Escape World

“Hey!” Paige(your roommate) says as she walks through the door, putting her gym bag down.

“Hi” you muster up the courage to not sound shy.

Everytime the woman speaks you practically fall to your knees, it’s even more unbearable, considering you live with her. She makes your mouth go dry and your cheeks go slightly pink.

“How was your day?” She asks with her classic grin that makes any fangirl swoon. She’s been in an extra good mood recently.

Ever since the two of you moved in together, as close friends, you’ve been head over heels in love with the blonde. She’s never given you the ick in any way it’s like she’s unrealistically perfect.

You suddenly feel her fingers snap in your face to grab your attention, pausing your daydream.

“Good- it was pretty good” you say way too quickly for your liking. You want to seem calm and collected but damn does she makes it difficult.

As she gets closer you get a better look at her.

She’s wearing basketball shorts that hanging off her hips, revealing the top of her boxers. Her hair is in a low slick back bun. Oh, she looks freaking delicious.

“Oh that’s good I’m happy, what made today so good?” It felt like Paige knew she was teasing you, it was almost like she knew that you couldn’t really answer that.

“Well I hung out with Dylan and Maddy in my room for most of the day” you say while smiling, thinking about the memories with your best friends.

To be honest your best friends poked fun at your debilitating crush on Paige often today, and that was a pretty big part of your conversations with them, but Paige doesn’t have to know that of course.

They were given an even bigger opportunity to say something when they saw that you made Paige in the sims 4 and you married her.

‘Aww she’s too cute’ Maddy put her hand on her heart while looking at Dylan.

You had to jerk yourself back into reality.

“Is something wrong, you seem to be daydreaming a lot” Paige asks.

You assure her you’re just fine and even though she doesn’t really believe you she lets it slip past.

“What’s your plans for tonight?”

“Oh well nothing really just video games” you answer as you’re fighting back the urge to just jump in her arms(or make out with her.)

“Actually I was wondering if you wanted to had a movie night with me like old times? a girls night?”

“Sorry Paige I need alone time to unwind, you know how draining Dylan and Maddy can be from time to time” she sighs and rolls eyes at you.

“Why have you so been so introverted around me recently?” She looks at you with a questioning voice

You try to breathe and stay calm. There’s no way you can sit next to her for two hours or longer while still containing your feelings, especially since your ovulating.

“Just a little more reserved nothing to worry about” you say quietly before speed walking to your room.

“Shit..i just made an absolute fool out of myself” you whisper while having a big pout on your face.

While you’re sitting on a self hate train you decide to self soothe by playing with your imaginary world of sims. You pull up your save file and begin playing.

Not long after you heard Paige knock on your door.

“Um hey I got you pizza I thought you might be hungry”

“Thank you” you say with a sheepish smile

“Hey are you playing the sims?” Paige laughs.

Uh oh. You hoped and prayed she wouldn’t notice the sims you made.

“Y-yeah” you mentally facepalm at your stutter.

“I used to play this game with my friends all the time, throw back” Paige says amused.

What you didn’t realize is that Paige found it adorable and she wasn’t judging you whatsoever. She thinks you’re pretty damn cute.

The screen accidentally moves around a your sim self appears.

“Oh gosh is that you?”

You nod.

“She has your facial features and mannerisms down perfectly, are you married in here?” She sounds eager to see save file but you’re not willing to show her considering her name is in there.

“M-mhm” you say not wanting to lie, you want her to like you and that means being honest and likable in everything.

“Can I see?”

“No..”

“Why not?” She looks puzzled but still amused.

“Come on sweetheart just let me see it’s not that serious it’s not like I’m gonna judge a sim” she playfully rolls her eyes.

The pet name didn’t slip past you. Your face flushed and your knees went weak.

Paige’s hand overrides yours on the keyboard and she sees your sim wife.

“Paige bueckers is your sim wife hm?” She says with a smiles and her eyebrows move.

You’re frozen and no words can come out.

“I didn’t know my princess of a roommate had that big of a crush”

“Look- I’m sorry can we pretend this never happened” you say, so embarrassed.

She leans down to your ear and whispers.

“Don’t worry I like you too”

Relief and flustered emotions come over you. Does she really or is she just messing with you?

“Yes, really” Paige says almost as if she could read your mind.

“I see the way you peek down the hallway to get a glimpse of me or how your cheeks are pink when we make eye contact, I’ve been doing the same thing for a while now honey you’re oblivious”.

“So this means..we can be date?”

“Well yeah I was gonna ask you to be my girlfriend, what do you think?”

the seats were amazing, with you practically being feet away from the stage. you were currently pressed against a metal railing separating the audience from security who guarded the stage, aubrey, kk, and azzi to the left of you in the same predicament, while paige was to your right side. amidst the high capacity of the crowd, still you swayed mindlessly, mouthing the lyrics to “drowning,” as the bass filled your ears and pounded against your feet.

you continue to rap along to the beat, turning to azzi to match her flow as she recorded you, paige close behind you throwing up two peace signs.

you laugh as she hypes you up, ending the video as the song comes to a close. as it fades out, a familiar “wheezy outta here!” floods the speakers, evoking screams of excitement from the audience.

