Antobooh

“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.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“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.

Now you were not. 

The first night he did not notice, to his own guilt, as his body ached for sleep. He crawled into bed, and succumbed to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Then morning came and everything came flying back. 

Your request to dine together. 

Missing said dinner. 

Sleeping alone. 

He had tried to talk to you. Though that had not worked in his favor when you turned the complete opposite direction steering clear of him,  and between you chasing around Maekar’s youngest children, keeping the elder boys in line, and him being submerged into his own duties it was easy for you to avoid him. 

This had carried on now for over a week. 

You navigate the halls, turning the other way, or dispatching your eldest son to distract his father so you could slip away. It was eating him away, and tonight as he stared up at the canopy of the bed. Your side empty and cold under his touch he rose from the bed. 

He  moved through the halls with determination. He was going to make things right. This had gone on long enough. He was in the wrong, and he knew that. He was going to take full accountability. 

He reached your door letting out a shaky breath as he attempted to steady himself. “My love, my wife, light of my life. I am so deeply sorry,” he rehearsed to himself, but letting out a nod of approval at the words. 

Baelor called out your name as his knuckles rapped against the wood awaiting an answer, but alas none ever came, “I am coming in,” he declared, pushing the door open without waiting for approval. 

He was ready to beg, to plead, to drop to his knees and assure you that it would not happen again, but nothing came from his mouth as he did not make it past the doorway. His eyes scanned the horizon as he looked for something out of place, a hint that you had been there.

His stomach dropped. His mouth turned into a deep frown. 

You weren’t there. 

And worse of all nothing had been touched. 

The way back into your heart was through the kids. Your pride and joy. The evidence of the life the pair of you had made together. Matarys would not have been up at this hour, but you were. As would Valarr. 

You would go to watch your eldest practice his sword skill. He had devised the plan last night in the quiet of your chambers. He had sat there in the silence for an embarrassingly long time just waiting, prYing almost that you would come back. 

You did not, and when the sun started to rise he took his leave to start the day, but he would not take the familiar path to the tower of the hand where he would rot away for most of the day. 

He would not see this as defeat, but a mere obstacle. He would make things right. He needed to make things right. 

The brisk morning air hit his face when he found you, leaning against the railing. You looked at a vision, the half risen son beaming against your face as it was lighting you, like you were some eternal beauty. 

You smiled, and he felt a warmth fill his chest at the sight. He had only wished it was directed at him, and if things went to plan mayhaps it could be. Your eyes were trained on the courtyard, not having noticed him or if you had you did not acknowledge it. He took a step out, not fully exposing himself, but enough to see what you were looking at. 

He froze in his tracks. Valarr was not training with the master of arms, but rather someone else. Your grin widened as you watched the pair, and for a moment Baelor did not move simply staring at the man, blinking once, twice as if it was his mind playing tricks on him. 

It was not. 

Maekar stood giving instructions to the elder before turning to his own son, the second as his eldest was nowhere to be found. He seemed… different. There was no signature stern pulling at his feature, he was not barking out orders to the boys, and it usually would have made his eldest brother joyful to witness this. 

But then he tilted his head up as if he was being drawn to a force. He smiled at you. Not a half smile, not even his lips turning up cockily. It was real, and it was warm.

That feeling from last night filled his bones again. The pit in his stomach growing in his eyes moved from uncle and nephew to you. 

You sat with a shawl wrapped around yourself. Today you were wearing your own house colors, your hair pulled back. Nothing looked out of place, and you appeared as you always did to most, but not to Baelor who had spent his most of life studying you like scripture. 

Your shoulders lacked the tension they had been carrying these last few months, you look refreshed as if you had slept enough, and most of you seemed happier, to which he would have been glad for it had the next thing not transpired. 

It was the fond expression that filled your face when Maekar turned back to the boys he ruffled Valarr’s head gently as the boy grinned up at the man. There was a wound in Baelor and it felt as if someone was twisting the knife into him deeper, holding it there to make him feel the pain. 

Without saying another word he turned away, moving into the castle before taking the shameful path to the Tower of the Hand.  

Baelor had been making more of a conscious effort to not spend the entire night swapped in his work. Tonight he had even made it to dinner. 

You sat next to him, not that he had given you any chance simply sitting down beside you before Valarr or even Matarys could. Though he was now realizing this was the easy part. 

You had not said a single word to him the entire dinner nor even spared him a glance. This he knew, because he had not touched his food and instead chose to stare at you the entire time in fear that he would miss any stay looks you would bless him with. 

Your laughter still filled the air, and your soft expression still graced the evening, but none was ever directed at him. You nodded listening to every story that your children, nieces, and nephews had to tell you, but every single time your gaze strayed back to the silver haired man across from you. 

He sat back the entire time watching his family as if he was a spectator in his own life. His brother had filled his role, without him evening knowing. He was there, and he was everything that he currently lacked. 

An ache spread across his chest as he watched Maekar’s lips turn up in a half smile trying to hide the smirk at a joke Matarys told him, the way his eyes stayed trained completely on Valarr listening to his every word as he told him about something he read that day, or even the secret glances the two of you kept exchanging. 

This was wrong. All of this was wrong, but he had started this. He was the one that had given the wrong answer in the first place, neglecting his family for duty.

Baelor would have missed it if he had not been watching you so closely. The way your face fell for half a second, as you looked at him through his peripheral vision, and that felt like the final nail into the coffin. 

He had hurt you. He had driven you to this point, and you were not acting out of pure malice, but out of pain. The longing and sadness that no doubt filled you, currently being dulled by the simple fact that someone was putting in the effort with you, that someone wanted you. 

Maekar made time for you without you having to beg. 

He did not truly need the confirmation, but wanted it nonetheless. He should have known from the beginning as you had told him from the very beginning. You had warned him exactly what would happen 

And you were not a woman who bluffed. 

You made good on your word, time and time again. He did not know how he could have forgotten your promise that night. It was his fault in the first place. He had spoken the suggestion into the air. 

He thought he would have been alright with it. He was not sure why he had thought that. Perhaps too busy drowning in duty to realize how sickening it would feel to have the thought that his brother was touching you. That he was the one providing for his family the way he should have been. 

Baelor could feel the shift in the air as he now got closer to Maekar’s chamber, before he could even hear the obscene sounds that he instantly recognized as yours. 

He stood outside the door staring at the wood as he heard you through the door. The loud cries, and mumbled words. The distinct creaking of wood as his brother no doubt plowed into you at a brutal pace that caused your toes to curl. 

He could see it all without having the exact sight in front of him. 

He had all the confirmation he needed, truly. He did not have to push that door open and to see the sight to know exactly what was going on, but he did nonetheless. 

Neither of you even noticed when he entered the room, nor when the door shut, both too lost in the other. Your nails dragged across his pale skin splitting the skin, as his hand was wrapped around your throat, pounding into you brutally. 

You seemed to enjoy it solely by your cries that filled the air, and your hips raising meeting his every thrust. It was an odd sight, to see your wife being pleasured by the person he was closest with. His brother. 

But nonetheless he could not look away or even control the way his body was reacting to the sight. 

Your eyes finally strayed from Maekar’s burning violet gaze that no doubt looked more black due to blown pupils. You did not mean for it to stay anywhere else any longer, but you had to do a double take seeing the presence that occupied the door. 

“Baelor?” you questioned, finally seeing him the door way. 

The man above you, head shot back looking toward the door, a look of bewilderment filling his face. He glanced back at you as if wondering if this was real life and not some sick and twisted dream, but based on your expression it was all the confirmation he seemed to need. 

Maekar went to pull out, to no doubt try and forge words together to explain, but your legs wrapped around his waist. Your hand wrapping around the nape of his neck drawing him close as you whispered something that went unheard to the man in the doorway. 

Baelor did not move. Maekar continued to fuck you once more. And you did not hold back your theatrics.  

Your husband only finally moved from the room when his brother finished into his wife with a guttural groan, as you cried out his name, but your gaze was held on the mismatched eyes by the door. 

Baelor had spent more of his life married to you than not. You had been there though it all. Tourneys, children, whispers, rebellions, and even him being named hand of the king. He might have been the glue keeping the realm together, but you were the bind for your family. 

And he had taken it for granted. He had taken you for granted. 

The door to the chambers opened, and he was immediately on his feet when you finally entered the room for the first time in what felt like forever, but had only been a little over a week. 

“Hi,” he breathed out. 

“Hi,” you replied. 

Neither of you moved, staring at the other waiting for one of you to break the silence. To final be the straw that no doubt would send your emotions both flooding. 

“I have hurt you that sorry seems dull in comparison to what you deserve,” he finally stated, moving forward slowly. He was terrified to send you running when he had you so close to his grasp. 

You hummed, nodding. He watched your face as you slowly seemed to take in his words. Your head moved back and forth debating it for a moment, “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you…I was,” your words died in your throat for a moment as you looked away from him trying to compose yourself before continuing, “I was so lonely, Baelor.”

“Do not be sorry…I drove you there, and as much as it pains me to see that sight I do not blame you nor Maekar in the slightest.”

Neither of you spoke again, the silence almost felt suffocating for the first time in your marriage. That the pair of you could not function together like you always had due to the large rift between the pair of you. 

He moved toward you, and you did not turn away, allowing him to drop to his knees before you. He reached out gripping your hands on his own, and for the first time in days he felt somewhat more whole with your flesh against his, your eyes boring into his mismatched ones. 

“I am not expecting you to forgive me, and I know we will have to work through this. That I will have to prove to you that I am so deeply sorry, and that this will never, ever happen again,” the tears streamed down his face as he tried to to control his thoughts, but his brain was so m

“Breathe,” you instructed him gently, which was all he needed for the thoughts to order themselves to allow him to properly construct sentences one more time. 

“I love you, more than anything…I have taken you for granted, and I should be sentenced to death for that. I–I cannot exist without you, my love. You are everything, you are the bind of our family and I could not do any of this without you,” he told you, staring up at you from the place of the floor. 

You did not instantly reply, which scared him more. He felt vulnerable, more than he ahd in some time, but he did not regret it. He would drop to his knees, he would walk against hot coal bare foot, and take a sword to the belly if that was what it took for your forgiveness. 

He could only hope you knew he meant the truth, that you knew how much he loved you, how much you meant to him. And he was sure you did, because deep down you knew him better than himself. 

You were each a part of each other, wound so deeply in the other’s soul it would feel as if 

You took a shaky breath, before finally speaking, “Prove it to me.”

He was sure the Gods had just smiled down on him, “I will. I will spend every day for the rest of our lives proving it,”  he told you, pressing his mouth to your hands, as he then leaned forward resting against your belly. 

Finally your hand raised, running through his dark hair, “I have missed you,” you whispered, and he could feel the tears in your words. 

“I am not going anywhere. Not again. I will make things right. We will be okay.”

“I know,” you whispered, and those two small words held more weight than any council statement he had ever delivered. Suddenly a weight lifted off him, the pitt in his stomach seeping out through the liquid dripping from his eyes. “You need to apologize to the boys as well.”

“I will, I will,” he said, moving further into your touch.”

The silence field roomed, as his brain finally felt silent for the first time in days unaware that yours was still working, “Mayhaps we could go to Dragonstone for some time. Just us and the boys.”

He pulled away only to glance up at you allowing your fingers to stay locked into his hair, “I will make arrangements on the morrow. We can stay as long or as short as you would like.”

You smiled at him, and though the tears stained your cheeks, and the smile did not fully reach your eyes, you still held him. You still smiled at him and you were looking at him as if you would never look away again, and Gods he hoped he would never feel your ire ever again. 

“I love you,” you whispered to him. 

His throat felt raw, as he could feel honestly laced through every word. Your heart belonged to him, and his belonged to you no matter what you would go through. It would take some time for the pair of you to feel alright again, but you could achieve it once more. “I love you,” he replied, moving back into you just holding himself there. 

Neither moved. Neither dared to be afraid the walls would come crashing in once more, but when you finally did nothing came flying down causing you both to realize that mayhaps you weren’t as doomed as you had originally thought. 

And when you laid down together simply clinging to each other, everything felt alright for the first time in moons, because he would not allow himself to remember just how important you were to him in the grand scheme of things ever again.

maekar taglist: @sacha1slytherin @erylilly @thebl00dwyrm @ilocuras24 @xkatherinexo @eleventhboi @alaeratrrn @sem-ra @vigilante24ish @alecriminn @kravitzwhore @loveslide @xostarrgirl @claerysa @karakatitsa-sonya @ghost-heart34 @princessphilly @eowyns-fantasy @hourastius @aryaslittleneedle

baelor taglist: @ynnlvrs @theonewhoshallbeunnamed @darylandbethfanforever9

The last time Dean Di Laurentis had occupied your working memory, he was fourteen years old, a minor character in the background of your high school years, and completely consumed by an aggressive argument about luxury watch brands on your parents’ manicured lawn in Greenwich.

