aching familiarity. Your tongues relearned the shape of each other, sliding together in a deep, sensual rhythm that made Baelor's head spin. He groaned low in his throat, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to him as if he could merge your very breath.
When you finally parted, you were both breathless.
"Perhaps I will feel better tomorrow," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Go back to your own rooms tonight. Let me rest."
Baelor wanted to argue, wanted to stay and wrap himself around you, but he saw the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He nodded, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow."
You walked him to the door and kissed him once more on the cheek, a gentle dismissal.
"Goodnight, my Prince."
He stood in the hallway for a long time after the door clicked shut, staring at the wood grain. Perhaps tomorrow. The words hung in the air, a promise and a tease. He adjusted his tunic and turned toward his own empty chambers, the jealousy sated but never truly gone.
Tomorrow did not bring relief. The day before the wedding arrived with a grey, oppressive sky. The Small Council meeting dragged on, the droning voices of the lords blending into a dull hum in Baelor's ears. When the meeting finally adjourned, the men began to file out, bowing their heads and gathering their parchments.
"Father," Valarr said. He remained seated, his hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him. "Might I have a word? Privately."
Baelor paused, waving the others out. Valarr had been brooding all afternoon, his jaw set tight, eyes dark with an internal fury that Baelor had sensed but chose to ignore until now.
"Of course," Baelor said, leaning back against the council table, crossing his arms. "What is the matter?"
Valarr stood up slowly. He took a breath, his chest expanding beneath his doublet, before he stepped closer towards his father. The shadows stretched long across the floor, swallowing his feet. He looked at Baelor, and for a moment, the mask of the courtly prince slipped, revealing something raw and frantic underneath.
"Have I been a good son to you, Father?" Valarr asked. His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched at his sides. "Have I made you proud?"
Baelor sat, leaning back comfortably into his seat. "Of course. You need never doubt that."
"Do you love me?"
There was no hesitation in Baelor's response. He did not need to think.
"Yes. More than my own life."
Valarr nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He looked down at the table, then back up revealing eyes that were wet, shining with unshed tears.
"Then you will stop calling on my wife to warm your bed.”
The air left the room. Baelor stared at his son, his mind scrambling to find purchase, to find a denial that would not sound like a lie. But he saw the knowledge in Valarr's face. Knowledge along with pain and revulsion.
"I do not know what you have been told," Baelor began, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, "but you do not understand the—"
"I know everything," Valarr snapped, the volume rising, bouncing off the stone walls. He stepped forward, his hands slamming onto the table. "I told her I loved her this morning. I poured my heart out and she confessed everything."
Baelor closed his eyes for a brief second.
"She said she did not want our marriage to start on a lie," Valarr continued, his voice cracking. "She did not want me to give my love to someone who did not deserve it… she said she loved you. That you came to her bed just yesterday, and she turned you away out of guilt."
The image of your closed door, your refusal, your exhaustion flashed through Baelor's mind.
"I know you did not think we would feel for each other when you arranged this marriage," Valarr said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "You thought we would be strangers, but I love her and I will not allow this to continue."
Baelor stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. He walked around the table, needing to move, needing to put distance between himself and the accusation in his son's eyes.
"I do not blame you for loving her," Valarr said, his tone shifting, becoming almost pitying. "How could you not? But your love is no longer needed."
Baelor stopped. He turned, his brow furrowing. "No longer needed?"
"You are still just a boy. You think—"
"And you are someone else's husband!" Valarr shouted, cutting him off. "What can you give her but shame and disgrace? Secrets in the dark? Bastards?"
Baelor flinched. "I will not argue with you. Not like this."
He turned toward the door, intending to leave, to escape the room that had suddenly become a cage.
"I will not share my wife with you! My father!" Valarr's voice cracked like a whip, stopping Baelor in his tracks. "I will not spend my life wondering if my sons are my brothers!"
Baelor turned slowly. The cruelty of the image, the visceral horror of it, settled in his gut. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him. He looked at Valarr, seeing the boy he had taught to hold a sword, the child he had bounced on his knee, the young man he had betrayed in the worst way possible.
"I am sorry," Baelor whispered. "For that. I am sorry."
Valarr's chest heaved. He stared at his father, his anger momentarily banked by the apology.
"What would you have me do?"
"You will never speak to her again," Valarr said. The words were low, certain, absolute.
"I cannot do that."
"Is your lust for her more than your love for me?"
The question was simple, stripping away all the justifications, leaving only a choice Baelor refused to make.
"Does she know what you are asking of me?"
"Yes," Valarr said. "It was her solution."
Baelor shook his head. "You lie."
He knew you, the softness of your heart, the way you clung to him. You would not demand that he never look upon you again.
"It does not matter," Valarr said, his jaw set. "I am to be her husband."
"You do not trust her," Baelor said, seizing the thread, pulling at it. "You think she will come to me again."