“ahhh shit!” you yell, causing azzi to shake her head with a smile.

“they got you started, huh?” paige asks, from beside you.

though you don’t answer her question, not in the way she hopes, at least. you choose instead to face her as the song begins.

i’ma beast, i’ma goblinnn, let that shit fly. you don’t want not problemmm

as you continue the taller girl simply admires you, rapping while throwing up all kinds of hand gestures to the music. she’s nodding and rocking with you to the beat of the music, nose scrunched up as you lock eyes. you point to her as a smile forms on your lips, as you mouth the lyrics.

she was my bestie, never knew she was so nasty, yeah.

and she so sexy. kissing on bitches like lesbians, yeah.

paige raised her brows at your bold demeanor, seemingly forgetting about the nature of your relationship as you were surrounded by thousands of people, plenty of which had already recognized paige.

though, she thought, what’s the harm in a little teasing, right?

with that in mind, she takes your hand that was previously pointing at her, raising it above your head as you swayed. she twirls you slowly, stopping once you’re facing away from her.

perfectly in sync with the music, you start to whine your waist against her pelvis, bending over slightly.

ass so fat, oh bounce it up and down like a basketball.

she drops your hand previously raised above your head, placing it on your waist instead, guiding you.

you place your palms on the cold metal in front of you, smiling as you look back to find Paige’s gaze glued to the curve of your ass, barely contained by the skirt that adorned your figure.

you laugh as you stand upright again, feeling a quick slap on your ass as you adjust your skirt. you turn around, giving your girlfriend a smile with a playful glint in your eyes.

when you meet azzi’s eyes, her pointed disapproval doesn’t go unnoticed. you glance beside her at aubrey who shares a similar unamused look.

“what?” you ask.

“nothing,” aubrey shrugs with a goofy smile, “just didn’t know yall got down like that.”

-

the next morning, you’re greeted with rays of light peeking through your thin curtains, forcing your eyes to squint at the intensity.

it wasn’t warm and yellow like the early morning sun, but harsh and white like that of a midday rise. you rolled over, your girlfriend’s arm still wrapped loosely around your waist as you go to check the time.

2:37pm.

you chuckle at the sight. with how late you guys were out last night, it was no surprise to you that you woke up so far into the day.

your movements, though minimal, seem to pull paige out of her sleep, grogginess lacing her voice as she stretches and groans.

you turn back around, sitting up against the headboard. you run your fingers through her blonde locks, smiling at her puffy lips pouting as she pulls herself from her sleepy state.

“good morning sleepyhead,” you say softly.

“g’morning,” she mumbles, lips still buried in the covers. “what time is it?”

“half past two. we had a little too much fun last night i think.”

this pulls her head up from the mattress, and sleepy smile on her lips as she recalls the concert. “mmm, we had a time last night.”

you giggle at her words, smiling down at her. you reach for your phone on the nightstand beside you, going to look at the pictures from the previous night.

you scroll through the countless photos and videos you took that night, from you recording a boogie from the audience with you rapping in the background, pictures of you and the girls getting ready, and the string of locations paige dragged you to after the concert.

you eventually go to tiktok, initially wanting to see your drafts of the many attempts of a dance the team tried to teach you, but you were sidetracked by over a hundred notifications in your inbox from the last couple of hours.

you had been tagged in videos, pictures, and in comments relating to the team at the concert last night. you smile as you see a few of the crowd hyping kk as she danced in the center of a circle, locs bouncing to a bass that was deafening even through the phone. though, that isn’t what caught your eye, it was the fact that the majority of them pertained to a blurry video of you bent over in front of paige with her eyes and hands glued to your ass and you danced on her.

“oh my gosh,” you mutter.

paige plants her head in your lap, looking over at your phone to see what you were looking at.

“oh…shit.”

in hindsight, it may not have been the smartest decision to practically grind on one of the most popular college basketball players at a concert where she’d already been recognized countless times. more so when it was to a lyrics about girls who like girls. but what the hell? who two weren’t exactly a secret, you just never addressed rumours and kept it pushing.

you see her shrug below you as she watches the video replay, shrugging before pulling the cover closer to her and burying her face deeper into your lap. “guess the damage is already done, might as well stop hiding.”

you go to open the comments, knowing people are loosing their shit, and you’re right, which is why you can’t help but laugh as you read them.

uconnfanpage no fucking way.

bueckersb1tch YALLLLLL

user3 the way she was catching her shit…

editzgalore DAMN IT💔

user6 best friends my ass😭😭

wcbb_fan ain’t no way they ain’t fucking💀

username ONE LEG UP MADISON. REALLY?