Back then, you had far too much on your plate to pay attention to your younger brother Beau’s rotating circle of wealthy, hyperactive friends. Between your own intense varsity tennis schedule, prep courses for the Ivy League, and the suffocating social expectations of Connecticut’s elite, the boys tracking mud through the foyer were just background noise. You knew Dean’s family, of course, everyone in the country club circuit knew the Di Laurentis name, but Dean himself was just a scrawny kid with a floppy bowl cut and a permanent smirk, always rushing off to some elite youth hockey league.

When you packed your life into designer luggage and left for university, Dean had been an afterthought. You vaguely remembered him standing by the hedges, wearing an oversized prep-school blazer, offering a polite, casual nod as your car pulled out of the driveway.

Seven years was a long time in the grand scheme of human biology.

You had completed your undergraduate degree, spent three grueling years grinding your way up the corporate ladder of a fast-paced marketing firm in Chicago, and officially settled into the cynical, hyper-scheduled routine of a twenty-five-year-old professional. Beau had stayed on the athletic track, eventually landing the starting quarterback position at Briar University, turning into a massive, golden-boy campus celebrity whose games your parents traveled to see every autumn.

Dean had followed the ice instead of the gridiron, occupying a completely separate social circle as the star winger for Briar’s powerhouse hockey team. You saw his name occasionally in the family group chat when your mother clipped society pages or sports headlines, but in your mind, he remained frozen as the rich, annoying teenager who used to leave his expensive hockey sticks leaning against your father's vintage car.

Then came the Briar spring alumni weekend.

The post-game mixer at the off-campus athletic house was a chaotic, high-volume sea of red and white jerseys, premium liquor catering stations on the back porch, and a dense, humid cloud of expensive cologne mixed with ambient body heat. The bass from a massive speaker setup in the corner was vibrating right through the soles of your leather boots, a steady, thumping rhythm that matched the low, ambient roar of a hundred twenty-something athletes celebrating a double-victory weekend. Beau had thrown his arm around your shoulder the second you walked through the door, proudly parading his older sister through a gauntlet of offensive linemen and athletic directors like a prize trophy.

"Hey, hold on," Beau barked into your ear, his loud, deep quarterback voice easily cutting through the noise of the crowd. He navigated you toward the wide archway leading into the kitchen, his large hand steering you past a group of cheerleaders. "There’s some guys from the ice rink you haven't seen since we lived in Connecticut. Hey! Di Laurentis! Get over here!"

You adjusted the strap of your shoulder bag, preparing yourself to smile politely at whatever ghost from the past was about to stumble out of the kitchen pantry. You expected a polite handshake, a brief inquiry about your corporate job, and maybe a casual nod toward your shared Greenwich roots.

The crowd shifted. A tall, broad-supported man stepped through the threshold, a premium drink held loosely between his long, heavily calloused fingers.

The smile died instantly on your face. Your fingers froze against the leather strap of your bag.

It was a total, violent chemical override of your entire sensory system.

The scrawny, uncoordinated kid from the driveway had vanished entirely from the mortal plane. In his place stood a six-foot-two monument to athletic perfection, a man whose presence seemed to warp the very air pressure in the room. His hair wasn't a floppy, tragic bowl cut anymore; it was a thick, messy crop of bright, golden-blonde strands that looked effortlessly styled, a few loose pieces falling over a forehead that was smooth and tanned.

But it was the sheer size of him that caused your brain to execute a hard, catastrophic system reboot.

Dean’s shoulders were massive, a wide, terrifyingly solid shelf that filled out a crisp, dark green linen shirt with a precision that felt almost predatory. The top three buttons were left casually undone, revealing the heavy, clean line of his collarbones and a glimpse of a broad, hairless chest that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite by a classical sculptor. His waist was narrow, tapering down into a pair of dark, tailored jeans that clung to thighs so thick and powerful they clearly belonged to a man who spent his mornings pushing sleds across concrete and skating through defensive lines at thirty miles an hour.

He didn't just look different. He looked like an entirely new species.

"Holy hell," you whispered under your breath, the words slipping past your lips before your professional filter could intercept them. Your eyes did an involuntary, frantic double-take, tracking the hard, clean line of his jaw, the sharp, aristocratic slope of his nose, and the intense, piercing blue of his eyes as they locked onto yours.

Dean stopped right in front of you. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, his blue eyes dropping down to take in the sight of you in your tailored skirt and silk blouse before rising back up to meet your stunned gaze. The sheer, unadulterated confidence radiating off his skin was a physical force, a smoky, high-stakes charm that made your lower stomach execute a sudden, heavy drop.

"Well, look who finally decided to come back to the minor leagues," Dean said. His voice was a total shock to your ears. It wasn't the cracking, high-pitched tone of a teenager; it was a deep, gravelly baritone, a low, smooth vibration that seemed to hit you right in the center of your chest, sending a hot, liquid shiver straight down the inside of your thighs. "Hey there."

The plot, as it turned out, had thickened to a point that was entirely unmanageable.

For the first twenty minutes of the conversation, you were completely incapable of processing actual language. Beau was standing next to you, loudly recounting a specific play from the third quarter, his hands gesturing wildly through the air, but your entire cognitive capacity was anchored entirely to Dean’s mouth. Every time he took a sip from his glass, the hard, definition-heavy muscle of his forearm flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the thick veins mapping a path across his tanned skin that had your throat going completely dry.

You had spent three years in Chicago around corporate executives, high-end clients, and polished, well-dressed men, but none of them had ever made your pulse spike with this kind of raw, visceral panic. Dean was looking down at you with a look that was entirely inappropriate for someone who used to be a background character in your life. It was a lazy, hunting look, a slow, appreciative assessment that made you acutely aware of the fact that your clothes suddenly felt entirely too tight.

"You're quiet," Dean murmured, leaning his shoulder against the wooden doorframe, effectively cutting off the rest of the kitchen traffic until it was just the two of you locked in a tight, high-tension pocket of space. Beau had already drifted away to greet a group of boosters, leaving you entirely defenseless. "What's the matter? Did the corporate world take away your tongue?"

"I'm just... trying to reconcile the data," you said, your voice coming out a little sharper than intended as you took a deliberate sip of your white wine, desperate to clear the sudden dryness in your throat. You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide the absolute bewilderment on your face. "Dean, when did you... when did this happen?"

He let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated pleasantly against your ribs. "When did what happen?"

"Don't be dense," you snapped softly, a sudden flush of heat rising up your neck as his smirk widened. "The last time I saw you, you were just one of Beau's country club friends running around the tennis courts. You look like you could lift my sedan with one hand now. It's ridiculous. It's a complete evolutionary anomaly."

Dean’s blue eyes gleamed with a sudden, vicious delight. He leaned down a fraction of an inch, his broad frame blocking out the light from the hallway, his crisp, expensive cologne filling your lungs until you couldn't think about anything else.

"It's called a division one strength and conditioning program, sweetheart," he whispered, his tone dropping into a confidential, gravelly frequency that made your knees feel alarmingly loose. "Plus, you know, I grew up. Some of us make improvements when we hit twenty-one. You like the upgrades?"

"I think you're an arrogant jerk who needs to step back about six inches before I tell Beau you're harassing his sister," you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"Beau's too busy celebrating to notice anything," Dean murmured smoothly, his eyes dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your gaze with a terrifying level of confidence. "And you don't look like you want me to step back."

He was entirely, infuriatingly correct. The sheer, animal magnetism of his new form was doing something catastrophic to your moral compass. You were twenty-five, an adult with a retirement account and a spreadsheet for your monthly groceries, and you were currently standing in a college town, experiencing a total, baseline physical breakdown because your brother's blonde childhood friend had turned into a literal god.

The mixer eventually spilled out into the backyard as the midnight air cleared out the humidity of the house. You spent the next hour trying to maintain a respectable distance from Dean, embedding yourself in a group of Beau's football friends, trying to focus on their loud, overlapping stories about training camp and team pranks.

But it was an exercise in total futility.

No matter where you stood on the grass, you could feel Dean’s eyes on you. He was standing by the outdoor fire pit with a group of hockey players, his massive frame silhouetted against the orange glow of the flames. He was wearing a dark leather jacket now, his large hands shoved casually into his pockets, his golden-blonde hair catching the light of the fire like a halo. Every time you glanced over, he was already watching you, a slow, unbothered smirk permanent on his lips, as if he knew exactly what kind of chaotic, high-volume debate was raging inside your head.

"Hey," a soft voice broke your concentration. You turned to see one of the football trainers, holding two fresh drinks. She handed you a hard seltzer with a sympathetic smile. "You look like you're about to pass out from sports overload. Beau can be a lot when he wins."

"It's not Beau," you admitted, taking the cold can and pressing it briefly against your flushed cheek, desperate for any kind of temperature regulation. You leaned closer to her, your eyes drifting involuntarily back toward the fire pit. "Hey... who is the blonde guy over there? The one next to the goalie?"

The girl looked over, her eyebrows lifting into a knowing, amused line. "Oh. That's Dean Di Laurentis. He's the starting winger for the hockey team. Why? You interested?"

"No, he's... he's one of Beau's friends from back home," you stammered, the text of your cover story falling apart under the sheer pressure of your panic. "I haven't seen him since high school. Back then I was too busy with tennis and AP classes to notice any of Beau's friends, but he definitely didn't look like that."

The trainer let out a loud laugh, shaking her head as she took a sip of her drink. "Well, he definitely changed. Dean is famously the most dangerous guy on the sports side of campus. Half the Greek system has spent the last three semesters trying to get his phone number, but he treats everyone like an amusement park ride. He's completely unhinged, but honestly? Look at him. Can you blame them?"

You looked. You couldn't blame them at all.

Dean was currently laughing at something his goalie had said, his head throwing back, the long, powerful line of his throat fully exposed to the night air. The absolute, unshakeable ease with which he carried his new body was the most frustrating part. He wasn't awkward about his size; he moved with the precise, lethal grace of an apex predator who knew exactly how much damage he could do in a room.

"He's a menace," you muttered, your eyes tracking the way his leather jacket pulled tight across his back as he reached down to stir a log in the fire pit.

"He's a masterpiece," the trainer corrected with a grin. "If I were you, I'd go over there and remind him that you used to ignore him. Guys like Dean love a girl who isn't intimidated by the jersey."

"I'm not intimidated," you murmured, your thighs pressing together tightly as a sudden, heavy throb of pure, unadulterated desire hit your system. "I'm just... experiencing a lot of cognitive dissonance."

By two in the morning, the party had finally begun to wind down. The alumni had retreated to their hotels, the liquor bottles were mostly empty, and the massive athletic house was quiet save for a few stragglers clearing out cups from the living room.

Beau had completely crashed on the armchair, his massive quarterback frame sprawled across the fabric, snoring softly with his head tilted back. You stood by the front door, your jacket over your arm, waiting for the rideshare app on your phone to find a driver in the crowded college town.

"The app's going to glitch out," a low, gravelly voice said from behind you.

You turned around to see Dean. He had his keys jingling between his long fingers, his leather jacket unzipped, his golden-blonde hair slightly rumpled from the wind outside. He looked tired, but his blue eyes were still intensely bright, fixed on your face with a terrifying, total focus.

"It's alumni weekend," Dean continued, stepping into your personal space until you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest through his open shirt. "Every driver within twenty miles is currently surge-pricing the business majors downtown. You'll be standing on this porch until sunrise."

"I can handle a wait, Dean," you said, your voice trembling just a fraction despite your best efforts to maintain a cool, professional distance.

"I'm driving Beau's truck back to his apartment," Dean said, tilting his head toward the driveway where the massive black vehicle was parked. "I can drop you off at your hotel. It's on the way."

You looked at the phone screen, which was currently spinning a continuous, frustrating loading circle. Then you looked back at Dean. The thought of being locked in the cab of a truck with him, smelling his expensive cologne, listening to that deep, gravelly voice in the quiet of the night, was an absolute recipe for a moral disaster. But the thought of standing on a cold porch was worse.

"Fine," you sighed, slipping your phone into your pocket. "But if you play any terrible hockey locker room music, I'm jumping out at the next red light."

Dean let out a low, delighted chuckle, his teeth flashing white in the dim light of the entryway. "Deal."

The cab of the truck was warm, the heater humming a steady, quiet rhythm against the dark windowpanes as Dean navigated the empty, tree-lined streets of the Briar campus. The rain had started again, a soft, misty drizzle that turned the windshield into a blur of red and yellow tail-lights.

