Taylor’s Version

You and your older boyfriend had talked about you meeting his team for a while, and tonight you finally got to put faces to names. John had invited them all over to his for poker night, but the cards had been long forgotten.

You're stood in the center of them all, Price at your back but not touching you just yet. The smoke from his cigar curls around your shoulders and whispers against your bare breasts. He's had you strip down to nothing, completely naked to let his team's eyes roam appreciatively. Your skin is goosebumped from the cool air and your nipples are stood on end. A small tremor in your thighs has Johnny licking his lips and Kyle lets out a low whistle.

"Pictures don't do her justice, Cap."

"Mm." John hums. "Arms down, love." He tugs your elbows to your sides so you can't cover yourself up. "There we go." His taps the underside of your breast, making it jiggle.

"Good listener." Simon remarks, accent thicker than usual.

"When she wants to be." That husky laugh makes your heart beat even faster. "Should we show em, sweetheart? Can you be good and show my lads how clever you are?"

You nod, eager to please.

"Speak up."

"Yes. Yes Sir."

"Good girl. On your knees, then."

You drop obediently and Price tugs your hair, pulling the back of your head to his thigh behind you. His boot nudges between your thighs in case you need something to rub on and he gives you a hint of friction before stilling.

"Open."

Your lips part and you stick out your tongue. If your eyes weren't trained on your master above you, you would have caught the way Simon has to adjust himself. The way Kyle's throat bobs. The way Johnny's restlessly bouncing his knee.

"Steamin' jesus." Soap breathes, unable to look away.

"You wanna have a go, John?" Price offers, stroking tenderly along your jaw.

"Yeah." He rasps, already unzipping his trousers. "Awfully kind of you, Sir. I'll go easy on ye lass. Promise." Soap says as he pulls himself free, giving his cock a few strokes. His tip was flushed and already dripping precum.

"Shouldn't make promises you can't keep, Johnny." Simon mutters, spreading out in his armchair.

Before tucking himself into the warmth of your mouth, Soap smears his glassy arousal along your cheek, missing your tongue because he's shaking in over-excitement.

"Sorry," he mumbles, adjusting and slowly feeding his length into you mouth. "Ah, the things you do to a man..."

His groan is echoed by all of them and he stalls halfway in, squeezing his base and glancing at John above your head.

"Can she take– Can I– ah, Christ." He sucks in a breath, hips rocking shallowly. "Can she take all of me?"

"S'what we've been training for. Isn't that right, darling?" Price pushes you down Johnny's entire cock until your nose is pressed into his pelvis. He holds you there, letting you adjust. Your throat flutters and your nostrils flare, preparing to give a little show.

You hollow your cheeks and John drags your head back, fucking your face on his Sergeants dick. He's the one setting the pace, watching how Soap's balls draw up each time they slap against your chin.

"Y'can cum." He encourages, stuffing your entire mouth full and holding you down to the base of his cock. You grind your cunt across his laces but it earns your nipple a firm slap. "Not you. You only cum for me."

You moan a strangled, completely incomprehensible "Yes sir" and that was enough to send Johnny over the edge. He spills down your throat and you have to work to swallow it all. It's a lot — maybe even more than John. It tastes different too, a little more musky and it makes your eyes roll back.

"See, she likes it." Price grins, pulling you roughly off of Johnny's cock. "Good lad."

"That was..." He lets out a shakey breath. "Thanks, bonnie." Soap doesn't bother to tuck himself away, his cock glimmering with your saliva where it lays against his thigh. "For the record, I'd return the favour if he'd let me."

"In your dreams, sunshine." John pets your hair, smoothing it down after he'd mussed it up. "Her cunt is all mine. Might share it with you though, Si. Just the tip, mind."

"That alright with you?" Ghost locks eyes with you, palming himself through his jeans.

You look up at John, asking silently for permission.

"Go on." Price inclines his head. "Give him an answer love, he asked you a question."

"Yes." You nod, remaining knelt at John's feet. "That's alright."

"Good pet. Up on his lap."

You scramble to obey, straddling Simon's bulge and rubbing your sopping cunt along his jeans. The friction feels incredible and you shudder, biting back a moan.