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

indiana's bench is already up, clapping, someone yelling something you can't hear over the blood in your ears your own bench is quiet in the specific way it goes quiet when they think you might actually get tossed you don't remember deciding to walk toward the ref. 

you just know you're moving, and coach fernandez is already off the bench, and there's a hand closing around your bicep from behind, not rough, not grabbing, just there, solid, familiar in a way your body recognizes half a second before your brain does. "hey." paige's voice, low, pitched just for you. "hey — look at me, not him."

you don't want to look at her looking at her has never once made anything easier. "that was a clean screen, paige, she was standing —"

"i know." she's already walking you backward, toward the bench, her hand sliding down to your wrist like she's done it a thousand times, because she has. "i know it was a bad call. you're not wrong. but you're about to be out if you don't sit down in the next ten seconds, so sit down."

the way she says it is not soft, not coddling, just certain is the only reason you let her steer you onto the bench instead of the girl who fouled you somewhere in the part of your brain that isn't currently on fire, you register that everyone is watching this. 

watching her handle you like it's nothing like it's normal like she isn't the one person on this team who used to know exactly what your hands were doing under a blanket at two in the morning in a dorm room three states from here. "breathe," she says, crouching in front of you so her back is to the court, blocking you from the cameras panning the bench. "in for four."

"i don't need —"

"in for four." her eyes don't move off yours. "you're not doing the ref any favors by getting a tech. you're doing it for you."

you breathe it's humiliating how easily your body still listens to her it wasn't supposed to be like this none of it was storrs, sophomore year, a supply closet that smelled like dry-erase markers, her hand fisted in the front of your jersey like she couldn't decide whether to shove you away or pull you closer. 

it had gone on for two years like that quiet, contained, folded into the corners of a life that had no room in it for anything that might get out.

people will make it about the team, she'd said, the night she ended it, the two of you sitting in her car in a parking lot because it was the only place that felt private enough. they'll say we're playing favorites with each other. they'll say it's why i get more touches. i can't have that follow me into the league.

you remember not crying you remember being proud of that, in the sick way you're proud of things that cost you something you remember saying okay like it was a normal word and not the worst one you'd ever had to use.

you didn't know then that you'd both end up drafted to the same team you don't know, even now, whether that was luck or something crueler. "you good?" her voice again, present tense, snapping you back into the arena, the scoreboard, the fourth quarter about to start without you in it.

"i'm good."

"you're not, but you will be in about ninety seconds, so." she stands, offers you a hand up like it's nothing, like her palm against yours isn't a small, private earthquake every single time. "coach wants you back in with four on the clock. can you give her four clean minutes?"

"yeah."

"say it like you believe it."

you almost laugh it startles you that she can still do that, pull something unclenched out of you in the middle of the worst quarter of your season. "yeah, paige. four clean minutes."

"good." she squeezes your hand once, quick, before she lets go quick enough that no one watching would call it anything quick enough that only you would know it happened at all. "go be a problem for indiana instead of the refs."

you give her four clean minutes you give her a game-tying three with forty seconds left, actually, and when you look to the bench on the way back down the court she's already looking at you, not celebrating, just watching, the way she used to watch you across a dorm room like she was memorizing something she knew she wasn't allowed to keep.

dallas wins by six in the tunnel after, your teammates peel off toward the locker room in loud, happy clumps, and you hang back to retie a shoe that doesn't need retying, and paige hangs back too, because some habits don't unlearn themselves just because you told each other they had to.

"you good?" she asks again, quieter this time, no bench, no cameras, no team five feet away pretending not to listen. "i don't know how you do that." you're not looking at her. you're looking at your shoe. "talk me down like it's nothing. like you're not —"

"like i'm not what."

like you're not the reason i needed talking down from in the first place tonight, you don't say. like some part of me was crashing out about a foul call and a bigger part of me was crashing out about four years ago and you can't tell the difference from the outside, but i can't stop knowing it.

"nothing," you say instead. "forget it." she's quiet for a second too long. "i don't forget it," she says finally, and it's not clear if she means the game, or the question, or something further back than either of those. "i just got good at not saying so."

you don't have an answer for that you're not sure there is one that doesn't reopen something you both agreed, once, in a parked car, to keep closed.

"good game, paige," you say, because it's easier than the truth, and you leave her standing in the tunnel light with her hands in her pockets and an expression you used to be the only person allowed to read.

she doesn't stop you, you don't know, walking away, if that's relief or the thing that's going to keep you up tonight maybe it's both it usually is with her.

it's eleven seconds of footage and it's everywhere by the time you wake up you, on the bench, reese crouched in front of you blocking the cameras her hand on your wrist the way you're looking at her not at the ref, not at the court, just at her, like she's the only stable thing in a building full of noise. 

someone's slowed it down and put a sad piano song under it and the caption says the way she talks her down every single time 🥹and it has four hundred thousand notes by the time your coffee's cold.

you don't watch it paige texts you a screenshot at 8am with no caption at all, which somehow says more than words would have the reporter asks about it before shootaround, phone already out, already recording.

"there's a clip going around from last night — you and paige bueckers on the bench. people are calling it one of the best teammate moments of the season. can you talk about that chemistry?"

chemistry like it's a stat like it's something that started this year.