You sat tight against the passenger door, your knees pulled together, your eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. But it was impossible to ignore the sheer mass of him sitting just two feet away. Every time Dean shifted gears, his long leg moved against the console, his thick thigh muscle flexing beneath his jeans, his broad shoulder brushing against the leather seat with a heavy, solid authority.

"You're still doing it," Dean said quietly, his eyes remaining on the dark road ahead.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like you're trying to figure out if I'm a hologram," he murmured, a small ghost of a smirk touching his lips. He turned the steering wheel with one hand, his large palm effortlessly controlling the massive truck with a lazy, practiced competence. "You haven't stopped looking at my face since eleven o'clock, sweetheart."

Your cheeks burned instantly hot in the dark cab. "I am simply stunned by the sheer level of genetic restructuring, Dean. It's like my brain refuses to accept that the kid who used to hang around our house in Greenwich is currently occupying a six-foot-two frame and driving a commercial vehicle. I honestly never paid attention to you back then."

Dean let out a low, gravelly huff, pulling the truck up to a stoplight. He turned his head slowly, his blue eyes locking onto yours in the dim, green glow of the dashboard lights. The playful, arrogant smirk was completely gone, replaced by a heavy, volatile intensity that made the air in your lungs turn to pure glass.

"Do you want to know a secret?" Dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register so low it sent a violent, liquid ache straight down between your legs.

"What?" you breathed, completely unable to break eye contact.

"I spent the last four years praying to God you'd come back for one of these games," Dean confessed, his long fingers tightening against the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. "Beau used to have a family photo on his desk freshman year. I used to sit in his room, looking at you in that picture, thinking about how you completely ignored me every time I was over at your place. You were always too busy, always tracking your own goals, totally out of reach. I swore to myself that the next time you saw me, I wasn't going to be just some kid in the background."

Your breath hitched completely in your throat. Your heart executed a loud, thumping beat against your ribs. "Dean..."

"I worked for this," he murmured, his eyes dropping down to track the line of your throat before rising back to your gaze with a fierce, possessive clarity. "Every hour in the weight room, every sprint on the ice, in the back of my mind, I was just waiting for the day I could stand in front of you and look you up and down the exact way you just did tonight. I wanted to see that look on your face. The one where you realize exactly who I am now."

The raw, unadulterated honesty of his confession completely shattered your defenses. It wasn't just a sudden physical glow-up; it was a calculated, years-long campaign of desire, an obsession that had been building in the dark while you were busy working in Chicago. The background character from your teenage years had spent seven years turning himself into a weapon specifically designed to break your sanity.

The light turned green. Dean didn't press the gas. He simply sat there in the quiet cab, his breath coming in slow, heavy expansions of his broad chest, waiting for your response.

"Dean," you whispered, your fingers digging tightly into the leather of your purse as a total, overwhelming wave of desire crashed through your system, wiping away the last remaining threads of your twenty-five-year-old restraint. "If you don't take me back to your place right now, I am going to lose my mind in the passenger seat of this truck."

Dean’s eyes flared with a sudden, violent heat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticked near his ear. He didn't say a single word. He simply slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the massive truck roaring to life as he executed a sharp, perfect U-turn across the empty wet asphalt, heading straight toward the off-campus hockey house.

The front door of his apartment had barely clicked shut before Dean threw his keys onto the counter and turned on you with the force of a total physical takeover.

The lights were off, the living room illuminated only by the gray streetlamps outside the window, but you didn't need light. Dean’s large hands found your waist in the dark, his long, powerful fingers digging into the fabric of your blouse with a possessive strength that lifted you right off your feet. He slammed your back gently against the solid wood of the front door, his massive frame pinning you to the surface until you were completely encased in his warmth, his cologne, and his absolute hunger.

"Say it again," Dean growled, his voice thick and rough against your lips, his golden-blonde hair brushing against your forehead as he stared down at you in the shadows. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."

"You," you gasped out, your hands flying up his broad chest, your fingers tearing at the buttons of his green shirt until the fabric gave way, allowing your palms to slide over the hard, burning muscle of his chest. "I want you, Dean. You're so hot it's actually making me sick. I can't think about anything else."

Dean let out a low, ragged sound, a mix between a laugh and a groan of pure, unadulterated triumph. He slanted his mouth down, capturing your lips with a bruising, desperate intensity that completely erased any remaining memory of the past.

The kiss was everything the seven-year wait had promised, intense, hungry, and completely overwhelming. His tongue slid into your mouth with a heavy, practiced rhythm, tasting like clean rain and absolute dominance, pulling a sharp, high-pitched whimper from the back of your throat. He pulled your hips flush against his, his thick, powerful thighs wedging firmly between yours, forcing you to feel the hard, unyielding line of his desire pressing right against your core through your tailored skirt.

You wrapped arms tightly around his neck, your fingers tangling deeply into the golden strands of his hair, pulling him closer until your chests were completely fused together. The absolute ferocity of the way he held you made you realize with a sudden, blinding rush of certainty that the old dynamic was truly dead and buried. This was a man, a division one athlete who knew exactly how to use his size to get what he wanted, and right now, all he wanted was to ruin you for anyone else.

Dean didn't break the kiss as his large hand slid down the length of your thigh, his fingers gathering the fabric of your skirt, pulling it up until his warm, calloused palm was resting directly against the bare skin of your upper leg. The contrast between his rough, athletic hand and your soft skin sent a sharp, electric jolt straight down your spine, causing a heavy, slick rush of moisture to coat your thighs beneath your underwear.

"God, you're shaking," Dean murmured against your mouth, his thumb smoothing over your inner thigh with a heavy, deliberate pressure that had your head tossing back against the door. "Look at me."

You opened your eyes, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you looked up into his handsome, desperate face. His blue eyes were completely dark with desire, his chest rising and falling violently against yours.

"I've been waiting seven years to do this," Dean whispered, his long fingers sliding beneath the lace of your underwear, finding the soaking, burning heat that had been building since the second you saw him in the kitchen. He let out a low, rough purr as his fingers moved against you, pulling a loud, uninhibited cry from your lips. "You like the new improvements? Tell me how much you like them."

"Dean, please," you begged, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders as your knees completely gave out under the sheer, relentless onslaught of his touch. He caught your weight effortlessly, his large arm wrapping around your lower back to keep you pinned to the door as his fingers continued their agonizing, perfect rhythm against your core. "You're perfect. You're completely perfect. Just... please."

"Not yet," he growled softly, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your jawline, his teeth biting gently into your earlobe. "We're going to take our time. I want you to remember every single second of this when you go back to Chicago. I want you sitting at your corporate desk, looking at your spreadsheets, thinking about exactly how my hands feel on your skin."

He carried you into his bedroom with that same, terrifyingly effortless strength, setting you down in the center of his massive, unmade bed. The room smelled like him, crisp, clean, and intensely masculine, and the moment your back hit the mattress, Dean moved over you like a shadow, his heavy torso settling between your knees with a grounding authority that left no room for escape.

The rest of the night dissolved into a volatile, high-stakes blur of pure physical consumption. Dean was relentless, his athletic endurance turning the encounter into a grueling, beautiful marathon that pushed your body to its absolute limits. He stripped away the rest of your clothes with a slow, deliberate focus, his eyes tracking every single curve of your frame with a fierce, protective devotion that made you feel like the center of the universe.

When he finally sank into you, his large hands locking through your fingers, pinning your wrists to the mattress, the sheer, unyielding solidness of his body was a total override of your senses. Every single stroke was deep, heavy, and completely overwhelming, pulling loud, broken sobs from your lips that echoed through the quiet apartment. He moved with a rhythm that was entirely disciplined, a perfect, lethal execution of desire that had your body arching off the mattress, chasing the white-hot peak that was building right at the center of your chest.

"Look at me," Dean commanded softly in the dark, his face just inches from yours, his golden-blonde hair damp with sweat as he looked down at you. "Who owns you? Tell me who's in your head."

"You," you cried out, your head tossing against the pillows as a sudden, violent wave of completion broke over your body, sending a brilliant, blinding rush of heat straight down to your toes. "Dean... it's you. It's always been you."

Dean let out a sharp, ragged groan, his jaw clenching hard as he delivered a final, devastating thrust, his entire body shuddering against yours as he surrendered to his own release, burying his face in the crook of your neck as the final, heavy pulses of pleasure broke through both of your systems.

The next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the bedroom flooded with a bright, clean New England sunlight that warmed the white sheets.

You woke up slowly, your body aching in a dozen different, delicious places, your mind clear and remarkably peaceful for the first time in years. You shifted slightly, your hand sliding across the mattress to find the space beside you empty.

A sudden, sharp panic flared in your chest, the corporate professional suddenly remembering the reality of the situation, before the soft sound of a guitar strumming from the kitchen caught your attention.

You pulled Dean’s large, green linen shirt over your bare shoulders, the hem falling down to your mid-thighs, smelling strongly of his citrus cologne and the heat of the night. You padded quietly down the short hallway, your bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.

Dean was sitting on the kitchen counter, his long legs dangling off the edge. He was completely shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his wide, muscular chest fully exposed to the morning sun. He had an acoustic guitar resting on his thigh, his long, calloused fingers casually picking a soft, melodic tune that vibrated pleasantly through the quiet room.

He looked up as you entered, the melody stopping instantly as a slow, familiar, and entirely lazy smirk spread across his handsome face. He looked you up and down, his blue eyes resting on the sight of you wearing his shirt with a deep, male satisfaction that had your pulse executing a familiar, erratic leap.

"Morning," Dean murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that shot a sudden, liquid warmth straight back down between your thighs.

You walked over to the counter, wedging yourself firmly between his knees, your hands rising to rest on his bare, muscular hips. "You play the guitar now? Seriously, Dean? Is there any cliché metric you didn't decide to completely conquer while I was gone?"

Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh, setting the guitar down on the counter behind him. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently cupping your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that completely erased the lingering traces of your corporate cynicism.

"I told you," Dean whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against your lips, his bare chest warm against your front. "I spent seven years making improvements. I had to make sure that when you finally came home, the plot was thick enough to keep you here."

You let out a soft, delighted laugh, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back as you tilted your head up for another kiss. "The plot is definitely thick, Di Laurentis. Congratulations on the upgrades."

"Good," Dean smiled against your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening with a heavy, possessive certainty. "Because I'm not letting you go back to Chicago without a fight."

Notes - AHHHHH I kinda really like this but idk. tell me what yall think! MUWAH

“What?” You ask opening the door to look at 3 of your six children. Aerion holding a ripped shirt while Daella and egg are both crying.

“They ripped my shirt! They deserve punishment!”

“That’s nice dear.” You say walking past the children, just wanting a moment of peace. Why don’t they go bother their father for once?

“Mother!” Aerion shouts shocked wanting your attention and sympathy for a shirt he doesn’t even like being ripped.

“Muña! Aerion pushed me!” Egg complains wanting Aerion to get in trouble not him. It’s not his fault Aerion was playing to rough with them.

“Muña! Aerion mean!” Daella shouts toddling along after you and her brothers.

“Muña! Aerion hid my book!” Aemon shouts running up to you on the brink of tears as he can’t find his favourite book. His elder brother stealing it.

“Mum? Do you know where my blanket has gone?” Daeron asks, when he sees you walking past his chambers. The boys doors wide open while he looks for the blanket you made him.

At all the commotion Rhae burst out crying. All the children’s voices over lapping when you snap. “Right, that’s it!” You shout passing Rhae to Daeron, all children immediately silencing as you never shout at them. “I’m having a nice long bath. If you need or want anything at all. Don’t ask me. Go to your father, if I do get disturbed no dessert.”

At that you walk off all the children just staring in shock. Not sure what to do.

-

“Father?” Aemon asks knocking on the door where their father works. Everyone else just barging in, not caring they’re meant to enter without permission.

“Kepa!” Daella shouts throwing herself into her confused father’s arms who was just about to tell them to fuck off.

“Mums gone crazy.” Daeron says bouncing Rhae, doing his best to get the girl to sleep.

“What?” Maekar asks confused, standing up from his chair, Daella still in his arms.

“It’s all Aerion’s fault!” Egg says before anyone can explain.

“No it not! It’s the little brat’s fault!” Aerion argues, thinking it’s never his fault.

“I didn’t do anything all I asked was if she’d seen my blanket.” Daeron says when Maekar looks at him wanting clarification.

“Muña mad.” Daella confirms from her father’s arms.

“The lot of you shut up.” Maekar says annoyed by all the talking, looking at his third and most well behaved child. “Aemon, what’s going on with your mother?”

-

“Can I come in?” Maekar asks through the door not bothering to knock. Having sent the children to the solar to play, after spending an hour with them.