"Easy." John chides, watching a muscle in Ghosts jaw tic. He grabs you by your neck, having followed you over to stand behind you while you play. "You let him have it his way, alright?"

"Alright." You whine, watching Simon unbuckle. His cock was thinner than Johnny's but longer in length. Slowly, he thrusts his hips, dragging his full, hard length through your folds, tip to base. The head knocks your clit and you groan, arching your back. The slick sound of it is obscene.

"Enough t'get me hard again." Groans Johnny.

"Then stroke, but you've already had your go for the night." John casts a glance over his shoulder, speaking as if you were a thing to be passed around. Tonight, you supposed you were.

"Cruel to make me wait, Boss." Gaz says, his voice strained.

"Savin' the best for last, Kyle." The smirk he sends his way is diabolical. "You'll be thanking me soon enough. Doing alright love?" His attention returns to you.

You were doing just fine, enraptured by the level of focus on Simon's face. He was fucking his dick through your folds slowly and with such precision that had fresh slick gushing down your thighs.

"Y-yeah."

"Y'said the tip?" Simon moans, strained.

"Only an inch." Price says sternly, reaching around you to spread your lower lips open and scissor two fingers into your messy pussy. "You've got her wet enough. She's bloody soaked." Those same fingers settle on your tongue, holding it down and keeping your mouth open.

You hum, salivating at your own taste and squealing when Ghost pops his head into your pussy. It's an easy fit. A perfect fit even, you think as you ripple around his tip.

"Fuckin' perfect." He growls, clenching his fists on the arm rests of the leather chair.

"That's it, that's all y'get." John tells you both, starting to fuck his fingers into your mouth. It's a cruel mimicry of the motion you've been denied at your cunt. His hips knock into your own, pressing you forward and over Simon's cock. His head slips out of you and he swears, cheek twitching.

"Take it in, love. Give him a show, and don't let him out this time."

You help guide Simon's cock back inside of you and slowly circle your hips, thighs burning as you give him a lap dance of sorts. Simon tosses his head back, his length jerking just inside of your entrance. Drool is flowing down John's wrist from where his fingers still hold your jaw open, encouraging your mess with an arm coated down to his elbow with saliva. Simon hisses, barely keeping his composure.

"Don't you fuckin' dare." John growls, pulling you off of him before Ghost can finish. "You wanna cum, you can mark up her tits."

He shoves his fingers knuckle deep into your throat as if you were the one in need of punishment.

"Don't make her beg."

Simon fists his length fast and hard, aiming at your chest.

"I won't." He rasps, abdomen tightening. "I can't..." He groans, back arching when he cums all up your stomach and breasts. The pearlescent ropes gradually roll all the way down to your pussy, drooling around the outside of your swollen lips.

"Sorry love, I'll clean you up–"

"Leave her." John interrupts. "She's okay."

He hoists you to your shakey feet and finally turns you to face him. Pinching your chin between his fingers, he makes out with you, licking into your mouth and over your tongue before pulling away. It's a filthy display for his team's benefit.

"So pretty." He coos. "So brave. Who're you makin' proud of you, hm?"

"You." You gaze up at him, starry eyed.

"Yeah. That's right." He's so proud that even in a room of his men, you only have eyes for him. You only listen to him. "Y'make me so proud lovie. But Kyle's looking a bit left out, isn't he? C'mere, son."

He beckons over his favourite Sargent, who's looking painfully turned on.

"About bloody time." Gaz laughs, but it's heated.

"And your patience is gonna be rewarded." Price assures him. "Been workin' open her tight little ass with toys for a while now. She's about ready for the real thing, but I'm too big for a starter. Would you do the honours of breaking her in?"

"Fuck, captain." Gaz chokes on his spit. "Bloody hell, I'd... yeah."

"Thought you'd like that." He chuckles, rubbing your clit to keep you a dripping, buzzing mess. "Right then. Upstairs, just the three of us." He points at Johnny and Simon who's eyes are practically bugging out of their heads. "Maybe you two can watch another time."

....

John is laid back on his bed, you speared on on his cock and his hands rubbing up and down your thighs.

