“I got a text!”

The sound of Hannah’s voice has you all rushing to meet her on the grassy lawn, Allie’s nails digging into your arm excitedly as you all swarm around Hannah.

She clears her throat, a soft blush painted over her cheeks at everyone’s attention, though clearly enjoying it nonetheless. She looks down at the text on her phone. “‘Islanders! Today, a new bombshell will be entering the villa—,”

Allie lets out a loud squeal. “YES!”

“— He has chosen to take Hannah on a one-on-one date. Prepare for heads to turn! #NewArrivals #VillaShakeUp’”

The Villa erupts into cheers, though you notice that Justin is a little more subdued. In the commotion, you lock eyes with Joe. His expression is unclear—he almost looks like he’s disappointed, which confuses you. Before you can pull him aside to chat, the girls start rushing you all to the dressing room to help Hannah get ready.

“This is so exciting!” Meg cheers.

Allie’s already started plugging in a hair straightener, curler, and crimping iron.

“So we have options,” she tells you when Hannah shoots her a look.

“I am not letting Hannah go on a date with a crimped bob,” Dionne’s muffled shout comes from where she’s rifling through the closet.

You shake your head with a laugh as Allie unplugs the crimper, reaching for Hannah’s makeup bag and moving to sit on the stool next to her. As you take out her primer, you watch Hannah quietly examine herself in the mirror.

“Are you excited for your date?”

Hannah meets your eye in the mirror with a soft sigh. “I think so?” She bites her lip hesitantly. “I don’t know. I know it’s only day 3, but I do like Justin, I just… I wish he would put a bit more effort in, I guess.”

You nod along, pumping some of Hannah’s primer onto your fingertips.

“Like, he’s not being disrespectful or anything. But I feel like I kinda have to initiate everything? Like he doesn’t really pull me for chats and I always have to be the one to keep the conversation going.” Hannah’s eyes flutter closed as you press the primer into her skin.

“Well, then, I think this date came at a perfect time for you,” Dionne assures her, pulling out an apricot colored halter top and skirt set with a questioning look.

Allie cocks her head at it thoughtfully, before shaking her head and Dionne puts it back in the closet and continues looking. “Exactly. Even if you end up not really clicking with the new bombshell, it’ll definitely be a wake-up call for Justin and show him that there’s a Villa full of guys waiting for him to fuck it up with you.” 

“He did seem kinda nervous when you read the text out,” you offer, getting up to let Allie take your place to do the rest of Hannah’s makeup.

“Really?” Hannah asks hopefully.

Meg nods. “Yeah, I clocked that too. It’s definitely got him sweating a bit.”

“See?” Allie grins. “It’s already working. Now, let’s all manifest that this bombshell is crazy, fucking hot and makes all the guys sweat a bit.”

Dionne reemerges from the closet with a baby blue mini dress, which receives a squeal of approval from Meg, a proud nod from Allie, and two thumbs up from you. She lays the dress across the back of one of the chairs, before her eyes land on you with a knowing expression.

“Are you going to talk to Joe after this?”

Allie furrows her brows. “What’s going on with Joe?”

Suddenly all the girls’ attention is on you and you shift uncomfortably, grabbing a hairbrush to busy yourself with Hannah’s hair.

When you don’t immediately move to speak, Dionne passes you the now hot curling iron and speaks for you. “Maybe it’s nothing, but he was acting weird as fuck outside. And I know you noticed.”

Allie meets your eye with raised brows and you shrug noncommittally.

“Maybe he’s just worried about the new bombshell coming in?” Hannah offers.

“I don’t know…” You trail off, gathering a strand of Hannah’s hair to wrap around the barrel of the curling iron. “He didn’t really seem nervous. He looked more disappointed.”

You remove the curl of Hannah’s hair from the iron, holding it in your palm to set before letting the ringlet fall. “Things between us have been fine, I guess, but I keep waiting for this, like, spark with him and it’s just not there.”

Allie looks up from applying blush to Hannah’s cheeks. “Is there anyone else in the Villa you’re interested in?”

You shake your head. “Not really. But, I don’t know, I’m probably overthinking everything. It’s still such early days, I think Joe and I just need to spend more time together. I’ll try to talk to him more today.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Hannah reaches behind herself, waiting for you to place your hand in hers before giving it a comforting squeeze. “And, whatever happens, you’ll be okay.” 

After that the conversation falls back into excited squeals and loudly hyping Hannah up before you’re all standing by the entrance to wave her off. 

As you all cheer, you catch something small falter on Allie’s face. Almost as soon as you notice it, it’s gone, and she’s cupping her hands around her mouth, “Bye, have fun! Bring back someone hot!”