“Who’s with you?” You ask from your nice hot bath, having the nice expensive oils in it. A glass of wine in your hand while you use the other to read. Having the most amount of peace you’ve had in years.

“No one, it’s just me.” He answers, needing a moment away from the children.

“Fine, enter.” You say, not looking up from your book when he quickly enters. “What do you want?”

“A brake.” Maekar says staring to get undressed, not caring that you’re giving him a look of annoyance. Him disturbing your alone time. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Fine.” You sigh, moving forward so he can fit behind you in the bath. Water spilling over the side as he joins you, hands wrapped around you pulling you back into him. Kissing your shoulder before laying back with a sigh.

“How is the water still this hot? It’s been an hour.”

“Shut up.” You say going back to reading, at a very interesting point in the book you’ve been trying to read all week. Him taking your wine to drink some for himself. “Are they ok?” You ask after 10 minutes of just laying in the bath together.

“They’re fine.” He says having missed time just the two of you, egg and daella sneaking in to your chambers every night. “I’ve missed spending time with you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” You say placing your bookmark on the page you’re reading before placing it on the little table that held the wine. Turning to face the man, lying on him. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He says pulling you into a kiss.

-

“Muña!” Daella shouts in excitement when you enter the solar, Aerion quickly pretending he wasn’t cuddling the girl. “Missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too baby.” You say placing the toddler on your hip, looking at your horde of children. Daeron lying on the sofa with Rhae sleeping on him while Aemon reads to egg. “Are you all ready for dinner?”

“We get cake right?” Aemon asks, still a big fan of cake.

From the moment you'd met him, you'd known football wasn't just something Beau played, it was who he was. He lived and breathed the game. Every practice, every workout, every sacrifice had been leading him toward the NFL. He was talented enough, driven enough, stubborn enough to make it happen. Everyone who knew him could see it. He was supposed to be under stadium lights, throwing touchdown passes in front of thousands of screaming fans.

He was supposed to be chasing championships, signing contracts, and living the dream he'd spent his entire life working toward. Instead, all that potential had been lowered into the ground alongside him. And no matter how desperately you wished otherwise, no amount of grief, denial, or bargaining could change the brutal truth. The funeral was beautiful in the way funerals always seemed to be, filled with flowers and stories that somehow made the loss feel even heavier.

Every person who stepped up to the podium painted a picture of the same Beau Maxwell you knew. The guy who could make an entire room laugh without even trying. The teammate who never hesitated to lift someone up when they were struggling. The son who called his parents more often than most college guys ever would. The boy who should have had so much more time. Standing between Hannah and Garrett, your fingers were laced tightly with Hannah's as though she was the only thing keeping you upright.

Garrett stood on your other side, a silent presence, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. And through it all, your eyes kept drifting toward the doors. Waiting. Hoping. Dean had promised he'd meet you there, but the second the words left his mouth, you'd known it was a lie. Not because he'd meant to lie, but because Dean wasn't Dean anymore. Still, every time the stadium doors creaked open, your heart jumped. Maybe he'd finally come. Maybe he'd walk in looking exhausted and miserable, but he'd be there.

But he never did.

The empty space beside you felt like its own kind of funeral. Beau was gone, and you hated to even think that Dean was disappearing right behind him. Days after the funeral, you hadn't pushed Dean to talk. You hadn't demanded explanations for the unanswered texts or the phone calls that lasted less than five minutes before he suddenly had somewhere else to be. You hadn't commented on the fact that half the time you couldn't tell if he was drunk, high, or some awful combination of both.

Because grief looked different on everyone. And Dean was grieving harder than anyone. So you stayed. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. You held his hand whenever he let you. Wrapped yourself around him during the rare nights you spent together and listened to the uneven rhythm of his breathing as he slept. Sometimes he would wake up gasping. Sometimes he would whisper Beau's name. Sometimes he would simply stare at the ceiling for hours.

You never asked questions. You just stayed. Because you loved him. Because losing Beau had been devastating enough. You refused to lose Dean too. Even from two hours away, you tried. God, you tried. Calls before class. Texts between lectures. Late-night FaceTimes while you studied for finals. Anything to maintain some kind of connection. Anything to remind him he wasn't alone. At first, he'd answer. Then less often. Then only occasionally. The excuses started piling up:

"Sorry, babydoll. Busy."

"Practice ran late."

"I'm exhausted."

"I'll call tomorrow."

Only tomorrow rarely came.

Every unanswered text felt like another thread snapping between you. You could feel him slipping away. Slowly. Painfully. Which was why when Garrett's name flashed across your phone at six-thirty that morning, your stomach had immediately dropped. Garrett never called. Not unless something was wrong. The second you answered, you heard it in his voice. The exhaustion. The worry. The fear. And suddenly you were standing in your apartment, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Dean needs you." Three words. That was all it took. You didn't even let Garrett finish explaining. Within fifteen minutes, you were throwing clothes into a bag and grabbing your keys. Finals be damned. Everything else could wait. Dean couldn't. The drive felt endless. You gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed harder on the gas. By the time the familiar off-campus house came into view, your heart was pounding so violently it hurt.

You barely remembered parking. The car ended up crooked across part of the driveway and half the curb. Normally, Logan would've had a field day. Normally, he'd come outside shaking his head with a smug smirk threatening to have your license revoked. Today, you didn't care, you simply shoved the car door open and climbed out. Before you could even raise your fist to knock, the front door swung open and suddenly Logan was right there.

For a split second, neither of you said anything. Then his arms wrapped around you, almost as if he was holding on for dear life. You didn't hesitate to throw your arms around him just as tightly. The hug stole the air from your lungs, not because of the force of it, but because Logan wasn't a hugger. Your eyes burned immediately. Because suddenly you weren't just seeing Logan's grief. You were seeing everything. The empty seat at team dinners. The missing voice in group conversations.

Beau.

Logan's grip tightened briefly as if he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone. You reached out automatically and squeezed his forearm. The gesture felt small, meaningless, even. But Logan offered a faint nod anyway, a silent thank you. Then another pair of arms wrapped around you. Tucker. His embrace was gentler. Almost as if he was trying to offer comfort instead of searching for it.

Yet somehow that made your chest hurt even more, because Tucker had always been the softest of them. The caretaker. The one who made sure everyone else was okay. The one who remembered birthdays and brought food when people were sick and somehow always knew when someone needed support. And now even he looked worn down. "You drove straight here?" He asked quietly. You nodded against his shoulder. No further explanation was needed.

Tucker pulled back enough to study your face and his expression softened immediately. "Have you slept?" A watery laugh escaped you. "Have any of us?" Something painful flickered across his features. Because that was the truth. None of them had. Not since Beau. The house suddenly felt eerily quiet. Gone were the sounds that used to define this place. No music blasting from someone's room. No shouting from video games. No laughter echoing down the hallway.

The grief still hit like a freight train. Being childhood best friends with Garrett Graham and dating Dean Di Laurentis meant the boys had always come as a package deal. From the outside, people saw hockey stars. College athletes. Campus womanizers. But to you, they were family. They'd woven themselves into your life years ago. And somewhere along the way, they simply stopped being Garrett's friends and became your brothers too.

Which meant Beau hadn't just been Dean's best friend. He'd been yours too. Your gaze shifted toward Garrett, who was standing at the foot of the stairs just beyond the doorway. His face looked drawn, shoulders slumped. And suddenly you understood just how bad things had become. Because Garrett was always the strong one. The person everyone leaned on when life fell apart. Yet in this moment, he looked completely helpless.

"Where is he?" You asked quietly, voice shaking despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. No one answered immediately. Logan looked away. Tucker rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Garrett's jaw tightened. And just like that, your heart dropped. Because you knew those looks. You knew what silence like that meant. Without saying a word, Garrett stepped forward and reached for you. The second his hand touched your arm, whatever fragile composure you'd been clinging to began to crack.

You went willingly. Almost desperately. Allowing him to pull you against his chest. Almost as if he already knew you were about to hear something you weren't prepared for. "He hasn't left his room in almost three days, Y/N." Three entire days. Three days alone. Three days trapped inside his own head. Three days with no one there except his grief. The air left your lungs, as your hands tightened around Garrett's hoodie, bracing for what was next. "He won't answer us, and he barely opens the door."

You'd known he wasn't okay. But this? This was so much worse. A shaky breath escaped you. "Has he..." You swallowed hard and tried again. "Has he talked to anyone?" The silence that followed was devastating. Not because they refused to answer. Because they didn't have one. And suddenly you understood why Garrett called. Dean hadn't just shut himself away. He'd shut them all out. The people who loved him most. The people who would've done anything for him.

A fresh wave of heartbreak crashed through you. Because Dean had never been good at asking for help. Even on his best days. And right now? Right now he was carrying the kind of grief that crushed people. The kind that hollowed them out from the inside. The kind that convinced them isolation was easier than letting anyone witness their pain. And if something didn't change soon, you weren't sure there would be enough of him left to find.

Pulling yourself away from Garrett, you quickly swiped at your eyes. The tears weren't helping. The panic wasn't helping. Dean needed you. That was all that mattered. Lifting your head, your gaze immediately found the closed door at the end of the hallway upstairs. Even from here it felt like a barrier. Like a physical representation of every wall Dean had spent the last several weeks building between himself and the rest of the world. Behind that door was the boy you loved, or at least what was left of him.

"Let me try," The words barely made it past the lump in your throat. "Let me help him get out of his head." For just a second, nobody spoke. The house was silent enough that you could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Could hear someone's uneven breathing. Could hear your own heart hammering against your ribs. Garrett looked upstairs then back at you. The concern in his eyes nearly broke you. Because Garrett knew.

He knew exactly how much this was hurting you too. How every ignored call had chipped away at you. How every unanswered text left you staring at your phone wondering if Dean was okay. How you'd spent weeks pretending you weren't scared. Terrified that one day Dean would pull away so much that there'd be nothing left to hold onto. Before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your forehead. The gesture was so familiar, it nearly made you cry all over again.

"You call if you need us.” You nodded, completely unable to trust your voice. His hand slid down your arm before settling around your wrist. Without a word, he guided you toward the staircase. The first few steps felt impossible. Your legs suddenly heavy, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Garrett stayed beside you until you reached the landing, until you were close enough to continue on your own. Only then did he finally let go. You hated how well he knew you.

How he'd recognized immediately that your knees felt weak. How he'd quietly supported your weight without calling attention to it. How after all these years, Garrett could still read you better than anyone. Except maybe Dean. The thought nearly stopped you in your tracks. Except lately... Dean hadn't been reading you at all. Lately, it felt like he barely saw you. A fresh ache settled deep in your chest, still, you forced yourself forward. One step. Then another. The hallway stretched endlessly before you. Every foot closer to his room made your pulse race harder.

Until finally you stood in front of the door. Dean's door. The same door you'd knocked on a thousand times before. The same room where you'd spent countless nights laughing until sunrise. Studying. Making love. Living. Now it felt foreign. Unreachable. Like the person on the other side existed in an entirely different world. For a long moment, you simply stared at it. Listening. Waiting. But there was nothing. No music. No movement. Just eerie silence.

Your throat tightened painfully, then slowly, carefully, almost hesitantly, you reached for the doorknob. The door creaked softly as you pushed it open. As you walked in, the smell hit you first. Stale alcohol and weed. The unmistakable scent of a room that hadn't been properly aired out in days. The curtains were drawn shut, leaving the room bathed in a dim gray gloom despite the afternoon sunlight outside.

Empty liquor bottles littered the floor. Some tipped over. Some still standing. A few clustered beneath the desk like silent evidence of just how many nights Dean had spent trying to drink himself numb. A half-smoked joint rested in an overflowing ashtray on his bedside table. Food wrappers were scattered everywhere. Fast-food bags. Candy wrappers. Empty containers. The remnants of meals that looked more abandoned than eaten.

Energy drink cans covered nearly every available surface. Some crushed. Some half-full. Some forgotten entirely. Your stomach twisted. Because none of this looked like Dean. This room belonged to someone else. Someone drowning. Someone who had stopped caring altogether. You quietly shut the door behind you, setting your bag beside the desk chair, as you shrugged off your jacket and toed off your boots before finally lifting your gaze to the bed.

Dean was there, curled onto his side and still wearing the same clothes you'd seen him in three days ago when Garrett had sent a picture of the guys watching a game together. The same gray sweatshirt. The same sweatpants. His blonde hair was messy and overgrown. His face pale and unshaven. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted sleep fixed, but the kind that came from carrying too much pain for far too long.