"Lean forward f'me dove." His fingers curl around the back of your neck and squeeze, pulling you down. Your nipples brush the hair on his chest and you gasp at the jolt of pleasure it provides. The angle of him inside you is a lot, especially after he just made you cum. Needs you relaxed. A bit more pliable.

Kyle's hand flattens along your spine, pressing you against John's hairy stomach.

"I trust him most of all my boys." John murmurs against your hair. "He'll take good care of you."

When you nod into his shoulder, he signals Gaz to line up his weeping tip with your hole.

"Work her open slow." He instructs, cool and collected. "And don't let her whining fool you, she can take it all."

You jump when the head of Kyle's cock nudges your ass, tightening reflexively.

"Ah ah. Relax." Kyle tuts, prying apart your cheeks and smoothing a thumb along your lubed cleft. "There we go. Deep breath in... and out. Deep breath for me...." He forces his way in a few inches, "And out, there you go." He rocks slowly.

"Tight fucking fit, cap." He grits his teeth and squeezes your waist. You whimper at the stretch, feeling exquisitely full from everywhere. "Shh, shh, don't clench gorgeous."

"S'much." You slur, sweat dripping down the backs of your knees.

"I know. Feel him?" John thrusts his hips and you cry out when you feel a new angle as Kyle pushes a little deeper. "Feel us both?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what a good job, taking two cocks at the same time. What a good fucking girl." He praises before dropping to a more authoritative voice. "All the way now, Kyle. Give it one big push. Three, two, one — there."

Gaz bottoms out in a single thrust, and you cry out, hiccuping. He was bigger and fuller than any toy John had skilfully worked inside of you yet. The stretch was just about as much as you could take.

"Breathe." John snaps, smacking your cheek. "C'mon. Take a breath. There she is." His hands tighten in your hair and you can feel his familiar, heavy cock sandwiched within your body and twitching against your cervix. He smelled like sweat and sex and it was a heady combination.

"Not gonna last long, lovely." Gaz rolls his pelvis into the fat of you. "Takin me so well. Price trained you perfectly."

"Too kind, Garrick. I'll let you cum inside her just for that."

Your whimper is shushed by John who begins stroking your hair at the same time Gaz starts up a steady, brutal rythm. "No, no. Your job is to take. Not think. You don't have to worry about any of those silly thoughts in that pretty little head of yours right now, hm? I'm here for that. You just focus on feeling good."

And you do. You feel every vein, every ridge of Kyle's cock as it pounds in and out of your asshole. He stutters when he gets close, slowing down and meeting his Captains eyes.

"F-fuck. I'm close, Sir. Are you sure I'm allowed–?"

"Told you to fuckin' fill 'er up, Kyle. Don't spill a drop."

He groans, his thrusts resuming with bruising strength until he empties himself deep in your clutching, previously untouched heat. His head drops to your back, chest heaving and slick.

"S' amazing. You did so well, thank you." Gaz murmurs against your neck, tickling slightly.

"That's fuckin' right. Don't move." Price instructs, slowly fucking up into you from below. You're squirming, pinned between them as Kyle's seed starts to roll down to where John is stretching your pussy. "I can feel you inside her, Gaz. Want to feel you when I– hah–"

John grabs Kyle by the back of his neck to bring him in. The two make out over your shoulder and with a shuddering groan into his Sergeant's open mouth, John cums too. The friction of your swollen clit against the base of his stomach drags over the sensitive bud when he twitches, triggering an orgasm of your own.

You squeeze so tightly that it forces Kyle out of your snug hole, his spend oozing after his cock leaves you with a wet pop.

You lay limp on John's chest, breathing heavy in the aftermath of such an intense round. John wraps his arms around you, cooing soft praises and rubbing your back. "You did so well sweetheart. It was a lot, hm? But you took us so well, you're such a good girl. Just breathe. M'gonna take care of'you now, don't go fretting. Say thank you to Kyle."

"Thank you Kyle." You parrot, completely spent.

"You're welcome, lovely. Thank you."

John feels you smile against his shoulder and his chest rumbles.

"Yeah." He coos, patting your back and pressing a kiss to your temple. "Good lad." He praises Gaz as well when he goes off to run a warm bath.