"paige is good at keeping people even-keeled," you say, and it's true, and it costs you nothing to say, and it still feels like handing someone a photograph with half of it torn off. "she's been doing that for me since college, honestly. she just — knows how to get through to me."

you didn't mean to say since college it slips out easily, unremarkable, the kind of true thing that's dangerous specifically because it sounds so ordinary the reporter doesn't clock it why would she you and paige went to the same school; it's public record, it's nothing, it's two lines in both your wikipedia pages. only you know what's folded up inside those four words.

zaza finds you at your locker after, arms crossed, the specific look on her face that means she was your teammate in college too and she remembers more than she's ever said out loud. "since college, huh."

"we were teammates. it's not a secret."

"i didn't say it was a secret." zaza's voice stays light, easy, but her eyes don't. "i said since college, huh — because i was there, and i remember exactly how much keeping you even-keeled reese used to do for you at two a.m. in dorms she wasn't assigned to."

your stomach drops the way it does every time someone gets close to the thing without saying the thing. "zaza —"

"i'm not saying anything." she holds her hands up. "i'm just saying that clip is doing four hundred thousand notes of a story you two clearly haven't finished telling yourselves, let alone anyone else."

she leaves before you can answer, which is its own kind of mercy, because you don't have one as paige finds you in the hallway outside the locker room, hood up, eyes tired in the specific way that means she's seen the clip more than once. "you told a reporter since college."

"i didn't think —"

"i know you didn't think. that's not what i'm —" she stops, drags a hand down her face. "it's fine. it's true. it's not even the part that matters."

"then what's the part that matters?" she looks at you for a long moment, long enough that you feel it in your chest, that old specific ache of being looked at by someone who used to be allowed to look at you for as long as she wanted.

"the part that matters," she says finally, "is that four hundred thousand people watched eleven seconds of us and called it the best thing they saw all night, and neither of us can say why it looked like that. and i don't think either of us has figured out yet whether that's a coincidence or not."

you don't have an answer you're not sure there is one that doesn't require opening a door you both spent four years agreeing to keep shut. "i have to get to shootaround," you say, which isn't an answer either, just an exit.

"yeah." she steps back, lets you have it. "me too." neither of you moves for a second longer than the exchange requires then you both do, in opposite directions, and the clip keeps climbing notes behind you, telling a story neither of you has agreed to finish.

you beat the toronto tempo two nights later a real win, a statement win, the kind that snaps a three-game skid against them and has the whole locker room loud in a way that has nothing to do with clips or reporters and someone's parents have rented out the top floor of a bar downtown, and by eleven o'clock zaza is doing a truly unhinged rendition of a song from a movie no one under thirty has seen, and paige is sitting next to you on a bar stool with two drinks in her and her shoulder warm against yours. "can i tell you something," she says, the words a little soft at the edges.

"you can always tell me something."

"i think about the closet a lot." she says it into her glass, not looking at you. "the one at storrs. i know that's insane. i know it's been years. i just — i think about it a lot." your heart does something complicated and fast. "paige —"

"i think i made the wrong call," she says, still not looking at you, "back then. i think i picked something that felt safe and it wasn't even — it wasn't even that safe, it just felt like something i could control, and i traded you for it, and i've been regretting it for so long i stopped calling it regret and just started calling it normal."

you should say something you don't, for a second too long, and she seems to hear the silence for what it almost is, because she laughs, short and a little broken. "you don't have to say anything back. i'm just drunk enough to finally say it out loud." and that drunk enough is the exact thing that lets you off the hook, and you take it, because it's easier than the alternative.

"you're drunk," you say, gently, like you're handing her an excuse she can use tomorrow. "we don't have to talk about this right now."

something in her face closes, just slightly, just enough that you notice. "yeah," she says. "you're right. i'm drunk." she doesn't bring it up again that night you tell yourself that's a mercy you don't sleep much either way.

she finds you two days later, at your locker after practice, everyone else already gone, and she's not drunk this time, and her voice doesn't have soft edges anymore it's steady; it's the voice she uses on the bench when she needs you to actually hear her. "i need to say something and i need you to let me finish before you tell me i'm just something."

your stomach flips. "paige —"

"let me finish." she takes a breath. "i said something at the bar the other night and you let me off the hook for it, and i let you, because it was easier that night. but i wasn't drunk enough to make it up. i was drunk enough to finally say it. those aren't the same thing."

you don't move. "i picked my image over you," she says, "when we were twenty, and i've spent every year since then telling myself it was the smart choice, the responsible one, and maybe it was, for my career, i don't know. but it wasn't smart for me. and it's been four years of watching you across locker rooms and benches and tunnels, knowing exactly how you take your coffee and which shoulder you sleep on and what your face does right before you cry, and telling myself none of that means anything anymore because i'm the one who ended it."

"paige —"

"i'm not done." her voice shakes, just barely, just enough that you know it's costing her something to keep going. "i'm not asking you to forgive four years in one conversation. i'm not even asking you to want this back. i just needed you to know it wasn't the alcohol talking at the bar. the alcohol just made me brave enough to say out loud what's been true the entire time. i love you. i don't think i ever stopped. i just got very good at pretending i had."

the locker room is quiet enough that you can hear the hum of the vending machine down the hall. you can hear your own heartbeat, honestly, loud and stupid and four years overdue. "you can't just —" your voice cracks and you hate that it does. "you can't say that like it undoes what it cost me. you left me in a parking lot, res. you made a decision about both of us and only told me after it was already made."