"It is you whom I do not trust!" Valarr's control snapped. "She told me of her own free will! She wept in my arms! You, my father, were content to have me live my life as a fool, playing the happy husband while you—"
"It was not my intention to hurt you."
"The intent does not matter! The hurt is all the same." He took a deep breath, composing himself with visible effort. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet. "You are to never speak to her again. If you do, I will take her from this place. We will go to the ends of the earth, and we will not return until you are dead."
Baelor looked at his son. He saw the steel in him, the Targaryen fire. Valarr meant it. He would take you away, and Baelor would never see either of you again.
Either way, it was a life without you. But this way... this way, he could see you across the hall. He could know you were safe, he could know you were happy — happiness that had nothing to do with him.
"Alright." The word was barely a whisper. It felt like tearing his own heart out.
Valarr blinked, as if he hadn't expected the victory to come so easily. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
He stopped at the threshold, his hand on the iron ring. He did not look back.
"I will be a good husband," Valarr said. "She will be happy."
Then he pulled the door open and was gone, his footsteps fading rapidly down the corridor.
Baelor stood in the center of the room. The shadows lengthened, reaching out like dark fingers across the table. He listened to the faint, distant sounds of the castle coming to life for the evening, feeling a heartbreak so profound he knew it would never truly pass. He was alone.
Tag list: @lightdragonrayne @annetheperfect @w0nderfulb1iss @ibhearts
Hiii I love your writing! I wanted to ask if you could do a fic with maekar marrying reader (2nd wife, kids are all there) and falling in love with her and her with him. But when they go to attend a tourney at another lord’s home he finds out that reader was originally meant to be that lord’s wife and was even raised there and fell in love with the guy and was widely adored by the people of the kingdom to the point where they accidentally call her lady what ever lord you pick’s wife in front of maekar multiple times. And what makes it worse is that reader and the lord were in love with each other and while she has moved on he hasn’t and makes it very obvious. Maybe throw in some maekar kids being overly attached to their new step mom. Thank you so much if you do chose to create it and if not that’s totally fine too! I’m sorry if this request is a bit everywhere and disorganized, I was just writing it as it came out of my brain. Thank youuuuuuuuu
BEATS FOR YOU—Maekar Targaryen
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
content: Maekar is faced with the reality that maybe your heart does not belong to him like he had once thought, a mere few days ago.
words: 2.8k
cw: MDNI 18+, smut p in v, fingering, jealous Maekar, breeding (shocker), lmk if I missed any
a/n: this request scratched something within my brain.
When you had first married your husband, Maekar, it had not been for love or so that is what you had said to yourself the night before your wedding, but there had always been a connection. From the moment he laid eyes on you he was drawn to you and even more so when your gentle eyes met his face, and you smiled at him as if he had deserved it. You did not want to acknowledge what it was….or the fact that he ended up in your bed chambers that very night, and participated in activities unbefitting for an unwed couple.
He had petitioned for your hand the very next day, and was completely unaware that your hand had already been long promised to Lord Leo Tyrell’s son, Victor. Your father had agreed without question, because only a fool would deny a prince’s request, even if he was the fourth son of a king, and already had six children.
Victor was upset, rightfully so, he had spent most of his life thinking you were to be his wife, and now you were being married off to some stoic brute of House Targaryen. You did not mention the fact that you had made your way to that said man's chambers that night nor the fact that you were more than content to marry him. You cried, told him you would miss and then you were off to Summerhall.
And what had started as passion slowly shifted to love. Not that he would truly admit that out loud, but he showed it in his actions, he cared for you, he held you close to him every night, and he watched you with a sort of softness that was only reserved for you. On the contrary you had no problem telling him exactly how you felt. You loved him, more than you had ever loved anything in your life. You also showed him with your actions you took care of his children despite not being their mother, you never replaced Lady Dyanna’s memory, but instead existed alongside her.
He had never planned to take a second wife, and he had told you that from time to time, but then as he put it you strolled in and claimed in ways he could never quite express, not because he thought it was beneath aman of his status, but he could simply never form the words that he thought you deserved.
He knew you loved him.
You knew he loved you.
And former lives where you were supposed to be Lady Tyrell were long forgotten. You never thought of him. There were no nights where you lay awake wondering what could have been. It was honestly as if that time in your life never existed.
Until you were forced to face it again face first, crashing into that world once more. You realize now in hindsight you probably should have asked where the tourney was, and if it was a celebration for someone, but you had been so excited that Maekar had wanted you to accompany him.
“Oh, shit,” you had muttered when Victor Tyrell had approached, and your husband turned to you with furrowed brows, but you never did have the chance to answer as your name was called through the air.
Maekar’s shoulders immediately tensed, as it sounded much too casual on the man’s tongue, there was no title, no sense of formality, and it caused anger to flare within him, as his eyes locked on you watching your face. You smiled, and it seemed more nervous than genuine.