Slowly, you made your way across the room, carefully stepping around discarded bottles and crumpled wrappers until you reached the side of the bed. For a moment, you simply stood there, looking at him. Really looking at him. Dean was sprawled face down across the mattress, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. His blonde hair was an unruly mess, sticking up in every direction as if he'd spent hours dragging frustrated hands through it.

Carefully, you lowered yourself onto the edge of the mattress, reaching out without thinking. Your fingers pushed back a stray blonde curl that had fallen across his forehead. The gesture completely instinctive. For a second, nothing happened. Then, Dean shifted. His brows furrowed slightly, a soft sound escaping him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his eyes opened. Emerald green met yours. Bloodshot. Heavy. Disoriented. For a moment he simply stared. Blinking once. Twice. Three times.

As though his exhausted brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing. As though you'd become another dream. Another hallucination brought on by too much alcohol and too little sleep. Something in your chest cracked, because you'd never seen Dean look so lost. "Babydoll?" He rasped, eyes moving over your face slowly, drinking you in like he was afraid you'd disappear if he looked away. You offered him the smallest smile you could manage, one that felt heartbreakingly fragile.

"Hi, sweetheart." The second the words left your mouth, something inside him seemed to snap. A visible crack in whatever wall he'd been holding together. Suddenly, Dean was moving, all six-foot-two of him. One second he was lying across the bed. The next he was wrapped around you. Arms circling your waist so tightly it almost hurt. As if he loosened his grip for even a second, you'd vanish. A strangled sound escaped him as he buried his face against your neck.

His hand immediately slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, seeking bare skin. Seeking reassurance. Seeking some kind of proof that you were real. That you were actually here. Your eyes burned instantly, because Dean had always been affectionate. Always touchy. But this wasn't affection. This was desperation. The kind born from weeks of drowning alone.

He was warm. A little sweaty. His sweatshirt smelled faintly of stale alcohol and weed. There was no doubt he'd been drinking recently. No doubt he'd spent the last several days trying to numb himself into oblivion. Yet none of that mattered as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him just as tightly. One hand sliding into his hair, the familiar softness nearly undid you. God, you'd missed him.

Dean's shoulders trembled beneath your hands. Only slightly. But enough. Enough to tell you how hard he was fighting to keep himself together. "I'm so sorry." The whisper was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. His voice cracked against your shoulder, fingers tightening around your hips. Like he was expecting you to push him away. Like he genuinely believed he deserved it. Fresh tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them back before they could fall. You needed to be strong for him right now.

"Don't you dare apologize." Your voice came out firmer than you felt. Immediately, you cupped his face and gently encouraged him to look at you. It took a second, but eventually he did. You rested your forehead against his, close enough to feel his shaky breathing. Close enough to remind him he wasn't alone. "I'm not mad." Your thumb brushed across his scruffy cheek softly. "I'm just worried about you, baby. We all are." Dean swallowed hard, but he didn't respond.

The silence said everything. Because deep down, he knew. He knew he'd been shutting everyone out. Knew he'd been disappearing. Knew he was hurting people who only wanted to help. The guilt was written all over his face. You exhaled slowly, brushing another blonde curl away from his forehead. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to get in the shower, we're changing these sheets, getting you real food, and then you're sleeping off this hangover."

Your gaze deliberately swept across the disaster surrounding you. The bottles. The wrappers. The overflowing ashtray. The evidence of just how badly he'd been struggling. "Bossy." He scoffed, but there it was, a tiny smirk. Barely there. The smallest upward twitch of his lips. But it was enough. Enough to make relief bloom painfully in your chest. Good, he was still in there somewhere. You rolled your eyes dramatically. "I prefer the term effective."

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement. Not quite a laugh, but closer than he'd been in weeks. You immediately pointed a finger at him. "Don't make me bring Hannah into this." Dean's eyes widened ever so slightly. The reaction was so automatic that despite everything, a laugh escaped you. Because it was honestly so ridiculous. This man was six-foot-two. A Division I hockey player. Built like he could bench-press a small car.

Yet somehow he remained absolutely terrified of your five-foot-nothing best friend. "You fight dirty." Dean grimaced, squeezing your hips on emphasis. "When it comes to you, damn right I do." A ghost of a smile lingered on his face. For the first time since you'd walked into the room, the suffocating heaviness seemed to ease ever so slightly. Not gone. Never gone. But somehow lighter. Manageable. Dean studied you quietly for a moment. His arms still wrapped around your waist, forehead still resting against yours.

As though now that you were here, he wasn't quite ready to let go. Then something flickered across his face, a familiar look. One that instantly made you suspicious. "What?" You asked, eyes narrowed. "Counter offer." Your brows shot upward, eyes rolling before you could stop them. Of course. Because even in the middle of an emotional breakdown, Dean Di Laurentis somehow still found the energy to negotiate. "Should I be worried?" He shrugged nonchalantly which made your snort.

For a brief second, the smirk returned. A little stronger this time, a little more Dean. The sight made your chest ache, because you hadn't realized how desperately you'd missed that expression until now. Dean shifted slightly, finally lifting his head from yours. "You shower with me." Your mouth opened, ready to retaliate as he held up a finger. "No funny business." You barked out a laugh, because you highly doubted he could keep his hands to himself, but nevertheless urged him to continue with a squeeze to his bicep.

Dean pointed vaguely toward the disaster surrounding the room. "Then you make G and Logan clean all this up." This time, a real laugh escaped you, because somehow, even half-dead with grief, Dean was still Dean. Still delegating all responsibility to literally anyone else. "You do realize it's your mess, right?" He shrugged again. "Not relevant." You shook your head, yet the smile still remained on your lips. This man was so unbelievable. Dean continued as if you hadn't interrupted. "Tucker cooks." You immediately nodded, at least that you could agree with.

"That's already happening." You knew Tucker absolutely had food cooking downstairs. Probably enough food to feed an entire hockey team. Comfort food. "And..." Dean's grip on your waist tightened slightly snapping you out of your thoughts. "You sleep in my bed tonight." Suddenly this wasn't about negotiations anymore. This wasn't about showers or clean sheets or Tucker's cooking. This was Dean asking you not to leave. Dean admitting he couldn't do another night alone. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, almost wary.

As if he was afraid you'd say no. As if after weeks of shutting you out, he wasn't entirely sure he deserved to ask. "And we don't leave it until at least noon tomorrow." For the first time since arriving, you saw it clearly. Dean wasn't asking for a day in bed, he was asking for permission to stop pretending he was okay. To fall apart. To rest. To let someone hold him together for a little while. Your hand lifted, cupping his cheek, the stubble scratched softly against your palm.

"You drive a pretty hard bargain, Di Laurentis." You whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment before brushing one against the corner of his mouth. "Deal." The word left you in a whisper and before you could blink, his mouth sealed over yours. It wasn't hungry. It wasn't desperate. It wasn't fueled by lust. It was something far more devastating. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, as though Dean was afraid you'd disappear if he moved too quickly.

Years of knowing him allowed you to understand every unspoken thing he couldn't bring himself to say:

I'm sorry.

I love you.

Please don't leave.

Every emotion he'd buried beneath alcohol, grief, and isolation seemed to pour into that single kiss. Your heart ached, because this was Dean. Your Dean. The boy who had spent weeks pulling away. The boy who had convinced himself he needed to carry this pain alone. The boy who looked exhausted down to his very soul. Which is why you kissed him back instantly, without hesitation.

You'd missed him too much to care about the faint taste of beer lingering on his tongue. Too much to care about the tangled sheets beneath you. Too much to care about anything except the fact that he was finally here. Present. Not hiding behind silence. Not shutting you out. Just Dean. When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far.

His forehead settled against yours once more and your fingers remained tangled in his hair. For several moments, the room was completely silent. The kind of silence that didn't feel lonely. The kind that came when words weren't necessary. Dean's eyes closed. You felt his shoulders finally sag. Not from defeat but from relief. As though he'd been carrying something impossibly heavy for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like to set it down. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.

Your thumb brushed softly across his cheek as you pressed one final chaste kiss on his lips, before pulling him back into your arms. Because there was no fixing this. Beau was gone. That reality wasn't changing. The hole he'd left behind would always exist. It would simply become easier to carry. One day. Eventually. The grief was still there. It probably always would be. But for the first time, it wasn't consuming everything else. For the first time in weeks, you could see something beyond the pain.

Trust.

Hope.

The smallest flicker of healing. Not because the hurt had disappeared. But because Dean wasn't facing it alone anymore. Outside the bedroom, life continued. You could hear faint movement downstairs. The distant sound of Tucker in the kitchen. Logan's voice carrying briefly through the hallway. The quiet comfort of family waiting below. Ready to help whenever Dean was ready, but for now, none of that mattered. For now, it was just the two of you.

Curled together on a messy bed in a room that smelled faintly of stale beer and grief. Holding each other through the wreckage. You knew this wasn't the end of the pain. Tomorrow wouldn't magically be easier. Neither would next week. Or next month. There would be setbacks. Bad days. Moments where grief hit so hard it stole the breath from his lungs. Moments where all of you would miss Beau so fiercely it felt unbearable. Healing wasn't linear. Loss didn't work that way.

But as Dean buried his face against your neck once more and finally allowed himself to rest, you realized something important. He'd opened the door. Not the bedroom door, but the one he'd locked inside himself. The one he'd spent weeks barricading shut. And that was enough. A beginning. A first step. You tightened your arms around him, pressing a gentle kiss into his hair. No matter how long it took. No matter how difficult the road ahead became.

You'd be there. Through every sleepless night. Every breakdown, no matter how ugly. Every memory. Every step forward. And every step backward. Because that's what love was. Not fixing someone. Not saving them. Simply staying. And as Dean's breathing gradually evened out against your chest, drifting into the first real sleep he'd likely had in weeks, you held him a little tighter. And most importantly, stayed.

You asked him to lie on his back, and he did so without hesitation - with both arms tucked behind his head, a curious smile lingering on his lips.

Your gaze traced the length of him: from his face, down the line of his jaw, to his chest where dark hair sprawled, then lower still, narrowing into a dark line that disappeared under his breeches.

How could he be completely unaware of the effect it had on you?

The mattress dipped as you climbed onto him. Baelor’s hands settled on your thighs, steadying you as you lowered yourself against his lower abdomen, caging him beneath you. The position placed that dark line exactly where you wanted it. Your eyes fluttered shut.

You could feel its faint texture against your skin, coarse strands brushing in a way that sent a sharp, unfamiliar signal through your senses. Every nerve seemed to respond at once, the sensation unlike anything else you had known - a stripe of ruggedness you found utterly intoxicating.

Slowly, you began to move. Drawing pleasure from every stroke. The roughness created a steady, simmering heat between your legs. Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his - breath breaking in short, uneven bursts.

"Is this it?", he whispered. "Is this why you wouldn't let me trim here?". He watched you with open fascination, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the gradual unraveling of your composure. 

A soft groan escaped you as you shifted your weight, moving in circles and savouring every sensation. Ensuring that every single hair of that happy trail rubbed against your slickness. You could feel yourself opening up for him, the natural lubrication of your arousal soaking into the coarse hair, making it slide and pull in a rhythmic, maddening cadence. The pleasure was intoxicating. 

You couldn’t stop moving. Your motions creating a gradual vertical line along his lower abdomen. Each time that hair grazed the damp area at the base of your opening, it triggered another surge of warmth between your thighs.

Baelor's hands roamed upward, skimming along your ribs. His touch was light, almost teasing, a counterpoint to the increasing desperation of your movements.

"You have a strange obsession with this, darling," he whispered, pausing for a fraction of a second to look up at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide with lust, but his expression remained one of pure, unadulterated love.

Then your attention drifted to his chest, fingers sinking into the thick, dark hair that spread across his pectorals and tapered toward his sternum. It softened the hard lines of muscle beneath. You traced through it lazily, relishing the coarse strands against your skin.

The contrast of tanned muscle and untamed growth left you feeling small against him, enveloped by his scent and strength. It deepened the hunger already coiling within you. The sight of him alone left your mouth dry. You loved every inch of him.

"You're so wet for me." His eyes never left your face. The slickness between you had grown impossible to ignore, easing your movements while somehow heightening every sensation.

"Tell me what you're feeling." The amusement in his voice had softened into something far hungrier.

"Full." You rocked faster, chasing the feeling. "Even though you're not inside me. I feel so full."

Baelor continued to watch you with naked admiration. His hands never stopped their gentle guidance, never tried to rush you or take control. He simply held you while you used him, patient and attentive, those dark eyes drinking in every reaction.

The coil in your belly tightened. Your thighs trembled with the effort of maintaining the rhythm. And still, that trail provided the perfect friction, the perfect texture, everything you needed to spiral higher and higher.

When you started to feel the pressure build, a golden heat radiating from the centre of your being, his name was all you could manage.