All his men were excellent soldiers but you were especially obedient. You were so pliable and eager to please him, and he was more than happy to take care of all of you, in whatever way he saw fit.

“Hey, can you stop that for a second?” He reached over and gently pushed the jacket down, your hands following suit. It took a second to put your needle and thread down, but you gave Gally your full attention. “Things are going to get hectic fast.” He was warning you as if you hadn't grown up on this side of the wall amongst crime and strife. What was he warning you for? Did he forget that it was you who had helped nurse him back to health after Lawrence saved him? How many more times did he have to assist as you popped someone's dislocated limb back in place?

He put a hand on your stomach, a ratty throw keeping his touch from your skin. He looked serious, like the first time he walked you home as if it was an assigned job or something. You had continuously tried to lighten the mood and ask questions, but Gally was no nonsense. It took a long time to crack through his intense exterior. 

“There's really only one opportunity to get to Minho which means only one shot to get into their headquarters all together.” As Gally explained, you scratched lightly at the crown of his head, moving toward the nape of his neck. You felt a stitch and then another, all of them more precise and clean than what you could do with the crummy supplies the Red Arm had. 

Tightly, your brows frowned over your eyes as you grazed the spot and looked to Gally for answers.

“We got our chips taken out. WICKED can't detect me now.” The actual procedure had stung, but Gally did feel good. It was as close to freedom as he had ever known. Nobody owned him anymore. “We put together a plan. Tomorrow night. We're infiltrating WICKED.”

“What's the plan?” Eagerly, you sat up even taller, ready to listen. 

“You're going to leave in the afternoon. Before I go.” It wasn't at all what you thought he was going to say and it showed. “Red Arm is going to destroy the wall, but you'll be on your way by then. There's some sort of safe place…you're going to go in one of the vans with some of the others and drive to a checkpoint where there will be - ”

“No.” Maybe you sounded like a child, but you didn't care.

“I'm going to meet you in a safe place."

“Gally, no. I'm going with you. Taking on Wicked by yourself is suicide.”

“I won't be by myself. We have a plan. I'm going with Thomas, and Newt, and Fry, and…” He almost forgot her name. “Brenda.”

“And me.”

“Absolutely not. I don't want you anywhere near the building. You're going to be at least 100 miles West before I'm on the other side of the wall.”

“What if someone is injured? I always stay in case someone is hurt.” Long before you were an ally of the Red Arm, this had been your job. A naturopath mother and fighter for a father had made you something of a valuable resource to Lawrence and crew. 

“No, ______, you're not listening to me.” He squeezed your hand, willing you to focus. 

“No, I'm not because I am not going to just leave while you play vigilante in a building where everyone is heavily armed and wants you dead.”

“I will throw you in one of the vans myself, ________.” He meant it too. His tone didn't give him away, you just knew. Gally would throw you over his shoulder as if you were made of feathers and then buckle you up tightly in one of the windowless vans without a second thought if he had to.

In an effort to compose himself, Gally dropped his head and took a deep breath. 

“When do you know me to not fight like Hell, huh?” He was on death's doorstep when you first met him, but he had pushed himself to recover and become stronger. Still, this was WICKED. It was walking straight into the lion's mouth dressed in a meat suit. “I am going to do everything I can to make sure I get to you, okay?” Gally squinted, trying to see if he could make out any of your thoughts. “I won't be able to think straight if you're with me. I need to be sure you're safe.”

“I need to be sure you're safe.” You hadn't met any of the Gladers he took off with today. They were just names from stories Gally told you late at night when there was too much unrest in the city to fall asleep. He never referred to them as his “friends”. In fact, he had said they despised him. Thomas was the reason Gally currently had a red mark on his face. 

His hand reached for your furthest hip and he pulled you up as close as you could be to him without becoming one, “Babe, this is what we have been working toward. If you want help, and I know you do, you pack up tomorrow morning, get in a van, get to the Berg, and wait for me in the safe place.” He poked his finger into your chest, driving home his point. 

Your teeth were biting down on your gums in an effort to prevent yourself from getting too upset, but it was futile when you felt a storm of concern swirling inside yourself. Gally's voice may have been pleading, but his face was serious. There was no wiggle room. 