Who the fuck did this man think he was to address you in a such a way?
Just when he thought it could not get worse the man fucking hugged you. His hands touched you. He watched as his arms wrapped around you, and the young Lord's eyes locked on him, a smug smirk on his face. Baelor who stood a few feet away conversing with Lord Leo, watched his brother carefully as if he was afraid the man would begin to beat the Heir to High Garden.
He had a right to think that.
The pair of you pulled away as you stood awkwardly between them, “Maekar, this is Victor Tyrell,” you introduced waving your hand toward him, but you kept your eyes on the Targaryen, “Victor this is my husband, Prince Maekar.”
“I am sure you have heard of me,” Victor said, a cocky grin on his face.
“I have not,” he said bluntly, his signature scowled carved deep into his face as he turned from you toward the man. He was shorter than himself, with dark hair, and a boyish grin. He did not seem that much older than his eldest son, but then again you weren’t much older than his eldest son.
The young man’s smile faltered slightly, but not much. “Well, she practically grew up here so we were very close. So much so that your wife was supposed to be mine originally.”
He knew you had grown up in the Reach, within the Walls of High Garden, your father had sent you there as he felt ill equipped to raise a daughter, as your mother had perished in child birth. He had been completely unaware that you were in fact supposed to marry another.
Now his mind began to spiral.
Had you been betrothed already? Were you in love? Were you angry when you were forced to marry him instead of the young man? His mind couldn't stop.
His jaw clenched, harsher as he stared at the young man, but before he had a chance to answer or even talk to you further Baelor was beckoning him forward, and when he went to drag you with him of course Young Victor Tyrell was swooping in telling him that he could keep you company, and before he could utter a harsh remark you were already gone in the wind.
Maekar’s foul mood had tripled by the time darkness had taken over the sky. He had heard the whispers of the court of how they were so elated you had returned, that Victor looked happier than ever, and even heard the odd few call you Lady Tyrell which he had been quick to correct words flying out before he could stop himself (Baelor then had to offer apologies to the poor terrified soul).
His long fingers curled around around the goblet that was sure to break if he squeezed any harder, his eyes following you as you danced across the floor with Victor Tyrell, the smug cunt, whose hands held you too closely for a woman that was not his wife.
Baelor had suggested for him to dance with you, and your face had practically lit up in excitement but before he could even shoot it down the man who irked him, beyond belief, showed up swooping in leading you toward the dance floor.
The smile on the man’s face wasn’t the worst. It was his eyes who stared at you with such loving intensity it made a pit fill in his belly. He couldn’t see your face long enough, but he imagined you looked the very same. You had grown up with him, had spent most of your life thinking you were going to wed, and then he came ripping you from the life you were supposed to have.
Him the fourth son of a King set to inherit no crown, him who had been widowed once already, and him with six children you were now forced to take care. This could have been your life. Lighter fabric dresses for the heat of HIgh Garden, Young Lord who had no issues smiling at you, and a man that had not been burdened by grief and children like he himself had.
Perhaps this is what you had deserved.
He was lost in thought he missed the silver hair, interrupting your dance. He missed the change of partners from the young man he had been brooding about to his second son. He definitely missed the way you were now positioned to see his face, as Aerion conversed with you a topic unheard to anyone, but the pair of you.
He did not come back to the land of living until he felt a gentle hand be placed on his hsoudlers. He recoiled slightly before he turned, finding you staring at him, “I wish to retire for the night. Would you care to join me?” you asked.
He could not meet your eyes, he did not want to see anything they would reveal. Like the fact perhaps you were happier here, angry at him for taking you away from this place, or even worse the disappointment you may have felt for him as your husband, but nonetheless he grunted out before following after you.
He never truly could tell you no.
The walk to your provided chambers were silent, the only sound being his hard steps against the floor, and your skirts whispering. He watched you the entire way, as you fiddled with your rings on your fingers or even grasping the lighter material of your skirt. At first he had been excited for the warmer weather, for you to adorn the thinner dresses you had worn before you had made Summerhall your home, but now he wasn’t so sure. Now he knew other Lords had spent the entire night undressing you with their eyes, perhaps they had undressed you before.
When you finally reached the chambers the door shut, as you moved pouring you each wine.
“Are you ready to talk?” you had asked, sitting on one side of the table.
He pulled his doublet off, now only wearing a tunic as he pushed the sleeves up revealing his toned forearms. He said nothing at first, moving to sit across from you as he drank, not meeting your eyes.
“Maekar,” you called out, your voice gentle, reminding him the sound of light rain against the windows bringing him a sense of comfort. He finally looked up meeting your eyes as you stared at him, they looked the same as always, a look of something he could never quite place filled them.