Once Hannah turns the corner and is fully out of sight, you turn to get Joe’s attention. You nudge your head in the direction of the sandy swing and he nods, following you. Dionne’s fingers brush yours as you pass and she gives you a supportive smile.

A somewhat uncomfortable silence falls over you and Joe as you make yourselves comfortable on the swing seat.

“Hey,” you say simply.

“Hey.”

It’s quiet for another moment and you clear your throat. “I just wanted—I mean, I just noticed something seemed weird with you after the bombshell announcement and I wanted to, like, just check in with you.”

Joe makes a face. “What seemed weird with me?”

“Well, I don’t—You just seemed disappointed?” You look down, running your nail along the cushioned seat. “The other girls noticed too.”

“You talked to the other girls about it?”

“Yeah, they—,”

Joe cuts you off. “Why are you bringing this up with the other girls?”

“Because I—Why are you getting mad about this?” You ask, Joe’s tone catching you off guard.

“I’m not getting mad,” Joe huffs. “I just don’t really appreciate you spreading my business to everyone.”

Your brows crumple in confusion. “Your business? What are you even—They noticed you were acting weird and asked if I was gonna talk to you about it. How is that me spreading your business?”

“Because you should have just come to me to talk about it,” Joe argues.

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “That’s literally what I’m doing right now!”

“Fine, whatever,” Joe crosses his arms dismissively. “Sorry I seemed weird or disappointed or whatever it is that you’re even mad about, but I think that you’ve made this a way bigger thing than it needed to be.”

He gets up before you can respond, brushing off his shorts. “And, in the future, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn't go tell everyone every little thing that happens between us.”

And then he’s walking away, leaving you there dumbfounded as you try to piece together how your simple attempt at communication escalated so quickly.

Hours later, you’re lounging on the daybeds—still trying to process what happened between you and Joe earlier that morning—when the sound of two footsteps catches your attention. Meg lets out a loud gasp, her ping pong paddle clattering against the ping pong table, and drags Tucker away from their game. 

“They’re back!”

Though there’s obvious excitement at finally being able to meet the new Islander who’s been lingering in all your heads since the morning, your conversation with Joe left you feeling off and has distracted you enough that it takes you a bit longer than everyone else to get up and greet Hannah and the new bombshell.

Justin was the first to see them, having spent most of the morning looking up at every little sound and waiting for them to return. Upon seeing Hannah and the bombshell walking in with a respectful amount of space between them, his posture relaxes.

Unfortunately, you do the exact opposite. 

The second your eyes land on the new bombshell, your breath catches in your throat and your lips part in shock. You were going to have to have a much more serious conversation with Allie about the powers of manifestation later because whatever it was that she asked to bring in a “crazy, fucking hot” bombshell had delivered.

He was hot in a way you didn’t think men could even be hot; tall and broad, with deep brown eyes you would happily drown in.

You try not to make your staring obvious, your immense attraction faltering when Hannah turns to smile at him brightly.

“Guys, this is Garrett.”

“Okay, spill, right now.”

Garrett had barely planted both feet on the Villa grass before Allie had called for an immediate girls debrief, leaving the boys to make proper introductions as you and the girls sat around the fire pit to hear the details of Hannah’s date.

Hannah bites her lip, before breaking out into a girly giggle. “I mean… You’ve seen him.”

The girls break out into shrieks and Allie hits Hannah’s shoulder excitedly.

“Yes, bitch!”

“Okay, slow down,” Hannah laughs, holding out her hands. “You’re acting like we had sex or something.”

“Did you?” Allie smirks.

“No. I mean, we kissed a little—,”

Another wave of shrieks erupts from the group, loud enough to get some looks from the guys on the other side of the Villa.

“—But that was the only thing we did.” Hannah stresses. “It was a nice date though. He’s definitely the type of guy I’d go for on the outside.”

Something in Hannah’s tone dips at the end of her sentence and you narrow your eyes slightly. 

“But…”

Hannah looks up at you like you’ve scolded her, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about Justin,” she confesses, covering her face with her hands. “Like, I had a lot of fun on my date with Garrett and he didn’t do anything wrong, I just…”

“Wished you were on a date with Justin instead?” Dionne finishes for her.

Hannah gives a small nod. “Does that sound crazy? I mean, we’ve only known each other for three days.”

“Girl, if that makes you crazy then Justin is, like, psychotic,” you tease softly. “He was waiting for you to come back like a puppy with separation anxiety.”

The rest of the girls chime in with their own forms of agreement.