“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor.” His name was a prayer on your lips now.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady and grounding. “Just let go.”

And so you did. You ground down hard one final time, pressing yourself against that trail, against his navel, riding out the waves until they finally began to subside. Your body went lax, and you slumped forward. Baelor’s large arms catching you before you could collapse fully onto his chest.

A few moments passed before he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “My heart,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your lips.

“I’m definitely never trimming now,” he said quietly, his eyes bright with amused disbelief.

Then came the day of departure.

You were to return briefly to your homeland as the wedding preparations continued. By coincidence, Baelor announced that he too, would be returning to King’s Landing that same morning to resume his duties. And so, both parties departed together.

The roads were long and unbearably hot beneath the summer sun. By sunset, the travelling company stopped at a nearby inn to rest. You were exhausted from hours trapped inside the carriage, your body aching from the journey.

That was when the maester approached you. He presented a small vial of crimson liquid, assuring you it would ease the soreness in your limbs and help you sleep. Trusting him, you drank it without a question.

Later that same night, Baelor overheard mention of the tonic. Plagued by one of his relentless headaches and worn thin by the suffocating summer heat, he asked the maester for the same remedy. And by a terrible, terrible mistake, the maester handed him the love potion meant for Daeron.

At first, nothing seemed amiss. The night carried on as any other. Supper was served, conversations dwindled, and one by one, the weary travellers retired to their chambers.

But as the night deepened and the world fell quiet, fate had already begun weaving the first threads of ruin.

It all started during the hour of the wolf. When you were supposed to be asleep, an unsettling feeling stirred within you. Your heart beat strangely against your chest, restless and anxious. Something you could not put into words. Unable to bear the suffocating feeling any longer, you wandered quietly to the back of the inn, seeking a moment of solitude away.

And there, too, coming from another direction, was Prince Baelor himself. As though some invisible string had been tied between you, pulling the two of you toward the same place.

Surprised by the sight of you, he paused. “What are you doing here at this hour, my lady?” his eyes studying you carefully. He looked anxious too.

“I- I needed some air,” you said. You had never been this close to the prince before. Never close enough to notice how striking he truly was beneath the dim glow of night - all sharp features, tanned skin, and quiet intensity. Your heart began to beat even harder than before.

"and you... what are you doing at this hour, your Grace?," you asked softly, voice beginning to tremble as the two of you drew closer.

“I might ask you the same question,” he murmured, shaking his head faintly. “But truthfully… I needed air as well.” He let out a quiet breath, chewing at his bottom lip trying to steady himself for what he would say next.

Then Baelor glanced toward the old wooden bench under the lantern glow before looking back at you once more. "...w- would you sit with me... for a while?”

You should have said no. What would people say if they found the future wife of Daeron sitting at such an hour with his uncle - the prince of the realm - with no one else in sight?

But before your mind could form the refusal, your heart had already answered for you. “Yes, of course,” you had said.

And so there you sat beneath a sky strewn with stars - talking longer than either of you ever had before, lingering closer than you should have, a strange flutter rising in your chest every time your eyes met. Shoulders brushed unintentionally. Knees kept bumping every time he leaned closer to whisper something in your ears. His hands would grazed yours. Sounds of giggles filled the open space. Something unspoken had begun to bloom between you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

One thing lead to another and then another and then another. The slow, dangerous unraveling of restraint beneath the lantern glow and summer night air. You could not remember how the night ended. But you knew with certainty that Baelor’s face had been the last thing you saw before sleep finally claimed you. The result of a formidable potion.

When sunrise came, you opened your eyes to find yourself tucked under Baelor's arm, still in the same spot as last night. Hurried voices carried in from the distance.

"Where is she?!" A familiar voice, one of your ladies-in-waiting, wavered through the air.

"Prince Baelor is not in his room! Find him!" A rough command barked from one of the Kingsguard, and the neigh and thump of hooves began to fade toward the grounds.

When you lifted your head to look at Baelor, he had already been looking at you. He swallowed, eyes pleading for something - like he was screaming for something he did not dare say out loud. So you said it instead.

"I don't want to marry Daeron..." you whispered, begging him to see your pain. "Please, Baelor..." Tears began to pool behind your eyes.

He leaned forward and pressed your foreheads together, sending unspoken promises in a language only the two of you understood. "Then I will burn this kingdom," he said, eyes closing like a vow, "if it means making you mine instead."

As his mother's heir, Jace knew he was little more than a pawn to be moved around a board, a pawn made to enter into matches and alliances. His entire life, he had known his mother would choose his wife, and he would have little say in who that may be. His wife had been decided scarcely before he truly knew what marriage meant.  Alliances were built around him before he could even walk, but when war broke out, everything changed. The betrothal brokered between himself and Baela broke, and he was left traversing the realm, reminding lords and ladies of their oaths. Given his first taste of power and the opportunity to prove himself. And he did, he had houses pledging loyalty, support, and men. And then he arrived in Winterfell, and found himself leaving with more than the pledge of men and support, but with you as his wife. 

He had been struck by you the second he saw you, and wed you before the raven announcing your betrothal had even reached Dragonstone. Jace rationalised it easily: you were the half-sister of Cregan Stark, your mother was a Tully, and with you, not only came the North but the Riverlands too.  It was an advantageous match, and though his mother had been frustrated, she had wished to leave his hand as a leveraging tool in the war to come, she knew the alliance brought two kingdoms on her side.

The alliance was exactly what Rhaneyra needed, it brought strength, helped to stabilise her cause and made her heir happy. 

He loved you dearly. You were beautiful, a little too naive and idealistic, but Jace didn't mind that, no, he loved it. Loved how you observed everything, how you observed everything, how smart you were despite your ideals. His love for you was clear to anyone. So clear that when you arrived on Dragonback to Dragonstone, the rumours began almost immediately.

Rumours that he had only wed you after Cregan had caught Jace in your bed. Rumours that Jace had won the support of the north by sliding between your legs. Rumours that you were a northern whore. Those rumours had reached the smallfolk, including the dragon seeds of Dragonstone. 

Ulf the white had a strange sense about him. He was rude and proud and far too arrogant. He acted with a sense of entitlement, an entitlement that had only been gifted to him by the grace of his queen, and yet he took full advantage of it. Advantage enough to corner you. 

“It’s surprising Rhaenyra would keep you married to Jace,” Ulf spoke, leaning against the table of the library as he watched you closely. 

“Queen Rhaenyra, and Prince Jacaerys, ” you corrected, trying to focus on the book before you, and ignore the man and his unwelcome company “Why would she not permit me to remain married to my husband?” 

You looked up, locking eyes with Ulf, a feeling of discomfort washing through you at the look in his eyes. You searched around the room, eyes locking on the door, praying for Jace to hurry up and meet you as he had promised. Ulf smirked, his eyes trailing your body as he walked towards you, “We’ve all heard the truth, how you lured Jace into your bed.”

“That’s not true,” you gasped, standing up quickly, trying to move away from Ulf, who had seemed determined to get closer to you, “those are rumours, nothing more.” You continued to back away from him, your eyes looking to the door as it opened, revealing Jace.

Each step you took, Ulf seemed to follow, his eyes continuing to trail your body, “rumours?” He scoffed, “You're a whore,” 

“What did you just call her?” Jace demanded, his voice, the smile he had gifted you as he walked through the door long gone, as his face hardened at Ulfs words. 

“Jace-“ Ulf began, a cocky smile on his face. 

“Your grace,” Jace corrected, storming towards him, “you are acting above your station,” he spat, his voice like venom. “Now,” Jace spat, waking closer to Ulf, forcing him against the desk he had leaned on earlier. “What. Did. You. Call. My. Wife.” Jace's hand flew to Ulfs shirt, keeping him in place. 

You stood to the side watching as Ulf swallowed roughly, his cocky demeanour faltering. “I'm just calling her what she is,” he spat, leaning his head back as if to escape the glare Jace was giving him. 

“She is no whore!” Jace raged, pushing Ulf further into the table. “Apologise to her,” he spat,  his eye flickering to you, his face red from anger. 

“Jace,” you spoke, walking slowly towards him, your voice calm.

His eyes softened at your voice, but the scoff from Ulf had him turning his full attention back to you. He pushed him roughly back into the desk, “apologise,” he repeated, his hands balling into fists on Ulf's shirt. Ulf swallowed, his face flushed, but he made no effort to speak. Jace scoffed, moving back from the desk and slamming Ulf down, “Apologise or I shall have your tongue ripped from your mouth”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes darting to yours as you slowly approached your hand reaching for Jace's shoulder.

“I didn’t hear you,” Jace seethed, slamming him down again. 

“I’m sorry!” Ulf shouted, his eyes pleading as he looked at you. 

“Jace, he’s not worth it, my love”, you muttered, your hands sliding to his shoulders and easing him off Ulf. 

“Get out of my sight,” Jace spat, pushing Ulf as he stumbled out of the library. “Fuck,” he mumbled, turning to face you and pulling you into his chest. “These lowborns claiming dragons are a disgrace,” Jace muttered “, they make a mockery of us, insult us and for what?” 

“My love,” you soothed, reaching to place a soft kiss on his lips, “they will be mere footnotes in history, you need not worry about them.”

“But what if they aren’t? They question the crown's legitimacy, they question my legitimacy,” he breathed, his head leaning against yours, his breath heavy as he spoke. “And to question you, my wife.” He scoffed, “How dare he, that mongrel." 

“My love, calm yourself”, you breathed, placing a soft kiss to his lips, “you will be a king, and they mere footnotes in history, you should not worry yourself,” you placed another kiss to his lips, “don’t waste your breath on them, you are worth so much more than them,” 

He smiled softly against you, his head still leaning against yours as he reached forward to kiss you, “What did I do to deserve someone as sweet as you?” He hummed, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“I only treat you how you have treated me”, you hummed, kissing him once more. “You are the prince every lady dreams of marrying,” you hummed, “I dreamt of a man like you every night.” 

Jace groaned at your words, turning you to sit on the desk, “too sweet for me,” he hummed, his hands moving to bunch your dress around your hips, “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he hummed, “how sweet you are, how sweet you taste,” kissing your lips between every word, “your cunt,” he groaned, dropping to his knees as he spoke, “all I can think of is the taste of your cunt” his breath ghosted your heat, a shiver shaking through you at the feeling, “how sweet it is, how perfect,” he groaned into you, pressing soft kisses to your thighs as his thumb reached for your bundle of nerves, rubbing soft circles as it his mouth slowly made its way to your cunt, his tongue swiping a through your folds.

“Jace,” you gasped, your hand flying to your mouth, as he placed another lick down your slit. “Oh gods,” you moaned, as his fingers reached to spread your folds, groaning at the sight of how wet you were. His tongue placed another long lick across the length of your folds. His thumb still circling your clit as his tongue began to feast on you, lapping at your pussy, feasting on you, like a man starved. A loud moan tore through you, your hand falling from your mouth to grip the table as Jace hooked your legs around his head, his tongue fucking you. His hands reached to grip your waist, pulling you even closer to him. Your hips bucked into his face, riding his tongue as he feasted on you. 

Moans of pleasure echoed around the library as you rode his face, his fingers swapping with his tongue, a loud gasp tearing through you as his fingers slowly pushed into yo, “so good,” Jace groaned, his voice vibrating through your body, as a wave of pleasure began to wash over you, his fingers thrusting into you as your peak began to wash over you, your back arching off the desk, his name slipping from your lips as you came.

Jace slowly rose from between your thighs, pressing a slow, messy kiss to your lips. “I love the taste of you,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you closer to him.

You hummed, your hands reaching to play with the curls on his head. “So sweet,” he groaned, “so perfect,” 

You smiled, tugging his hair to have him look at you, “You're sweet.” 

"Megan?" You called out, your voice weak and your hands shaking, a certain metallic, copper-like smell in the air as you enter the comfort of your girlfriend's room.

"Hey" Megan sits up from her bed weakly, her hands clutching her stomach.

"Are you okay, Mei?" You gasped, immediately rushing to her side and taking her in your arms, you put her legs on yours sideways, wrapping an arm around her face and the other cradling her jaw, momentarily ignoring the enticing scent.

"Yeah, my period just started and I'm having the worst cramps ever" Megan groans, nuzzling her head further on your shoulder.

"Oh" you pause, your pupil changing its hue to deep red.

"Y/n?" Megan looks up, confused, her eyes widening when she sees your eyes red and your body practically vibrates.

Before she could get another word out, you kiss her hard, pulling her on to your lap, pulling her impossibly closer.