Gally nodded to the wall nearest to you, his backpack slumped in the corner by a couple books, the light source, and a couple metal water bottles.

“Pass me that.”

You did as he asked, but not without a childish scowl that made him scoff with amusement. Gally riffled with both hands in the sack before pulling out a pocket-sized knife. In the hard oak handle was an irregular uppercase ‘G’. Gally showed you the blade, your reflection muddy in its side, but he quickly closed it into itself when your finger went to touch the tip. 

“I sharpened it a couple days ago. It's the first tool I had in the Glade. I want you to take it.” When you didn't immediately do so, he carefully put it in your palm and wrapped your fingers around it. It was a piece of him. 

“Gally, you love this knife.” How many nights had you woken up in the middle of the night to him beside you, opening and shutting the blade? He couldn't sleep. Too much guilt.

“And you're going to give it back to me when we see each other.” It was a promise, cemented with a confident nod. “But you use it tomorrow if you need to. You remember how to throw a left hook?” Once Gally had recovered, he had wanted to find a way to thank you and prove that he wasn't some helpless shank with one lung. His solution was to show you how to punch. You could help fix up a broken nose and clean out most infections, but he saw that all you had to protect you in the streets was luck and wits.  

Gally held up a palm for you to push your fist into. He waited, but instead, you leaned in and kissed him with the same strength he wanted to feel in the punch. The type of kiss that was reserved for goodbyes. Gally reciprocated, bringing his open palm to your back side and sealing your chests together. While he was not going to say ‘goodbye’, he was willing to admit tonight was different. He hadn't told you how scared he was, how uncertain he was about Thomas's plan, how he didn't trust Teresa, how after all these years it was almost impossible to be hopeful.

Gally was able to maneuver you onto your back. A blanket still between you both. He laced his fingers with yours and held on dear life, the folded knife between both your palms. He was careful with his body weight, but his free hand was gripping its way around your body as he was gathering pieces of you to take for himself. If this was the last time you two could be together, it had to be unforgettable.

Gally took a breath, but you didn't want a second apart. Your mouth moved right to his jawline and then his ear, your teeth against it releasing a low purr that shook off his bottom lip. You moved to his neck, intent on leaving a mark, and moving down to the scar on his chest. You threw the knife over to your items, freeing both hands to feel his body, nails digging into his stomach lightly. 

“You think I'm not going to fight my ass off so I can have more of this?” Rhetorically, Gally asked on his knees with his head back and eyes closed. He tried to put his fingers into your hair, but you palmed the growing firmness under his sweatpants and his fingers trembled. It didn't matter how long he had been out of the maze, he was still putty when it came to pleasure. 

With both hands, you helped him out of his pants and he sprung to life, barely missing the tip of your nose. Gally had never been able to devour you while you had him in his mouth. It felt too good and he couldn't concentrate, but if tonight was the last time, he wanted everything. Wicked would have to burn the city down in order to clear out the stench of sex from this tent when you two were finished. 

“Up. Up.” He whispered and coaxed your head up from what you were about to do. “On my face. Go down on me while you're on my face, beautiful.” 

The main square of the last city had nothing on your pretty face. Gally had always thought that. He pulled his pants off the rest of the way and laid down, licking his lips in anticipation. 

The t-shirt you always wore to sleep bunched up around your hips as you lowered yourself on Gally's face, his satisfied hum muffled by your warmth. Eyes closed, he kissed you as if it was your mouth, pulling on the lips with his own before inviting his tongue to venture in. Large hands on each of your hips, he rocked you slowly back and forth over his face while his thumbs pressed into your plush ass. 

Slowly, you moved down and slid his length into your mouth. Gally was not difficult to please. He had always thoroughly enjoyed what you did to him, hollowing out your cheeks after sucking only the tip at the first, making just enough room for him. You could hear and feel him moaning between your thighs. It was a shame that he would be risking his life at WICKED headquarters tomorrow because this was his preferred way to die. 