"i know." she doesn't flinch from it. "i'm not asking you to pretend that didn't happen. i'm asking you to know that i've spent four years wishing i'd chosen differently, and i finally have enough nerve to say so, sober, in a locker room, with nothing to blame it on."

you look at her really look, the way you haven't let yourself in years, not the bench-crouch, careful, professional look, but the full weight of it and something in your chest that's been clenched since a car in a parking lot four years ago loosens, just slightly, just enough to feel dangerous. "i'm not saying yes to anything tonight," you say, finally, quietly.

"i'm not asking you to."

"but i'm not saying no, either." you exhale, and it shakes on the way out. "ask me again. properly. when it's not eleven at night and neither of us has just showered off a practice." something in her face breaks open, relief and disbelief tangled together. "yeah?"

"yeah, paige." you almost laugh, and it almost turns into something else. "ask me again."

"okay." she nods, like she's filing it away somewhere she won't lose it this time. "okay. i will." and then, like she can't quite help herself, like four years of holding back finally runs out of road she closes the distance and kisses you. soft, careful, asking permission even as she does it, one hand coming up to rest against your jaw like she's afraid you'll disappear if she doesn't.

you let her for a second, just one, you let yourself have this before you pull back. "that wasn't asking properly," you murmur, breathless, forehead still close to hers. "no." her thumb brushes your cheek, reluctant to let go. "that one was just for me. the real ask is still coming."

"good." you exhale, and it shakes on the way out, but it isn't just nerves this time. "make it count."

"i will." she presses one more kiss to your temple, brief, promise-shaped, before she finally steps back — and for the first time in four years, the space between you doesn't feel like distance it feels like something you're finally, both of you, walking toward.

she asks properly three days later not at a bar, not in a locker room with the vending machine humming down the hall she asks at your apartment, showered and sober and visibly more nervous than you've ever seen her on a court, holding a bag of takeout from the place you used to order from in storrs like she remembered on purpose.

"i said i'd ask you properly," she says, standing in your doorway, "so. can i come in, and can i ask you properly, and can you please not make this harder than it already is for me, because i've rehearsed this in my car for twenty minutes."

you step back and let her in. "you rehearsed it?"

"extensively." she sets the bag down on your counter like it's fragile. "okay. here it is." she takes a breath, and for a second she looks exactly like she did in a parking lot four years ago except this time she's not the one leaving. "i don't want to hide this anymore. any of it. not because i'm not scared of what people will say, because i am, i think i'll always be a little bit scared of that. but i'd rather be scared and honest than safe and lying to both of us again. i want to date you. actually date you. tell people, if you want to. not tell people, if you don't. i just don't want it to be a secret anymore just because that's easier for me." your chest does something complicated and warm. "that's a good ask."

"i practiced it twenty times."

"i believe you." you cross the space between you, slow, deliberate, the way she was with you in the tunnel that first night. "yes, res. i'll date you. properly. loudly, if you want. quietly, if that's what you need. i just want it to be real, however we do it."

relief breaks over her face like something physical, and this time when she kisses you there's no hesitation in it, no asking permission first just four years of waiting finally allowed to land somewhere. "for the record," she murmurs against your mouth, "i would've said all that even without the rehearsed speech."

"i know." you're smiling too hard to hide it. "but i'm glad you rehearsed it anyway."

"twenty times," she says again, like she can't quite believe she's here, saying it, meaning it, with nothing left to blame it on. "i wanted to get it right."

"you did." you pull her back in before she can say anything else. "you got it right."

the takeout goes cold on the counter for a while neither of you mind later, sitting cross-legged on your couch with cartons balanced between you, she tells you the rest of it the parts she didn't have room for in the doorway. 

how she almost said something after your first game together this season, and lost her nerve how zaza cornered her in the weight room two days ago and said, flatly, if you don't tell her, i will, and i'll embarrass you both doing it — which paige swears is the real reason she finally worked up the courage.

"i owe zaza," you say.

"zaza's insufferable and i owe her everything." as paige steals a piece of your food without asking, the way she used to. "she's going to be unbearable about this, you know. she's going to act like she orchestrated the whole thing."

"she kind of did."

"don't tell her that." you laugh, and it feels easy in a way it hasn't in years not careful, not folded into a locker room or a parked car, just yours, out loud, in your own apartment with no one to hide it from. "so what happens now," you ask, "with the team. the reporters. all of it."

"whatever we want to happen." paige shrugs, but her eyes stay steady on you. "we don't owe anyone an announcement. we also don't owe anyone a secret. if someone asks, i'm not going to lie about it anymore. i'm just done doing that part."

"okay." you set your carton down, lean into her shoulder, feel her arm come around you like it's always belonged there. "no more secrets, then."

"no more secrets." she presses a kiss into your hair. "just us. finally just—us."

outside, dallas is still buzzing about the win over toronto, and somewhere a clip of the two of you is probably still circulating, still collecting captions from strangers who don't know the half of it. 