"Y/n" Megan gasps, pushing you away but to no avail it seems like you've only gotten stronger. Her eyes rolling to the back of her head feeling your kisses trailing down to her neck, your fangs slightly nipping at her pale skin. "Fuck— baby"

"You smell so good, pretty" placing kisses anywhere your lips could be, biting her lightly near the clavicle. "Think I could get a taste?"

"What?!" Megan shrieks, actively trying to pull away from your grasp but her moans say otherwise, heat pooling in her stomach. "Y/n, what is happening with you?"

Your kisses stopped, looking directly at her eyes with hunger, "I haven't eaten yet, baby. Don't be so mean to me" you pout, your grip on her waist tightening. "Just a little taste, I promise"

"Baby, it's dirty—" Megan cups your face and before she could finish her argument you kiss her again.

"I'd rather eat your dirty blood than another person's" kissing her full of passion and devotion, your tongue greedily lapping up her taste, your fang sometimes clashing with her teeth.

Megan pulls away, gasping for air, spit connecting both of your lips before breaking off eventually. She looks at your red eyes and notices the way your breathing seems heavier, your body shaking as you try to suppress it.

"Okay" Megan breathes out, before you could cheer she shushes you with her finger, "just this once, yes?"

"Yes of course, my love. I'll make you feel so much better, hmm?" You hum, pecking her lips, then her forehead, near her eye, her nose, then her lips again. "Thank you, baby"

You carefully put her down on her bed, your hand cradling the back of her head as she lays down, your body ticking with excitement, drool escaping your lips, quickly swiping it away using your thumb.

You immediately kneel between her legs, your hands shaking as you pull her undergarments down carefully.

"So eager" Megan laughs, hands cradling your face between her legs. "Enjoy your meal, baby"

You dove down, tongue lapping at her entrance tasting the metallic tang of her blood with a hint of sweetness.

Megan's eyes roll to the back of her head as your tongue plunges deep inside her, her hips jutting forward, pushing you deeper to her cunt.

Your tongue gathers her essence and the blood left inside her cavity until another gush of blood exits and enters straight to your mouth.

You greedily lap everything she gives you, your hands gripping her thighs tight, leaving handprints.

"Y/n— fuck, baby, feel so good" Megan whimpers, her hands crumpling the bed sheet, legs shaking, the knot in her stomach growing harder to resist.

You moan at her taste, the vibrations sending another form of stimulation that becomes the reason for Megan's overwhelming orgasm.

Her breath caught in her lungs, her mouth opening to a silent moan, her back arching as she pushes your head away from her pussy, her essence gushing out of her cunt as her legs shake, her brain melts and her vision blacks out while you stuck your tongue out to catch her cum.

"Fuck" Megan breathes out, blinking a few times, her vision blurry before turning clear again when she sees you kissing her pussy so reverently.

"Just one more?" You smiled, fangs out, your chin dripping of her essence and your shirt drenched from her release.

-

“My king.” You say once you’ve finished greeting everyone, finally finding some time to see your husband. Him stood talking to Valarr, the boy planning on proposing to Lady Keira later tonight when on a walk through the gardens. “My prince, breathe all will be well.” You say touching your eldest stepson’s shoulder, the boy looking so much like his father.

“How do you know? I have this whole speech planned but-.”

“Valarr it will be fine, I promise you. But stop panicking and ask your lady to dance she’s stuck in a conversation with lady Buckley.” At that the now grown boy kisses your cheek before talking a breath and walking over to Kiera.

“My queen.” Baelor says kissing you softly, not caring that it wasn’t technically proper. You’re his wife and he loves you, he doesn’t care who see’s.

“I haven’t been crowned I’m still a princess.” You tease knowing that’s not how it works, having been offered to be crowned just after Baelor but you decided against it. Wanting your husband and Valarr to be the centre of attention. You being queen by marriage anyway.

“Really?” The man says raising an eyebrow at you, a smirk on his face he sees Mataerys coming up behind you holding a pillow with his gift on. His sister following behind both wearing their favorite tiaras. “I think you should look at what our son is holding.”

“Oh my gods.” You say, covering your mouth with your hands seeing Mataerys hold the most beautiful and intricate tiara you’ve ever seen with diamonds and pearls decorating it. “You didn’t have to I was only teasing.”

“I know you were, my love.” Baelor says kissing your cheek before nudging you over to Mataerys, the girls coming to stand by their father. “But I can’t have my queen wearing a basic tiara.”

“My prince.” You say to the boy curtsying dramatically with a smile staying down on the floor for then boy.

“Mother.” He smiles back before Baelor fake coughs giving the boy a look. “I mean my queen.” He corrects giving not even bothering to hide his smile as he places the gorgeous tiara on your head at a slight angle. “I now pronounce you queen.”

“That’s not what you’re meant to say but thank you Mataerys.” Baelor laughs as you pull the boy into a hug kissing his cheek, the boy pretending to be annoyed when he wipes his cheek. “So how do you feel my queen?” He asks when you release the boy so he can pull you into a hug himself, the girls joining to make it a group hug.

“Brilliant my king, but I must thank you for giving me the best family I could ever ask for.” You say holding your husband’s face in your hands giving him a kiss. The both of you ignoring the children made disgusted noises at the sight. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” He says softly a look of pure love and admiration on his handsome face. “Would you like to dance?”

You’re about to reply when there’s a bunch of loud gasps from the middle of the dance floor. Valarr down on one knee in front of lady Kiera. “Marry me.”

“Yes.” She responds covering her mouth in shock, her pink hair framing her face. “Of course.”

“He is so your son.” You say leaning into your husband who forgot his own speech when proposing.

Your hand shook as it hovered over the wood of Grace’s sophomore apartment door, trembling. You had asked a few times over the last few weeks, Hannah and Allie to tell you how Grace was doing but they didn't want you to feel bad. For someone who was in so much pain, you worried about Grace more than yourself.

You held your breath out in the hall of Grace's apartment. You shut your eyes. This is a bad idea. Garrett’s words echoed in your head like a warning siren: “Don’t be a fucking idiot okay—you know she doesn't want to see you. I'm not trying to make you feel bad. It's just not a good idea, got it?.” He was trying to protect you. He was trying to protect everyone, because that’s what Garrett Graham did when his friends started spinning out of control. You glared at him as he scolded you after you had shared your plan to try to fix things - and you just wanted to make sure Grace was okay.

You and Logan weren't speaking. You avoided him and there was no real conversation since the day at Malone's after he walked out. He had texted a few times, Hannah and Allie had told you about his fight about you, in the backyard with Garrett. This has been the longest you both have had not spoken in all time of knowing, if you don't count the time that you had a persistent sore throat for 2 weeks straight last winter - but nothing like this. This felt like you'd never speak to him again - and you regretted the way you spoke to him in Malone's that day. If you had acted normal, pushing down your feelings and if you hadn't caused this all to ripple - none of this would have been happening.

The silence between you and Logan was a vast, and felt almost irreconcilable. How do you ever recover from something like this? How could you face anyone after you indirectly were the reason the kindest, sweetest girl was crushed by your lack of boundaries and your blurred lines with Logan? You were grieving him, it felt like a death. You couldn't sleep or eat. You're lucky that you had only had two finals left when all this erupted. You were mourning the loss of the person who always saw the goodness in you when you could had lived like you didn't value your life, he knew you better than anyone, who couldn’t let you go until the universe forced his hand.

But as much as your heart felt physical, literal pain, Grace’s was the one that have every right to feel this way - way more than you. Logan had been hers. He belonged to her, and she had been caught in the middle as unfortunate collateral damage, unspoken entanglement - that none of you knew was even happening until that day - that she never asked or ever would agree to be a part of.

Holding the painkillers, electrolytes and tea packets in the small bin holding them - you had brought them for Grace, not as a peace offering but these were the things helping you so you extended it to her too - just in case. Taking a sharp breath before you could lose your nerve, you gently knocked.

The silence that followed was heavy. For a second, you thought she might ignore it. But then came the soft click of a lock, and the door creaked open, with Grace peering out from behind, almost hiding.

She looked fragile. Her usual bright energy was dimmed, her eyes slightly puffy, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that you painfully recognized as Logan’s. When she saw you, her expression didn't harden into anger. It just... fell. She starred at you for a second, like it was dream like - like there would be no way you were standing at her door right now.

"Y/N," she breathed, "Hi," her voice small. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Sorry - Garrett told me not to bother you and I probably shouldn't be here right now but I just needed to say some things to you. S-sorry, I can-I can leave"you said quickly, your throat tight. "I know you don't want to see me-" you whispered painfully. "I just-" There was no malice in her eyes, just a profound, exhausting sadness. "That's-it's okay, I don't not want to see you," she said opening up the door a bit more, a bit more relaxed. She looked up at you with almost hopeful glassy grey-blue eyes.

"Oh," you said surprised. Your shoulders relaxing for a second. You didn't expect her to say that. "Well, I need you to hear this, Grace." You took a breath. "I'm not saying this because I want to fix any of it because I know I can't. But I just need you to know that you are so incredibly special, Grace," you were so genuine, you just needed her to hear it.

"You're- you're a good person, Grace. You're kind, funny, the prettiest person I have ever seen honestly. Everything about you. You are just so special. You are not broken, there's nothing wrong with you, there's nothing about you that isn't good enough," your eyes pleaded that she heard you with an earnest tone in your weak voice.

"It was never your fault. None of this was because of you, and I'm really sorry you're hurting. I wish I could take it away. It's my fault, I should have been clear with my boundaries - I tried to distance myself and I already stepped away when I could. I-I should have been clearer. It wasn't fair to you. I just need you to know that you didn't deserve any of this and you can hate me if you want-"

"I don't-" Grace interrupted you, "I don't hate you, y/n...It's not your fault," Even when she was suffering she was gracious and kind.

You took a small quiet breath, stepping back to give her space.

"I just...I just wanted you to know that I think you're wonderful and that I am sorry," your voice stammered, her eyes welled up with glossy tears. "You deserve every good thing."

She looked up at you, her eyes searching your face. There was no hatred there—just the mutual, tragic understanding of two girls who had loved the same boy, both left bruised in his wake.

"Thank you, y/n/n," Grace whispered, her voice trembling but steadying, her using your nickname as a sign of the glimpse of girlhood you shared. She reached out to squeeze your hand in silent agreement that she indeed did not hate you, and actually still had kind care for you.

You gave a small smile with tears in your eyes.

"I’m not going to ," you said quietly. "I’m not going to keep being friends with Logan."

The words hung in the quiet apartment, heavy and absolute. Grace’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of shock crossing her face. "Y/N... he's your best friend."

"And look what it did," you replied with a sad, final shake of your head. "It just hurts people, and it just wrecks things."

"...Y/N, you don't have to, I already knew." She sighed. "Knew what?" you were confused. "I already knew he loved you." You both were silent.

You didn't know what to say. "Wait. Sorry - this wasn't me trying to-I didn't-this wasn't me trying to make myself feel better to get your forgiveness or anything like that. I didn't mean to make it like that-" "No, y/n. It's okay. I know you."

"I already knew he loved you. He talked about you like you were the best part of his day. I knew he had written your exam days in his calendar because he knew you got anxious. I knew you were on his mind, most of the time - even when we were together, I know he said you were his family but I don't even think he let himself believe anything otherwise - I know he didn't do this on purpose," you nodded, trying to process what she had said, you didn't even know that he was in contact with your dad, or had your test dates written down, you didn't know he was doing a hundred little things - he never told you, he never took credit for any of it - it was like a reflex of his to take care of you.

"I know he never meant to hurt you, I haven't spoken to him at all - but I know he feels awful..." you weren't trying to defend him, but you both knew John Logan's heart - and he'd never intentionally harm the both of you. He'd never do that.

She nodded, almost letting out a small laugh, "Yeah, he's pretty stupid," you laughed too, "The worst."

You handed her your small care package, "Thanks for caring about me, y/n," as she held the box in her hands, you gave her a weak smile. "See you in the fall?" You said hopeful, that Grace would still want to be your friend after some time. She nodded, and you were turned to leave, "I'm visiting my mom in Paris again," she called out, "I'm leaving next week after my last final on Tuesday," you turned back, surprised she shared that - you were glad she got to go, she was a euro-sunkissed princess after all- just like you had exclaimed drunkenly to Garrett at the party a few weeks back.

"Hope it's wonderful. I know it's your favourite."

She reached out to grab your hand, stopping you from leaving, "You're allowed to love who you love, y/n," she blurted out all of a sudden as if she had wanted to say that the whole time. "You deserve the love you give to everyone else too. You're allowed to have good things too"

You didn't say anything. You just stared at her, shocked. She let go of your hand gently, and stepped back a bit, "See you in September, y/n," beginning closing the door, "See you...see you, Grace," as the door shut quietly in front of you.