Gally was slowing down and reaching around to try and use his thumb to massage circles around your clit, the delicate bundle of nerves you had taught him to make you cum with. Gally had had no idea to be with a woman when your relationship evolved. He was eager, but terrified to touch you. There was no blueprint. You had laid out in front of him in soft darkness and touched yourself. He felt he was going to blackout, but somehow he managed to stay conscious and study what your fingers were doing and how it caused small, sweet sounds to sneak out of you. 

Releasing his cock, you sat up with a gasp. It only encouraged Gally to curk his tounge in deeper and rub harder. His cock slapped his chest loudly thanks to all your saliva. Gally grinned into your pussy. It was heavenly to feel you melt in his mouth, whimpering as you came undone. He had come a long way from the guy who didn't know where to put his hands or how to kiss.

Sitting up, Gally helped turn you around. His mouth smashed against yours, impatiently and sloppily showing you just how in love he was, how much this connection meant to him. His thumb returned to your pussy, feeling it twitch from cumming moments ago.

“You don't want to cum in my mouth?” You thought that was his favorite.

“What do you think I'm going to do first thing in the morning?” He smirked and started to lift up your shirt. Instinctively, you reached for the lamp on the floor, but Gally shook his head. “Not allowed. I want to see every inch of you.” 

You pulled your shirt overhead and watched as he took a mental photo, framing you in his eyes and holding onto the image. It occurred to him that he did not deserve this, but you rolled your hips against his groin and he refocused. 

“It makes me feel so good…how needy you are.” He mused and kissed you again, hands sliding together up your back to easily lay you down and put himself on top. “I never need to make you beg. My girl...” Gally cooed as he ran his hands from your back to your sides and down to your hips until he was gripping each thigh, pushing his thumbs in, and opening your legs. “You think I'm going to leave you when you need me this much?” Gally's kiss was softer this time, at least until he moved lower and put your nipple between his teeth, nipping at them, and then growling as he became rougher. His cock throbbed as he gave each one attention before reaching for himself and sliding himself inside your wet mess. The two of you whined together. Instinctively, you lifted your legs over his shoulders. He kissed one ankle before holding onto it as he bucked his hips into you. He didn't need any help balancing, your pussy was squeezing him so tightly that he knew he wouldn't slip out. He could move recklessly and focus purely on your bodies combined. 

“You're so beautiful.” Eyes opening, you told him truthfully. As your hand found his free one still on the ground, holding it tightly like you were both in this together, promising to be his and for him to be yours. Gally squeezed his eyes shut and thrust harder, grunting through his nose. 

“I want to make you cum again.” He manage to say while panting, his face turning pink along with his chest. “Please, let me feel it. You feel so good.”

Legs slipped from his shoulder and Gally helped up to your knees. There was zero space between your bodies, just friction and sweat. You were grabbing him, over his shoulder, one hand in his hair. A leg wrapped around his waist and using his pelvic bone to get you off along with his relentless strokes. 

“I love you, Gally.” In his ear, mouth hanging open, you said. He had never heard the words before, at least not that he had any memory of. It felt so good that it hurt and he had to swallow around the way it stung. He clung to you, a hand grabbing the leg around him and other to your neck. He felt you cumming, a sudden pulse around his cock, while your nose scrunched up and forehead pressed against his. Gally had grand illusions of going for round after round until neither of you had anything, but gasps left. He let himself go though, unable to hold back. He mumbled a string of inaudible curses as he came inside you and panted against your bare skin. 

Pushing aside hair stuck to your face, you watched Gally pull out of you and carefully move around for some kind of cloth and settling on ripping a piece of bandage off the roll. He cleaned himself and you lazily rolled over to shut off the light. It only occurred to you now that anyone who had walked by would have seen a provocative silhouette of the two of you. Gally shrugged when you said so. Usually he was private and possessive, but he didn't care right now. This could be his last day on Earth after all. He didn't care that he had cum deep inside of you either. When he first joined the Red Arm, the other rebels gave him all kinds of “brotherly” advice namely “don't unload in the girls - even the professionals”. This was no place for a child or more responsibility. It had felt so natural and also otherworldly at the same time. He closed his eyes once he was under the covers, accepting you under his arm when you rolled in and used his chest as a pillow. 