“I don’t think he spoke to any of us the whole morning. Tucker asked if he would spot him at the gym and Justin literally said ‘no’ because he wanted to be able to hear when you got back,” Meg tells her.

When Hannah looks at her in disbelief, Allie grins. “Genuinely babe, I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry about him not putting in effort anymore.”

Hannah opens her mouth to press for more information, but whatever question she asks gets lost in your ears as—very much against your will—your eyes drift to find Garrett.

He’s leaning against one of the kitchen counters, listening to an animated Tucker who is no doubt giving him a very thorough tour of where all the dishware and cutlery goes. You watch as his lips twitch with a faint smile when Tucker opens one of the drawers and lets out an offended gasp at the state of it, quickly forgetting Garrett as he starts to sort the forks and spoons to his liking.

Before you have time to look away, Garrett turns around, immediately locking eyes with you. Your eyes widen in mortification at being caught staring, but you can’t seem to look away. Garrett takes you in with muted interest, arms crossing lazily as his eyes slowly travel up and down your body. When he’s satisfied with looking at you, he meets your gaze again and cocks his head almost challengingly.

“Do you girls mind if I pull Hannah for a chat?”

Justin’s sudden arrival at the fire pit causes your head to snap back so fast, you almost get whiplash and you force your eyes to stay on him—and not on Garrett who, you can feel, is still watching you—as the girls shoo Hannah into his arms.

The evening comes quickly after that, everyone changing out of their swimwear and getting ready for the night, before mingling around the Villa. You haven’t seen Joe since the beginning of the night, when he and the guys were waiting for the girls at the bottom of the stairs and, even then, he only gave you a small hum in greeting before promptly disappearing. The two of you haven’t really spoken since the morning. 

That uncomfortable, off feeling you’ve been feeling since the morning multiplies. 

Still, you tried to ignore it, half-committing to a conversation with Allie and Sean that quickly devolved into you just watching as they started arguing about something unimportant. Like what is increasingly becoming common with the two, the argument ends with Sean taking Allie off somewhere to speak privately. You shoot Allie a sympathetic smile, before scanning the rest of the Villa. 

The lawn is surprisingly empty—you’ve reached the point in the night where many of the couples have snuck off for some private time together (or as private as you can get in a villa full of cameras)—and that’s the excuse you’re using if anyone questions how quickly you were able to find Garrett standing by the ping pong table.

“You know, if you wanted to play ping pong, Tucker’s really good at it.”

Garrett turns around at the sound of your voice, though doesn’t really seem surprised that you’ve come to talk to him. “What about you?”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh.

Garrett’s eyes light up at your immediate refusal. “Well, now we have to play.” He holds a ping pong paddle out to you teasingly.

You shake your head, but it’s futile. “I’m telling you, we wouldn’t even be able to play. It would just be me chasing the ball the whole time.”

“That still sounds fun,” he nudges your hand with the paddle. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“How gracious,” you mutter sarcastically, but you take the ping pong paddle from him anyway.

Garrett moves to the other side of the table, grabbing a ping pong ball and his own paddle. You eye the ball warily as he bounces it on the table a couple times. When he moves to serve, you panic, blurting out the first thing you can think of.

“Where’s Hannah?”

Garrett freezes, and you can tell he knows exactly what you’re doing, but he indulges you anyway, letting his paddle arm drop.

“Don’t know. Justin grabbed her for some grand gesture. I didn’t really get the details.”

“Oh.” You state dumbly. “I’m sorry.”

Garrett frowns slightly. “Why?”

“I mean—Aren’t you interested in Hannah?”

“I am.” He nods in agreement. “But she’s not the only girl here I’m interested in.”

Before you can respond, he serves the ping pong ball. It bounces once on your side of the net and you awkwardly lunge for it, missing it entirely.

You watch as it bounces on the floor a couple times and rolls away. “That’s not fair.” You look up at Garrett accusingly. “We haven’t started yet.”

“We have, actually.” Garrett smirks. “I made the executive decision to start when you kept trying to distract me.”

You let out a noise of protest. “I was not trying to distract you, I was being friendly and getting to know you.”

“Oh, is that what that was?”

“Yeah. Sorry for being an active listener.”

Garrett nods in amusement. “You gonna get the ball then?”

“You can get it,” you say defiantly. “Since you decided to serve before we were actually playing.”

With a small chuckle, Garrett jogs over to where the ping pong ball had rolled to, picking it up with three fingers and walking back to the table. 

He makes a show of getting ready to serve, winding his arm back with a slow flourish. “This is me starting, by the way.”

“Okay, now you’re just—,”

The ball whizzes past you. 

When you look back at him, Garrett is biting back a laugh.

“You did that on purpose.” You turn around to stomp after the ball.