You paced the small dorm room, heart hammering against your ribs as you clutched your phone in one hand. The words you’d rehearsed a hundred times echoed in your head: “Allie, I’ve been in love with you for months. I know it’s sudden, but I can’t keep pretending anymore.” Your fingers trembled as you imagined saying them out loud. She was your best friend, your person. The one who made every late-night study session feel like an adventure and every laugh feel like home. You’d waited long enough. Today was the day.

A soft knock at the door made you jump. Before you could even answer, the handle turned and Allie stepped inside, her cheeks flushed and her smile brighter than you’d seen in weeks. She was practically glowing, blonde hair a little messy like she’d been running her hands through it.

“Hey, you,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaning against it for a second. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “God, I’ve been dying to tell you this all day.”

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile as you set your phone down. Your confession could wait a minute. She looked too happy. “Tell me what?”

Allie bit her lip, then practically bounced across the room and grabbed both of your hands. “Dean and I… we’re official. Like, boyfriend-girlfriend official. He asked me last night after the game and I said yes. I can’t believe it’s real.”

The words hit you like ice water down your spine. Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. The charming, cocky hockey player who’d been circling Allie for weeks. Your stomach twisted, but you kept your face neutral, squeezing her hands back even as something sharp and ugly flared in your chest.

“Wow,” you managed, voice steadier than you felt. “That’s… that’s great, Allie. Really.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “I know it’s fast, but he makes me so happy. Like, stupid happy.”

You hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent, your heart aching with every beat. The confession you’d been ready to spill died on your tongue. How could you say anything now?

You tried to match her energy, but the knot in your stomach only tightened. The image of Dean’s cocky smirk and those stupid broad shoulders flashed in your mind, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out laced with something sharper than you intended.

“That’s… wow. Dean Di Laurentis, huh?” You forced a little laugh, dropping her hands gently so you could cross your arms over your chest. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Allie. I’m happy for you. But you know how those hockey guys are. Total manwhores. They’ll fuck anything with a pulse and a short skirt. One minute they’re all charming and ‘baby, you’re the only one,’ and the next they’re ghosting you for the next puck bunny who looks their way.”

Allie blinked, her smile faltering just a little. “Hey, Dean’s not like that—”

“Oh, come on,” you cut in, the jealousy burning hotter now, pushing you forward. You leaned against your desk, trying to look casual even as your voice dripped with shade. “They’re all the same. Popular hockey couple goals, right? Everyone on campus is gonna be talking about how perfect you two look together. The star player and the gorgeous blonde. So cute. So #relationshipgoals. Meanwhile the rest of us are just… here.”

You rolled your eyes, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, but you couldn’t stop. Part of you wanted her to argue, to defend him less, to maybe just maybe look at you the way you’d been looking at her for months.

Allie tilted her head, studying you with a mix of confusion and concern. “Where is this coming from? You’ve never had a problem with Dean before.”

Before Allie could press you further, a familiar deep voice cut through the room from the doorway.

“Damn, I knew I smelled a jealous lesbian from down the hall. Just followed the scent and here we are.”

You both whipped around. Dean Di Laurentis leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place, that signature smirk plastered on his stupidly handsome face. He looked freshly showered after practice, hair still damp, wearing a Briar hoodie that stretched across his broad chest. His green eyes danced with amusement as they flicked between you and Allie.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he added casually, stepping inside and closing the door behind him with a soft click. “But these doors are thin as fuck, and you two weren’t exactly quiet. Manwhores who fuck anything with a pulse? Ouch. That one hurt a little, babe.”

Your face burned. “I’m not jealous,” you shot back quickly, crossing your arms tighter. “You’re imagining things. I was just being honest. Hockey players have a reputation for a reason.”

Allie’s eyes widened for a second, then she let out a soft giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. The sound was light and way too affectionate. “Oh my god… you are jealous. That’s actually adorable.”

Dean’s smirk deepened as he moved closer, glancing at Allie with clear heat in his gaze before turning it on you. “See? Even your best friend thinks so. Cute little jealous girl throwing shade at couple goals.” He tilted his head, voice dropping lower. “Didn’t know I was stepping on someone’s territory here.”

The air in the small dorm room suddenly felt thicker, heavier. Allie was still smiling, cheeks pink, while Dean watched you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’m not jealous,” you insisted again, voice sharper this time even as your heart pounded so hard you were sure they could hear it. You took a small step back until your thighs hit the edge of your desk. “I’m just looking out for my friend, okay? That’s what best friends do. I don’t want you getting hurt by some cocky hockey player who—”

“Baby, please,” Allie interrupted softly, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. Her eyes were warm, knowing, and a little amused. “We’ve been dancing around this for months. I’ve always known you’re in love with me.”

Your breath caught. Before you could deny it again, Allie cupped your face with both hands and kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. Her lips were warm and sure, tasting like cherry lip gloss and something sweeter, and for a second the whole world narrowed to just her mouth moving against yours. You froze, then melted into it with a quiet, surprised sound, your hands instinctively gripping her waist.