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

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

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Would definitely spy on Annabeth and Percy with you, not on purpose, mostly because he sees you staring at something and automatically wants to know what it is. "What are you looking at?" Luke asks. "Annabeth and Percy." You pointed. "What do you think they're doing?" You whispered. "Training. Annabeth said Chiron wanted them to go on some quest." Luke shrugged. "Boring." You responded, turning around to look at him. "You asked."

Probably would never go in depth about his mom, but would make little mentions about her to you. "These cookies taste like my mom's." He muttered around a chocolate chip cookie. "Your mom? What was her name..May?" You answered incredulously. "These are a little more dry." "That's so rude." "That's me being honest."

Still picking each other for every quest despite the break up, despite everything, you're still each other's first choice. Not that it always goes smoothly, or you two always get along. "No, I'll grab the chalice, you stay here." You decided. "I can grab the chalice, it would be safer if I grabbed it." Luke reasoned. "No, it would be safer if I did it. Zeus might strike you or something, especially after the stunt with the lightening bolt that you tried to pull." You were already walking over to the junkyard. "It was one time! It wasn't even my fault, it was Kronos."

When you two spend nights together in either of your cabins, you'll spend at least ten minutes after getting into bed together fighting over the blanket. Quietly if you're in his cabin, normal volume at yours. "Oh my god, you have the whole thing." You whispered. "I have the whole thing? My back isn't even covered." He answered, propping himself up on his elbow. "So cover it! Damn." You pulled more blanket towards you. "With what blanket? You have it all."

The first actual sign of reconciling with each other wasn't a huge glowing sign in your faces, wasn't some big confession of still loving each other. It was Luke walking out after you two had argued and the boy you were talking to walked in, and you didn't explain, you walked after Luke to keep arguing.

Luke would be such a D1 ragebaiter of all time because he would find it so funny to watch you get mad over absolutely nothing. He's so dedicated to the bit that he'll try to get Annabeth on it, even if it's just him trying to figure out a loop hole in capture the flag to win when he knows you're already irritated that day.

NSFW!

The actual way that he would reconcile with you would be through sex. It would probably just come out while either of you were on top, he'd grunt out that he loved you or vice versa, and that would be that.

Similar to the first time either of you had sex with each other, it wouldn't take Luke more than once to make that decision that it was back on. You were back to being his, he was back to being yours.

Probably would ragebait you in bed too and claim it was just teasing or foreplay. Like spending much too much time sucking and kissing through your panties, or thigh fucking instead of actual sex.

Breeding kink would go crazyyy, I think that would be the point that his mommy issues would show, or his daddy issues. It would be during sex, it would be talking about you having his baby.

Speaking of breeding kink, he would probably have a bad pullout game on purpose. Probably wouldn't care less about pulling out, birth control or not. Sure, you were a little worried about it, but Luke was willing and able.

Luke is prideful about a lot, he brags about a lot. But he keeps your sex life extremely private. It was something no one could touch, whether you were broken up or together, it was something he always kept just between the two of you.

but they never talked about the leaving. leaving was easy, leaving meant he didn’t have to explain himself. it meant he didn’t have to sit with the things he didn’t know how to fix and the military had been the one place where leaving actually meant something.

no one cared who his father was. no one cared about the house he grew up in or the money sitting in his account. a uniform didn’t care. a command didn’t care. you either did the job or you didn’t.

that was the first time in his life that things had been simple. hard, brutal, exhausting — but simple.

then he came home and somehow, being back in the world that was supposed to be easier felt worse. the second he stepped through the door, he was rafe cameron again.

the son, the problem. the disappointment. ward didn't even bother pretending anymore. his father had finally gotten tired. tired of the fights. tired of the attitude, tired of watching his son burn through every opportunity handed to him like nothing mattered.

“you think the military made you a man?” his father had said one night, standing across from him in the study. “you think wearing a uniform fixes everything?”

"i didn't say that."

"you act like it." that was the thing about ward. he knew exactly where to aim. “you came back with discipline,” his father continued. “great. congratulations. but you’re still the same person who thinks the world owes him something.”