“Why don’t you serve first, then?” He offers.

When you get back to the table, you hesitate, looking between the paddle and the ball uneasily. Letting out a breath, you drop the ping pong ball on the table, letting it bounce once before swinging the paddle to hit it. You miss the ball entirely—underestimating how high it would bounce—and swinging into the air underneath it.

“Okay,” you try to laugh, but your face burns with embarrassment. “I’m done now, actually.”

You drop your paddle to the table, unable to look at Garrett through the humiliation. “Like I said, if you actually want to play against someone, you should ask Tucker.”

“Hey, wait a sec.” Garrett puts down his own paddle, walking over to stand in front of you before you can dramatically run away. “You were doing good.” When you look up at him flatly, he winces. “Well, okay, maybe not—Look, just give it one more try. You’re really close.”

Garrett grabs another ball from the ping pong table and holds it out to you. After a moment, you take it from him, letting out a sigh of defeat. You both move back to get into position and, when you glance at him nervously, Garrett gives you an encouraging nod.

Right before you’re about to let go of the ball, you pause. “This is me starting, by the way.”

You bounce the ball on the table, now having a much better sense of where it will be, and this time your paddle makes contact, hitting it lightly over the net. It bounces on Garrett’s side once and he easily sends it back. You watch the ball bounce, swing, and miss it again.

Before you can say anything, Garrett hands you another ping pong ball.

You take it begrudgingly. “We’re gonna run out of ping pong balls if you keep just using new ones.”

“Then I’ll go grab the other ones,” he says simply. “Now try again.”

It takes you three balls—and one more that Garrett had to grab from the grass—before you’re finally able to hit the ball back to him. You let out an actual gasp when you do that turns into a shocked, increasingly more excited, mutter of “Oh my god” every time you’re able to successfully send the ball back. Your ability to actually play a game of ping pong is largely aided by the fact that Garrett is intentionally aiming for where your paddle already is when he sends the ball back, but that does nothing to diminish your sense of victory.

You make it through about five passes before you get too eager and accidentally hit the ball hard enough that it goes flying past Garrett’s shoulder, but you don’t even care, instead turning to Garrett with a delighted squeal.

“Did you see that?! I did it!”

“You did,” Garrett smiles.

“Oh my god, Tucker’s not gonna—You have to be there when I tell him.” You stop mid-celebration, grabbing Garrett’s hand without thinking. “Because you genuinely don’t understand how bad I usually am at ping pong, he’s not gonna believe me. I need witnesses.”

In your excitement, you miss the way Garrett’s features soften as you swing his arm around happily. “I’ll be there.”

“I’m gonna go get all the balls, okay?” You drop his hand suddenly, rushing away and shouting over your shoulder as you start picking up all the ping pong balls that have scattered across the floor. “We’re doing that again!”

Dean doesn't live his life with regrets. Decisions of the past were taken for a reason, so stand by them.

Past Dean is an idiot, he's decided. Past Dean is the reason he's stood in the corner of a party, rather than at the centre, hand tightening around the long turned warm can of beer.

Past Dean is the reason he's stood watching you at the bar, so brazenly lean towards the man in front of you. Your mouth brushes the man's ear as you whisper something to him.

Past Dean is the reason his stomach tightens as you throw your head back in laughter at whatever the man, who's not him, responded to you. He couldn't possibly be that funny.

Past Dean should have never agreed when you'd implied that this was just sex, a fling, something he didn't need to remain exclusive for. To be fair, he was balls deep in you at the time. You were clenched around him in that way that made his mind go numb. If he'd had the ability to think, he would have told you absolutely not, flipped you over, and fucked you so right you would have given up the ridiculous notion that this could be anything but an emotional, exclusive thing.

But he hadn't and now he's living with a regret. He's living with a hammering in his chest and pit in his stomach every time he sees you even breathe near someone that could be your type. He's never been the jealous type, but here he stands, unable to tear his eyes away from watching you allow a man, that's not him, to leave lingering touches.

He doesn't blame the man for being so caught up in you. You were a flame. You danced like nobody was watching (even though you knew everybody was watching you).

He doesn't even blame you. You can't help but be magnetic.

He blames himself.

He blames the time he wasted. Yeah, sure, in the beginning it was just a fling. By now, it was hard to think of the life you had built together as just a fling. The hours spend on late night drives around the campus, the endless texting, the way you calmed his nerves before a big game, the sweaty sex, the way you had taken the impromptu run in with his family in the Hamptons house in stride... you were meant to be in his life.

Dean's vision of you is blurred as a hand waves across his face.

"Dude, stop starting, it's getting creepy."