“You do not have to tell me I already know I ruined your life,” he grumbled, finishing the red liquid before pouring himself more. He needed the courage if he was going to have this conversation. To feel his heart being ripped from his chest and stomped on.
“How do you figure that, husband?”
He sighed, “You were suppose to marry that young handsome Lord and I fucking swopped in stealing you away forcing you into a life you did not want. You could have had this,” he said gesturing around to the walls of High Garden, “Instead you got stuck with an angry, old man and six children. When your heart clearly belonged to another.”
You laughed, which only caused his eyes to squint, “Do not mock me,” he hissed.
“I am not mocking you. Is that truly what you have been thinking all day?”
“What else am I to think?” he countered, sitting back in his chair, causing the wood to groan.
“Maekar, do you remember when we met?” you then questioned.
He thought back to that time, you had accompanied your father the Red Keep, for a celebration he could not even recall. What he could recall was when he had walked you back to your chambers, and you talked the whole time and he listened, clinging to every word. He couldn't stop himself from thinking of how beautiful you looked, as you laughed, and used your hands much more freely than a proper woman should, but Gods he didn’t want you to stop. Then he remembered, being invited into your chamber, and then he kissed you, or mayhaps you kissed him he could not recall all the details on your face as you came undone beneath him a tangle of sheets. The very next day he had asked for your hand, and he now wondered if he still would have done that if he knew your heart belonged to another.
He grunted in reply, and you stood making your way to him. He stared out ahead, but his legs opened on instinct allowing you to step in between them. Your hands moved to his bearded cheeks, forcing him to look up at you. “It is true. I was supposed to marry him, and I had thought I was in love with him, but then I saw you. I did not know what it was when I looked at you, but I knew I had never felt it before with Victor. Then you kissed me, and it showed me what I now know.”
You lifted his hand resting on your chest, and he could feel the thumping from inside your chest, “My heart beats for you and only you. I have not regretted marrying you for a single second nor will I ever wish this is my life instead of what I have with you.”
He stared at you, the hard edges of his face softening as he stared up at you, processing your words, as they buried themselves deep inside him, wrapping around his heart. You then leaned down, “It has only ever truly been you,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his.
He immediately shot to his feet, his hands gripping underneath the curve of your ass as he lifted you with ease. His mouth claimed you, trying to burn himself into all your senses as one of his hands moved, swiping the material of the table to the floor as he set you on top of it. All his pent up frustration of the day finally came to form, as he kissed you urgently as your hands immediately moved to the lace of his trousers.
His hand bunched your skirts up, ripping your small clothes with great strength, as he found you already dripping for him, he entered a digit into you with teasing, his thumb and forefinger pinching your clit causing you to moan, your hands stilling on the laces. He entered another as you freed his cock your hand wrapping around his base stroking. He curled his fingers inside you causing your grip to tighten as you both groaned.
“Please. I need you inside me, husband,” you begged, as you stroked his cock.
He normally would have taken the time to draw out your pleads, until you were practically crying for more than he was giving you, until you were babbling mess, as then he fucked you to mush, but he needed you just as much as you needed him. He needed to claim you further, to erase the thought of any other Lord from your mind like he already did time and time again without even knowing it.
He pulled his fingers from you, “Open,” he commanded as he positioned himself in between your legs. You did as you were told, his fingering entering inside you as you thoroughly licked them clean, he entered fully inside you were once brutal thrust, causing you to clamp down on his digits slightly.
The pace was brutal, as the sound of flesh slapping against each other filled the air, he ripped the front of your dress further exposing your chest to him, as your fingers tangled through his silver locked tugging into him harshly, trying to pull him closer, as if he could be any closer to you.
You felt so full. Your eyes practically rolling back into your head as he fucked you sensless. His hands everywhere as his mouth moved across your chest leaving marks in their wake, painting your skin with him.
“I am going to fill you with my fucking babe and then no one will forget who you belong to.” You clenched around him at his words, causing him to grunt his brutal pace only intensifying, his balls slapping against your ass that hung partially off the wood, felt heavy as his release was starting to crawl up his chest.
“Please. Please, husband! Give me your seed,” you cried, your head tilting back as his hand snaked in between you giving your swollen clit the attention it begged for. The coil in your belly snapping caused you to flutter around him, crying out his name, as your nails raked down across any skin you could find.
He followed soon after, buried to the hilt as he painted your walls with him, he groaned your name as the glorious feeling of release filled his bone, as his head moved resting on your shoulder, as your ragged breaths filled the air.
“I am yours and only yours,” you promised, as you could now finally form a thought.
Maekar lifted his head pressing his lips to yours, it was gentle, softer than what had just occurred moments ago. “As I am yours,” he whispered, his voice so low it almost got lost in the wind. A smile crossed his lips as he remembered your words from earlier, your heart only beat for him and not some young reach Lord cunt.