When she pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours, both of you breathing harder, Dean’s low, rough voice broke the silence.

“Wow…” He let out a stunned laugh, eyes dark and hungry as he watched the two of you. “This is definitely hotter than fucking porn.”

Allie giggled against your lips, glancing over at him with a playful spark in her eyes, while you stood there dazed, lips tingling and cheeks burning.

You pulled back from Allie’s kiss, dazed and breathless, your lips still tingling. Your brain was short-circuiting, but the stubborn jealousy refused to let go completely. You glanced between them, heart racing.

“Okay… okay,” you muttered, trying to regain some control. “That doesn’t change my opinion about Dean. He’s still a manwhore. If we did a census around campus, more than half the girls here have probably fucked him at some point.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, but instead of getting offended, that wicked, confident smirk returned full force. He stepped closer, crowding you gently against the desk until his tall frame loomed over you. His voice dropped into that low, velvet tone that made panties drop across Briar University.

“Well then… let me change your opinion,” he murmured, green eyes locked on yours. “And let me change that census while I’m at it.”

Before you could fire back another retort, Dean cupped the back of your neck and kissed you.

It was nothing like Allie’s sweet, knowing kiss. This one was hungry, dominant, and filthy. His mouth claimed yours with practiced ease, tongue teasing your bottom lip before sliding inside, hot and confident. One of his big hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against his hard body, and fuck — he smelled like fresh soap and something dangerously masculine.

You tried to stay stubborn. You really did.

But damn it… the man could kiss. Against your better judgment, you found yourself kissing him back, your hands fisting in his hoodie as a surprised, needy little sound escaped your throat.

When he finally pulled back, lips wet and smirk even cockier, Allie was watching the two of you with dark, heated eyes and a soft bite to her lower lip.

“See?” Dean rasped, thumb brushing your flushed cheek. “Not such a manwhore if I can make you melt like that.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore.

The second Dean pulled away, something inside you snapped. All the months of wanting Allie, the jealousy, the frustration, and the sudden overwhelming heat between the three of you exploded. You grabbed Allie first, kissing her hard and greedy, tongues sliding together. Then you turned to Dean, pulling him down by his hoodie and kissing him just as hungrily, biting his bottom lip.

You went back and forth between them like you were starving messy, desperate, greedy kisses that left all three of you breathing raggedly.

Allie let out a soft, delighted giggle against your mouth. “God, look at you… so greedy for both of us,” she whispered, clearly turned on by your sudden hunger.

She dipped her head and started kissing down your neck, warm lips and teasing little nips that made your knees weak. You moaned quietly, tilting your head to give her better access.

Dean watched the two of you for a second, eyes blazing with lust.

“Jesus Christ, thank you God,” he groaned, voice thick. “I owe you one, man. You know how much I love lesbians.”

While Allie sucked a sensitive spot on your neck that made you shiver, Dean reached down and started pushing his sweatpants and boxers down his hips. His hard cock sprang free, thick and already leaking at the tip. He stroked himself slowly as he watched Allie mark your neck and you squirm between them.

Your eyes kept drifting down to Dean’s cock as he stroked it lazily, thick, long, and flushed. You couldn’t help it. Leaning closer to Allie while she kissed your neck, you whispered hotly against her ear, voice shaky with arousal:

“Fuck, Allie… he has the most beautiful, biggest dick I’ve ever seen.”Dean let out a low, amused chuckle right behind you.

“I’m listening, baby,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna get even harder.”

Allie giggled softly against your skin, then slowly dropped to her knees in front of you, looking up with dark, playful eyes. Her fingers slid under the hem of your blouse and started pulling it up, agonizingly slow, exposing your stomach, then your bra, and finally tugging it over your head and tossing it aside.

She ran her hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as she looked up at you again.“You wanna try it?” she asked, voice sweet but filthy, glancing sideways at Dean’s impressive length. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering wildly as you stood there in just your bra, Allie on her knees in front of you, and Dean watching hungrily with his cock in his hand. You didn’t even think about it. Your knees hit the floor almost automatically, eyes locked on Dean’s thick cock as you reached for him.

Before your lips could wrap around him, Dean’s big hand grabbed your jaw firmly, tilting your face up. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, eyes dark with lust and amusement.

“Look at you… on your knees so fast,” he murmured. Then he tapped his heavy cock against your cheek once, twice, then a little harder dirty, wet slaps that made your pussy throb. “These are for being such a fucking brat earlier. Talking shit about me being a manwhore while you’re dripping for my dick.”

You moaned shamelessly at the filthy treatment, the sound needy and desperate.

Allie watched with hooded eyes, clearly loving every second. She reached behind you and unhooked your bra with skilled fingers, letting it fall away and exposing your breasts to the cool air of the dorm. Your nipples hardened instantly under their combined gazes.

While you knelt there, face still held by Dean, Allie stood up just enough to start stripping herself — peeling off her top, then shimmying out of her jeans, revealing smooth skin and pretty pink lace panties.

“God, you look so good like this,” Allie whispered, voice full of heat as she ran her fingers through your hair.