Dean knows Beau's just being polite. He's been staring long enough that it's way past creepy, has he even blinked?

Dean takes the shot that Beau hands out to him, downing it immediately. The alcohol burns in the best way, giving his stomach a feeling other than hollowness. Beau hands him one more shot. "Down that then go get your girl!"

Dean looks at him in shock. He thought you guys had been discrete.

"I have eyes and I'm not an idiot. I've been trapped in a car with you both. Don't insult my emotional intelligence here," Beau says, his eyes soft as he sees the torment his best friend is going through.

Dean's face begins to heat. "Then I'm sure you've seen how one-sided this is. She's not my girl," he snaps, instantly feeling bad. Beau doesn't deserve his attitude. Great, another regret.

Beau moves to stand in front of Dean, blocking his line of sight to you. "Look here," Beau commands, pointing to his eyes with his index and middle finger in a V shape.

"She. like. you." Beau speaks as if he's talking to a child who doesn't understand complex speech.

"She likes me so much she's spent all night flirting with some random."

"She. make. you. jealous."

Dean ponders that for a minute. It would make sense; he had caught your eyes flicking over to him occasionally. He had noticed that you'd flirt harder with the man once you knew he was still watching.

Dean chuckles to himself. Clearly you knew just how wrapped around your finger he was and was taking full advantage of it.

"I love you," Dean says, grabbing hold of Beau's face and kissing him on the forehead, "Genuis."

Dean dances his way over to you, arms raised and body swaying to the music.

He approaches and a self-satisfied smile plays on your lips. You eye him like a fisherman that's caught the catch of the day. You knew he'd come over eventually, and you probably thought he'd be burning with rage. Dean is not too old to be playing games; he'll play one with you.

"Dean," you purr, "this is Chase." Dean sees the way you place your hand on Chase's knee.

"Dean, great party my man." Chase extends a hand towards Dean. He takes it all too happily.

"It's good to have you here, man, thanks for coming." Dean tries hard to contain his amusement as the smile falls from your face.

Dean scoots in between you both and leans back on his elbows against the bar.

"So how long has cute thing been going on," Dean continues, index finger pointing between the two of you.

"Almost two-" Chase begins.

"We're going to dance now," you cut Chase off, jumping out of your seat.

"Wait," Dean calls, grabbing your wrist to stop you walking off. "Don't go."

Dean watches as your eyes flicker nervously to Chase. He doesn't want to hurt the guy, but he's also not just going to let you walk away with him.

"I've learnt my lesson." Dean studies the way his words cause a shift in your face. You pull your hand out of his grasp.

"That explains some things," Chase says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Respectfully, I'm going to bow out here. I don't do messy."

"Chase, I'm so sorry," you say, voice quiet. You're looking at the ground, guilt evident in your face.

"It's all good, I hope it all works out for you both. I'm going to go enjoy the free booze," Chase keeps his voice light and Dean finds some respect for the man he's been cursing in his head.

"You're an arsehole, you know that, right?" Your jaw clenches.

"Let's talk about why I'm an arsehole."

You jerk your head in the direction of the stairs. Dean takes your hand and this time you don't pull away. He leads you up the stairs and into his room.

⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆

You whirl around the second you close the door; arms crossed tightly over your chest. "You humiliated Chase down there. He was a nice guy and he didn't deserve that."

"I'm sure he'd be grateful that I saved him from being a pawn in your game." Dean's words send white-heat down your body but you take a few breaths before responding. You know you've both had alcohol and you don't want to say something in the heat of the moment.

"I wasn't using him, Dean." Your voice is levelled, "We've been on a few dates."

"Oh." Dean drops his gaze to the floor, deliberately avoiding your eyes.

His reaction only spikes your annoyance.

"You don't get to play boyfriend when it suits you." You don't mean to be that harsh, but the words hit their mark. It wasn’t fair that he felt intitled to you but he didn’t want to commit to you.

Dean recoils as if he’s been slapped. When his eyes flash back up to yours, you see no anger in them, just something raw and desperate.

"Play boyfriend?" Dean steps forward, closing the distance between you. "Is that really how you see me?"

You cross your arms even tighter and shift on your feet, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed under his intense gaze. You can feel a faint thumping vibrating through you, unsure if that's the bass from the music downstairs or your heart trying to escape.

You press flat against the door as Dean closes the final inches between you. His warmth radiates off of him. The scent of cologne mixed with alcohol is entirely too familiar. He always smells divine and it's messing with your head.

"I don't want to play your boyfriend. I want to be your boyfriend and it's killing me to watch you pretend otherwise."