You walked back to your apartment which was about 15 minutes away. Unsure of what just happened, like it was a psychedelic dream. She meant everything you said - you genuinely think that she deserves every good thing.

The insane thing was that, grace ivers - an angel of a person, thinks after all that you've done - deserved good things still.

_______________________________

After everything had went down with you and Logan, and then Grace overhearing Garrett and Logan fight about how unwell you were around Logan - he shut down for a couple weeks. He went to hockey training, conditioning, he tried to apologize to Grace on multiple occasions even though he knew it would do more harm than good - he had to try. He knew Grace didn't deserve what happened.

In a span of a few weeks Logan had lost two of the most important people in his life, and grieving people who were alive and in close proximity to him at school was the most painful things he'd ever have to experience. Him watching you sit down at your usual spot at the library pained him - and he almost waved, but you didn't see him so he started going the long way around so he wouldn't run in to you.

He stayed home a lot. He had tried to text you a few times to check in and you'd give him short answers, avoiding him and definitely avoiding any mentions of the fight with Garrett that Hannah and Allie told you about. You pretended not to know.

If you were honest, you were worried about Logan. You had seen him buying a coffee at Lucky's - a place that you, Logan, Hannah and Garrett would study at. He looked exhausted and he didn't look like he was eating. It pained you to see him. He didn't see you and you had snuck out of Lucky's before he had even remotely saw you.

You almost went by the hockey house a few times, you'd walk half way and turn around. You knew that it would make things so much worse if you were the one to try to even begin to offer comfort, and you didn't want to hurt Grace. You felt guilty that this happened and you were apart of it - you were the reason, although you hadn't done anything. It was the nature of it all. You would never want her to think that while she was suffering from heartbreak, you'd try to make any advancements towards her ex boyfriend - you'd never do that to her.

You kept your distance to protect your heart and whatever might be left of you and Logan's friendship - if it could ever be fixed, you had to get over your stupid fucking silly crush. All this for a dumb crush - you thought to yourself, you felt dumb as fuck.

-----------

On Saturday, Logan stayed home to try to study for his economics final that was coming up. He couldn't focus at all. All he could think about was you. All he could think about was how horrible Grace was feeling because of him and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

In an undistracted, quiet moment alone in Logan's room, he sighed. His mind was being cruel to him and dragged him back to his memory of you from freshman year.

Everything had been so easy at the beginning. Being friends with you was so seamless and natural - it was like you knew each other since you were kids. You lived down the hall from Logan in the same freshman dorm. Like two jagged pieces of a puzzle that fit in a funny way - you two became inseparable. From late night studying at Malone's, watching hockey games, brutal morning electives you both survived together, football games, and your cheerleading routines.

At the time, your evil highschool boyfriend who stayed in your state three hours away was cheating on you. Logan had been there for you for that break up a few weeks after thanksgiving. Seeing you so unwell scared him and he made a little quiet promise to himself that he would do whatever it took to always made sure you were okay. So with all this silence and Logan hurting people he cared about - he was kicking himself and his self condemnation was more of a consequence than what anyone could say to him, or what anything Garrett could scold him about or call him out for.

By Spring of freshman year, you were doing really well on the varsity cheer team, you were under the stadium lights, you cheered at your friend Beau Maxwells' football games and you'd see Logan, Tucker, Dean and Garrett smiling and grinning at you from the student section. In return, you lived at the Briar hockey rink where Logan and Garrett tore up the ice with their natural-born star freshman hockey scrimmaging.

After you and your high school boyfriend had broken up for good, you spent the rest of the semester hooking up with random juniors and senior guys from the football team. It was easy. No one got hurt and you didn't care about them at all. As Logan got more familiar with the older hockey teammates who would throw big parties, Logan would cycle through hot campus girls who wanted to fuck a guy in a jersey - and he let them. Garrett was like that too before he met Wellsey.

When Logan is alone and the house is quiet, he remembers this one night of freshman year and it replays in his mind episodically. He can't control it - he can never get you out of his head even if he tried.

Saturated in warm, golden-amber hues of a humid spring night in Boston - Beau's frat was throwing a regular Friday night party. The house was loud, crowded and reeked of cheep alcohol, weed and vapes. You had too many drinks, way too many shots and you forgot to eat dinner before you had gone out with your friends and ended up here. Logan was also extremely drunk - the older hockey guys had pregamed before at one of their houses and they downed a bunch of god knows what at the party. "y/n, come here," he whispered against your hair as he laughed with his cheeks flushed and warm - he was just so happy to see you and so happy you were with him. His voice was low. His hand had brushed your bare hip that the band of your short skirt just rested right under, sending a shiver through your body. His eyes dropped to your lips a few times - which he couldn't help, it was the substances that he had downed earlier and the way you looked so pretty in the hallway light.

He interlocked his fingers with yours, holding your hand, bringing you close to his side, he pulled you through a crowd of drunk, wild and happy students, and you went up the stairs and down a quiet hallway. You had tried a few doors that were locked and then pushed opened the door to an empty spare bedroom in the end of the house and locked it behind you. You giggled like a little kid scheming up a plan.

The lights were off except for the amber glow of a street lamp seaping through the windowpanes. Drunk you wanted John Logan to fuck you. Still holding hands, Logan closed in the space between you, smiling down at you with the biggest grin. You swore you saw him almost love you by the way he was staring into you.

He stepped so close to you, towering over you, feeling his breath against your skin. You backed up until your calves hit the edge of the mattress and your breath hitched. The scent of him, mixed with cheep alcohol, cool air pushed you over the edge.

"Logan," you breathed, a breathless warning, a dangerous game.

"Y/N," he whispered back, kissing your forehead and you closed your eyes. God, your name sounded like a prayer on his lips. He looked at you for permission to kiss you and you gave him a gentle nod with a drunken happy smile on your face. "Please," you whimpered. He wasn't thinking at all at that point. His large hands came up to frame your face, with his calloused thumbs brushing softly over your cheekbones with a reverence that knocked the wind out of you. When his lips finally met yours, it was so natural, like kiss of two drunk college kids who had nothing real to lose.

He laid you back on the mattress gently, him hovering over you. "You're so beautiful," he whispered as he looked down at you in your lace tank top, "Shut up, you idiot," you rolled your eyes. You were sure he said that to every girl he fucked that week. Which he did - but with you he really meant it. You were the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. You tugged at his t-shirt signalling that you wanted it off and with one swift motion he pulled it off and quickly after he had undid your shirt, playing with your lace thong that was probably too sexy for any freshman to own. He laughed, and kissed you deeper. Like it meant something to him.

Every single touch was amplified. The way his mouth dragged from your lips down the sensitive sweet spots of your neck wasn't just passionate; it was agonizingly deliberate. He kissed you as if he were trying to leave a permanent mark, tracing your collarbone with a reverence that made a sob catch in your throat.

You had never been loved properly before, and this might have been the closest thing, John Logan on top of you.

Your lips moved together, with hunger, kissing you all over. When he entered you, it was a slow, him not wanting to hurt you ever. The agonizingly deep burn that made your knees weak. You tangled your fingers in his thick dark brown hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more of him and for him to move. Logan groaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, his hands sliding down to hold his large hand around the side of your neck and the other trailing down your bare back to grip your waist, him moving in a paced rhythm between your legs and closer to your core.

As Logan whispered your name into the crook of your neck—his voice thick, desperate, with small gasps escaping your lips every time he went deeper. His fingers tangled tightly with yours, pressing your hands up against the bed, you arched into him bringing you deeper, he pulled out slightly and pushed himself back in, your head tilting back into the pillows, your body reached closer to its high.

As he drove deeper and deeper into you again, rocking into you on the bed, pulling out and pushing in deeper at a quicker pace, feeling your body tense, "Oh my, L-Logan," you gasped. A sudden, dizzying wave of warmth crashed over you. Your fingers dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, your back arching off the mattress as the climax broke, making you dizzy and warm. He kissed you again as you moaned against his lips.

Logan let out a low, ragged groan into the crook of your neck. His entire body went rigid, his muscles straining against yours as he surrendered to the same weightless, crashing as he came and released in you. With heavy breaths slowing, he pulled out of you gently - causing you to whimper from the loss of feeling him.

He then pulled you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you with your back against his chest, and held you so closely like he was afraid to lose you, peppering you with kisses along your neck. It was like only you two existed then and there - nothing else mattered.

---------

The next morning, what felt like a total fever dream evaporated, leaving behind a cold, blinding reality.

When your eyes flickered open, your head was instantly pounding, a sharp ache pulsing behind your temples. The golden glow of the night before was gone, replaced by the harsh, piercing morning light slicing through the lines of the window panels. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and the messy, beer-can-strewn reality of a hockey house bedroom.

But beneath the comforter, the heat was still there. Logan was holding you. His bare body was warm and heavy against your back, his strong arms wrapped around you so tightly, pinning you flush against his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall as he slept. He had held you like that all night, refusing to let go even in his sleep.

A sudden, sharp spike of panic hit your chest. Your vow to never get hurt by a guy again cause an avoidance that kept everyone at arms distance. That included John Logan. Fuck, what did we do last night?

Carefully, holding your breath, you began to peel yourself out of his grip. You disentangled your yourself from his arms slowly, sliding out from under the heavy comforter as gently as possible so you wouldn't wake him. Standing up in the cool air of the bedroom, you shivered, your hands shaking slightly as you scrambled to find your clothes scattered on the floor.

As you pulled your top over your head, your brain was working overtime to rationalize everything. You were stunned, and terrified of him thinking you were just a slut. You didn't want him to look at you with shame or condemn you for sleeping with him.

So, you did what you knew best; deny and minimize.

It was just a hookup, you lied to yourself. We’ve both been hooking up with random people all freshman year. This is no different. It was just a fun, drunken night.

A soft rustle of the sheets broke the silence. Logan stirred, blinking heavily against the bright light filtering through the blinds. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, his face soft and sleepy, entirely devoid of his usual campus-heartthrob persona. Still half-asleep, his instinct kicked in—he reached his arm out across the mattress, searching for you.

When his hand found empty sheet, his eyes fully opened, landing on you at the edge of the bed, shimmying on your skirt back on.

"Y/N?" he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly from sleep, reaching out toward you. "Where are you going?" he mumbled.

You said laughed softly, "Home, Logan," your voice clipping the air, putting up an invisible wall between you. You forced a casual, breezy smile that didn't reach your eyes. "That was fun! I can't even-can't really remember." You said it so matter a fact and nonchalant.

Logan froze. The hand that had been reaching for you dropped slightly onto the mattress. You watched his expression shift from sleepy warmth to a sudden, guarded blankness, but your own panic prevented you from seeing the quiet heartbreak shattering behind his eyes.

"We were just drunk," you pressed on, desperately trying make it so clear that you didn't care at all. "Lo," you said in a sweet tone in your voice that you did when you needed to get your way, "We don't have to make it weird, it was fun, it didn't mean anything. And you have to promise you won't tell anyone, okay? Not even Garrett. The last thing I need is your gross idiot friends objectifying me and I have to fuck another hockey player," you said jokingly to deflect. He had no idea what was happening. You were so easy going about the fact that you two had just fucked all night. You didn't even give him a chance to make any decisions about how he felt about it. You just decided for the both of you.

Logan stared at you for what felt like a long, agonizing moment. He cleared his throat a bit, and his jaw tightening as he forced his own walls back into place. If this was how you wanted to play it, he would play along just to keep from losing you entirely.

You stared at him for a response. "Yeah, uh-" Logan finally muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, casual tone that mirrored your own. "We were so drunk. It doesn't mean anything to me - either. We don't have to bring it up, I wasn't going to mention it," he lazily made a gesture of a locking and throwing away the key. He didn't look at you.

You nodded in agreement and smiled at him, with relief in your eyes and your body relaxed that he agreed. You leaned in to kiss him on the cheek with gratitude. "Good thinking," you chirped, as if he had initiated the plan himself. You left Logan in the room and snuck away quickly to purchase over the counter birth control by yourself at the campus CVS. You both were way too drunk, you can’t remember if he had used a condom or not. You took a plan B just in case.

And that night you shared was a secret. You both kept it faithfully, burying it deep beneath years of friendship, laughs, friend groups, casual boyfriends and serious girlfriends.

The night that Logan knew he was done for - that he was sure he would never get over you in this lifetime. You'd always be the girl he loved, he wanted to love you then but you were so out of reach.

And that was the night where you vowed to keep only close enough to have you but never really see you, even if you were closest and intimate as two people could ever be.

Even now, through the college years that followed, through all the parties, partners or flings, and the internal longing, neither of you dared to ever breathed a word of that night to another living soul. Not to Hannah or Allie.

Not even Garrett Graham.