Dean tapped his cock against your lips this time. “Open up, brat.”

You opened your mouth obediently and took Dean’s thick cock between your lips, sucking him eagerly. He was big — stretching your mouth in the most delicious way — and you moaned around him as you started bobbing your head, taking him deeper with every pass.

“Fuck… that’s it,” Dean groaned, one hand gently stroking your hair while the other reached for Allie. “Such a good girl sucking my cock like you were made for it.”

Allie smiled and moved closer, dropping back down to her knees beside you. She leaned in and started playing with Dean’s heavy balls, massaging them with soft fingers while you worked his shaft with your mouth. The wet, obscene sounds filled the small dorm room.

Dean’s head fell back for a second, a deep moan rumbling from his chest. “Look at you two… my pretty girls. So fucking perfect. Sharing my cock like this? I’m in heaven.”

While you sucked him harder, hollowing your cheeks, your hand slid between Allie’s thighs. You pushed her lace panties aside and found her soaked clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the sensitive bud. Allie gasped softly, hips twitching toward your touch, her fingers tightening around Dean’s balls.

“Shit — yes, just like that,” Dean praised, fingers tightening gently in both your hair and Allie’s. “Keep teasing her, baby. Make her nice and wet for us.”

Dean looked down at both of you with dark, hungry eyes, his voice rough with lust.“Kiss each other around my cock,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “I want to feel those pretty lips on me while you make out.”

You and Allie didn’t hesitate. You both leaned in, lips meeting sloppily right over the thick head of his dick. The kiss was wet, messy, and filthy hot tongues sliding against each other and over his sensitive skin, tasting precum and each other at the same time. Spit dripped down his shaft as you kissed greedily, moaning into each other’s mouths.

You kept your fingers moving between Allie’s thighs, rubbing her swollen clit in tight little circles. Allie whimpered and moaned into the kiss, her hips rocking desperately against your hand.“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Dean groaned, threading his fingers through both your hairs. “Look at you two… sloppy fucking kisses on my cock. You’re both so perfect.”

He watched for a moment longer, then looked at Allie with a wicked smirk.“Touch her pussy, baby,” he told Allie, voice thick. “I want you to feel how wet our jealous little brat is right now.”

Her hand slid down your stomach and into your pants, fingers finding your soaked pussy instantly. Two fingers rubbed over your slick folds before circling your clit, matching the rhythm you were using on her.

You moaned loudly around Dean’s cock, the sound vibrating against him. Allie whimpered into your mouth as you kept stroking her clit, both of you trembling and moaning while you kissed messily over his throbbing dick.

Dean groaned deeply, watching the filthy scene with heavy-lidded eyes.“Don’t forget what you’re doing, girls,” he rasped, voice thick with pleasure. “Keep those pretty mouths on my cock.”

He pushed both your heads down gently but firmly, guiding you back to his shaft. You and Allie obeyed immediately, licking and kissing along his length with even sloppier, wetter enthusiasm while your hands kept working each other’s pussies. The room filled with the sounds of wet kisses, soft moans, and heavy breathing. You curled your fingers inside Allie, searching for that perfect spot, and when you found it she let out a broken moan against your mouth. You rubbed it relentlessly, fast and firm, while your thumb kept working her clit.

Allie came hard.Her whole body tensed, thighs shaking as she cried out, pussy clenching around your fingers. She looked absolutely beautiful when she came — flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure. You couldn’t resist. You pulled your fingers out and immediately kissed her deeply, hungry and passionate, tasting her moans.

Your other hand wrapped around Dean’s thick cock, stroking him fast and tight while you made out with Allie.

Dean watched the whole thing with dark, burning eyes.“Fuck, that’s it,” he praised, voice rough. “Look at you making your girl cum so pretty. Such a good little slut for us.” He groaned as your hand twisted around his cock. “Both of you… my greedy, filthy girls. One cumming on your fingers while the other jerks me off like she needs my load. So fucking perfect.”

He caressed your hair and Allie’s, breathing hard as pleasure built.

Dean’s breathing grew ragged, his hips thrusting into your hand as you kept stroking him while kissing Allie.“Fuck— I’m gonna cum,” he groaned.

You and Allie pulled back just enough. Dean gripped his cock and pumped it a few times before he came with a deep, guttural moan. Thick ropes of cum landed across both of your chests warm, messy streaks painting your tits and Allie’s. You both moaned softly at the filthy sight.

Dean took a moment to catch his breath, then smiled that lazy, satisfied smirk. He bent down, scooped you up easily with one arm and Allie with the other, carrying you both toward your bed like you weighed nothing.

He laid you down gently on the sheets, then dropped between you, pulling both of you close against his chest. His fingers lazily smeared his cum over your breasts, marking you both.

“You know…” he said, voice still husky, “I might not mind if this becomes a regular thing. This was way too fucking hot to be a one-time deal.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple, then Allie’s. “But since I’m trying not to be a manwhore anymore… how about we make it official? A throuple. You two are stuck with me now.”

Allie giggled softly, cuddling into his side while her hand reached over to intertwine with yours.

The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.