Your heart is thumping so loud you're not sure you're hearing correctly. The anger that you felt is gone, replaced by a sudden, dizzying wave of vulnerability.

Dean sinks to his knees in front of you, grabbing your hips and resting his forehead against your cushy stomach. His hold is firm and desperately tight.

"Please,” he mutters into your shirt, “nobody else. Only me."

He tilts his head up to look at you, his eyes looking nearly black in the dim bedroom light.

"Dean," you breathe, voice trembling. You instinctively run your hands through his hair. "I... I don't..."

Dean's jaw tightens. He pulls back as the grip on your waist loosens. "Right. Okay. I get it-"

You can see the look of defeat on his face and your heart tightens, "No, that's not what I meant."

Dean freezes, his eyes searching yours, desperate and intense. His vulnerability shakes you; it makes you want to tell him everything.

"I only went out with him because I was terrified,” you confess, “Dean, you don't do commitment, and I didn't want you to think that I was trying to trap you into it. I forced myself to date someone else because I knew that if I kept letting myself fall for you, I'd end up completely broken when you inevitably walked away."

A ragged and heavy breath escapes Dean's lips. The confirmation that you are just as deeply invested as him lights a pleasant fire in his chest.

His obsession with you is bordering unhealthy and you think there's a chance that he'd walk away from you? Beau was right.

"We are so stupid," Dean laughs.

"Come here," you whisper, tugging on Dean's hair to get him to stand.

Dean stands, his mouth crashing onto yours. The kiss isn't gentle. It's a bruising, desperate, expression of months of suppressed feelings, the jealousy from downstairs, and a desire to make you forget anyone else ever existed.

He hooks his hands under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walks you back toward the bed. You tumble onto the sheets together, the air leaving your lungs as his heavy frame falls on yours. You open your legs to accommodate him between you.

Dean doesn't give you time to breathe. He continues kissing you with a frantic rhythm, demanding every single drop of your attention.

Dean leans back and runs his thumb over your lower lip. "You're beautiful."

He leans in again, hovering over your parted lips. You feel his soft, warm, breath against you. Your heart's beating so fast you feel dizzy, swept up in the moment.

He cups your cheeks and kisses you again. You have to remind yourself how to breathe.

Your nails rake through his hair as he moves his kisses to your neck.

"Oh, fuck," you say, your head falling back as Dean begins sucking on the skin there.

You hook your leg around his waist, feeling like you're in heat with the way you're rutting and rolling your hips up against his growing erection.

Dean says your name in warning, his breath tickling your neck. Your name always sounds so sensual when he says it, you feel your panties getting damper.

You whine when Dean takes his lips from your neck. "Patience, baby."

He pulls your leg from around his waist so he can slide down the bed. You lift your hips to hike up your dress. He scoots down further until he's hovering over your clothed pussy.

"You're so wet for me, baby." He gets harder looking at the soaked fabric of your panties, signalling your obvious arousal.

"Just for you," you mewl.

Dean spreads your legs further as he nuzzles his face between your legs. His nose feels wet as he presses it against the patch on your panties.

"Fuck, you smell so good." He presses his face deeper into your heat, breathing you in so deeply it sounds like a growl.

"Please," you beg, you can't stop your hips from rolling again. You don't know exactly what you're begging for. You just need more.

Dean gets to his knees and hooks his fingers around the waistband of your panties, eager to take them off to get better access to you. You're all too eager to help, raising your hips to aid him. He pulls them off and shoves them into his pocket.

"For later," he tells you, a wicked smile on his face.

Dean lies back down between your legs. He blows directly on your pussy, watching as you clench around nothing. He has no plans to tease you, this time, he just wants to take care of you.

Dean leans in, the heat of his breath against you making you whimper.

"I know, baby, I know. It's okay," he soothes.

Dean parts your lips with his index and middle finger. He licks a fat stripe then immediately turns his attention to where you're most sensitive.

Your eyes are half-lidded, he's flicking and swishing his tongue on your clit, you can't imagine you'll last long. He removes his mouth, immediately replacing it with his thumb. He alternates the pressure, pressing harder then softer as he circles your clit.

"Wanna kiss you," you say, tugging him up by his hair.

Dean obliges, keeping one hand working between your legs as he slides back up your body so he can kiss you. You taste yourself on his mouth.

"You can cum for me, baby."

The orgasm rips through you effortlessly, you keep eye contact with Dean as your body jerks with the effects of your release running through you.

Dean holds and praises throughout, whispering sweet nothings about how perfect you look cumming for him. He waits until your body's stopped moving to pull away. He pulls his shirt off first, the sight of his defined abs making your mouth water. His trousers and pants come off in quick succession, he's hard and leaking.

You eye him hungrily, breath hitching as he climbs back between your legs and hikes your dress up a little further.

"Going to fuck you nice and slow because I can see how badly you need it."

Your hands grip the sheets as Dean taps his erection on your clit, still a little sensitive. He wipes the head of his dick around your arousal before slowly pushing in.

He sinks into you inch by inch, purposely taking his time to drive you crazy. You can feel every vein on his dick; it's a perfect fit inside you.

You moan in tandem as he slowly starts to thrust. As he watches your eyes roll back, he thrusts harder doing everything he can to hear more of your breathy moans.

The headboard slams against the wall in time with the beat coming from the bass downstairs. Your toes curl as you watch where he slides in and out of you, disappearing as you take him all in.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he says in between breaths.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he leans forward onto you, large arms caging you in. This angle has him hitting your sweet spot, your walls clenching tightly around him. He growls your name as he picks up the pace, unable to stop himself from frantically thrusting into you.

One hand comes to caress your face again before he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "Whose girl are you?"

"Dean's girl," you cry out, fingers tangling in the sheets. "I'm Dean's girl."

"That's right, baby."

Sweat begins to glisten on his skin and you open your mouth, begging for a droplet of his salty sweat.

You thrust up to meet him, using your legs around him as leverage to pull him deeper into you. You can tell he's close, his voice breaks as he babbles incoherently and his thrusts become erratic.

His hand sneaks between your legs again and the pressure builds easily. Your moans are breathy as you get closer to your climax. A coil in your stomach tightens then snaps, waves of pleasure travelling through your body. You wantonly scream as your vision goes white.

Dean thrusts through your orgasm, seconds away from his own. You feel him pulse, your walls sensitive, before he cries out your name as he cums. You're filled with warmth as he releases inside of you, dick twitching as he unloads fully.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. He continues slowly thrusting inside you, body jerking and convulsing as you purposely clench around him again.

Dean collapses against you, panting heavily. You lean up, licking his neck to taste the sweat there.

"That was incredible," you praise. He loves it when you praise him.

"No more dates with other men," he begs, voice raw and exhausted against your ear.

you were sitting at a table near one of the windows, completely surrounded by textbooks. there were highlighters scattered everywhere, color-coded notes spread across the tabletop, and a half-finished coffee sitting beside your elbow. dean had seen you in plenty of situations by now. he’d seen you nervous, embarrassed, flustered, and desperately trying to avoid him. he’d never seen you like this. you were talking confidently, explaining something while pointing at a page in a textbook, and for the first time since meeting you, there wasn’t a trace of uncertainty in your expression. you looked comfortable. completely comfortable. honestly, it caught him off guard enough that he stopped walking altogether.

then he noticed the guy sitting across from you.

at first dean didn’t think much of it. obviously there was another student there. tutoring generally required at least two people. but the longer he watched, the more annoyed he became. the guy wasn’t paying attention to a damn thing you were saying. every time you pointed toward the textbook, he’d look for maybe half a second before his eyes drifted back to your face. every time you smiled politely, he smiled like you’d personally handed him the greatest gift of his life. after a few minutes it became painfully obvious that he wasn’t there because he needed help studying. he was there because he liked you.

the worst part was that you clearly had no idea.

you just kept talking.

dean watched you spend nearly ten minutes explaining some concept while the guy stared at you like you hung the moon. every now and then you’d push your glasses back up your nose or laugh softly at something awkward he’d said, and each time the guy looked even more interested. meanwhile, you remained completely oblivious. dean honestly couldn’t decide whether it was adorable or infuriating. probably both.

he should’ve left.

a normal person would’ve left.

instead, he stayed.

the tutoring session eventually ended, and dean found himself lingering in the hallway outside the room. he wasn’t entirely sure why. maybe curiosity. maybe annoyance. maybe something significantly more embarrassing that he wasn’t interested in examining. whatever the reason, he remained exactly where he was as you started gathering your notes and shoving books into your bag.

the guy, unfortunately, made no move to leave.

instead, he leaned against the table and smiled.

dean immediately hated him.

even from across the room, he could tell what was happening. the guy wasn’t subtle. he was leaning closer than necessary, smiling too much, finding excuses to keep the conversation going even though the tutoring session had clearly ended. you looked slightly confused but polite enough to keep answering him. dean watched the entire thing unfold with growing irritation.

then the guy asked you out.

dean couldn’t hear the exact words, but he didn’t need to.

your expression gave everything away.

you blinked at him.

laughed awkwardly.

then answered in a way that clearly suggested you hadn’t realized he’d been flirting.

the guy tried again.

somehow you still didn’t get it

dean actually rubbed a hand over his face.

it was unbelievable.

you could analyze books, ace exams, tutor half the campus, and somehow remain completely incapable of recognizing when somebody was interested in you.

the guy tried a third time.

that was apparently dean’s limit.

before he could think better of it, he pushed open the door and walked inside.

you looked up immediately.

your entire face changed the second you saw him.

surprise.

confusion.

then suspicion.

dean ignored all three.

he walked straight over to your table and stopped beside your chair. the guy looked annoyed by the interruption. good. dean hoped he was annoyed.

“there you are,” dean said casually

you stared.

“dean?”

he smiled down at you before looking at the guy.

the guy looked back.

something immediately shifted.

it wasn’t loud or dramatic. it was just one of those silent male conversations that happened entirely through eye contact. dean knew exactly what the other guy was thinking because he’d been in his position before. who the hell is this? why does he know her? why is he standing so close?

dean enjoyed every second of it.

“you ready?” he asked.

your eyebrows furrowed.

“ready for what?”

for a second, dean thought he’d have to explain himself.

then understanding flashed across your face.

slowly.

very slowly.

you finally realized what he was doing.

the guy noticed it too.

“wait,” he interrupted. “you two know each other?”

dean almost laughed.

know each other.

right.

he looked down at you.

then back at the guy.

“yeah,” he said. “she’s my girlfriend.”

the lie came out far too easily.

the second it left his mouth, the room went completely silent.

you froze.

the guy froze.

dean remained annoyingly calm.

the student’s expression visibly fell apart. disappointment hit him so hard it was practically painful to watch. dean would’ve felt bad if he wasn’t too busy enjoying himself.

“oh.”

that was all the guy managed.

just oh.

dean nearly smiled.

you were still staring at him.

he could feel it.

could practically hear the questions bouncing around inside your head.

what are you doing?

why are you doing this?

have you completely lost your mind?

all reasonable questions.

dean planned on ignoring every single one of them.

the guy awkwardly gathered his things, muttered something about seeing you later, and practically fled the room. dean waited until he disappeared completely before finally looking back down at you.

the second your eyes met his, you narrowed them.

“your girlfriend?”

dean shrugged.

“seemed effective.”

“effective?”

“he left, didn’t he?”

your mouth actually fell open.

for a second you seemed genuinely speechless.

then realization hit.

dean watched it happen in real time.

the way your eyes widened.

the way your expression changed.

the way you suddenly looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

oh no.

you’d figured it out.

“dean.”

“what?”

“were you jealous?”

he laughed immediately.

mostly because the alternative was admitting the truth.

“don’t start.”

“you were.”

“i wasn’t.”

“you absolutely were.”

you sounded delighted.

which was unfortunate.

because you were right.

dean leaned against the table and looked away for a moment, already regretting every decision that had led him here. the worst part was that he’d walked into the room fully intending to play it cool. somehow he’d ended up pretending to be your boyfriend in front of another guy and exposing himself in the process.

meanwhile, you looked happier than he’d seen you all week.

your smile was impossible to miss.

and suddenly dean couldn’t remember why he’d been annoyed in the first place.

he just knew he was staring at you again.

staring long enough that your smile slowly faded.

long enough that the teasing disappeared from your expression.

long enough for the air between you to become something else entirely.

neither of you spoke.

you simply looked at each other across the table, surrounded by forgotten textbooks and scattered notes.

for the first time since walking into the room, dean realized he didn’t regret what he’d done.

not even a little.

because pretending to be your boyfriend had been surprisingly easy.

a little too easy, actually.

As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.

Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."

Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.

One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."

Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.

In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.

His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.

For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.

Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.

As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.

Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.

Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.

The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."

"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.

"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.

But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...

Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.

3. The Injury

"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.

"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.  

"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.

A dangerous one.

Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."

That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.

His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.

"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.

The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.

The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.

Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.

You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.

Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.

Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.

But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.

Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.

He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.

Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.

"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.

You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.

It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.

Oh how you loved being right.

You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.

Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.

It was simply woven into who you were.

"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.

Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.

Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.

Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.

You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.

Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.

5. The Male Gaze

"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.

Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.

Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.

Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."

Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.

Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.

His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.

"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.

"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.

Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.

Jealousy.

Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.

He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.

You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.

"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.

Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.

He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.

+1 The Hat Trick

The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.

The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.

He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.

How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.

Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.

Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.

Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.

By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.

Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.

Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.

Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.

One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.

He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.

When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.

Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.

With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.

Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.

Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.

The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.

Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.

You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.

Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.

A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.

You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.

His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.

It looked right. Far too right.

"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.

The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.

Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.

"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.

Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"

A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.