“so what?” rafe asked coldly. “what, you’re gonna send me away again?”

ward didn't hesitate. "yes."

rafe laughed once. not because it was funny but because he couldn’t believe it. “you’re serious.”

“very.”

“where?”

his father leaned back. “somewhere you’ll actually work.”

so that was how rafe cameron — who had never willingly gone without anything — ended up sitting in the passenger seat of an old truck, driving down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

a place where the nearest store looked like it had been there longer than he’d been alive. a place where the internet barely worked and a place where nobody seemed impressed.

apparently, that was the point.

“you’re lucky i’m even letting you stay there instead of cutting you off completely.” ward’s voice replayed in his head. “you think you’re better than everyone? fine. go spend some time with people who actually work for what they have.”

rafe clenched his jaw. he hated that there was a part of him that knew his father wasn’t entirely wrong. he hated that even more because admitting that meant he had to look at himself and rafe cameron wasn’t exactly someone who liked what he saw.

the farm appeared after another twenty minutes of uncomfortable silence. it was exactly what he expected.

the kind of place where people probably woke up happy at six in the morning for some reason. he looked out the window, unimpressed. “you’re seriously leaving me here?”

ward glanced over. “yes.”

“for how long?”

“until you figure out what you need to figure out.”

rafe laughed once, without humor. “that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

the truck stopped. for a second, neither of them moved. despite everything, this was still his son and despite everything, this was still his father. there was a complicated kind of silence between them. the kind built from years of things neither of them knew how to say.

“rafe.” he looked over: his father’s expression had softened slightly. “you’re not a bad kid.”

rafe almost laughed. nobody had called him a kid in years. “sure.”

“you just keep trying to prove you are.”

and that was how rafe cameron ended up standing in the middle of nowhere with a duffel bag, a military-issued mindset and absolutely no idea what he was doing.

the farm was nothing like he expected. that was the first problem. he expected some run-down place where he could prove his point, where he could spend a few weeks miserable and come back saying he’d learned his lesson.

instead, it was beautiful. annoyingly beautiful. it wasn't some shitty, run-down barn with flies hovring by the hay, which made it easy to hate and laugh at, no, it was wide open fields stretched out under the morning sky. old wooden fences ran along the property lines. the air smelled like rain and earth and something unfamiliar.

rafe also noticed that when he arrived was that his phone had barely any signal.

“you’re early.”

the voice made him turn. for the first time in a long time, rafe cameron was genuinely caught off guard because standing there was you. there you were. jeans covered in dirt, boots that looked like they’d actually been used, hair tied back. no makeup, no fancy clothes, no trying to impress him.

not what he expected. not impressed, not nervous and definetly not staring at him like he was somebody important. just… looking at him, like he was some random guy who showed up on your property.

“you’re rafe, right?”

his eyebrows pulled together. "yeah."

you nodded, looked at his suitcase, then: “you planning on carrying that around all day or are you actually going to work?”

"wow."

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you definitely meant something.”

he looked you up and down. “you always talk to people like that?”

you shrugged. “only people who show up expecting everyone else to do things for them.”

his jaw tightened. “you don’t know anything about me.”

“you’re right.”

you grabbed another pair of gloves. “but i know what you look like.”

“then why are you dressed like that?”

rafe frowned. “what does that mean?”

“it means you look like you’ve never touched a shovel.”

silence. he almost laughed. the confidence was ridiculous. “i was in the military.”

you paused. “okay?”

and somehow, that annoyed him even more. “okay?” he repeated.

“yeah.”

“you don’t know what that means?”

“it means you’re good at something that isn’t farming.”

“that’s your response?”

“what response did you want?”

he didn't know. he was used to people treating him differently when he told them. the unfirom and services got the repsect. but you weren't disrespecting it nor were you were worshipping it, and he hated it.

your father came out a few minutes later, and rafe immediately recognized the type of man he was. hardworking, quiet, the kind of person who didn’t need to prove anything.

“rafe.”

“sir.”

your father nodded. “your dad explained everything. said you'd work hard”

of course he did. “i’m sure he did. and i do.”

everyone knew what that meant. rafe wasn’t here because he wanted to be, he was here because someone decided he needed fixing. yo

your father didn’t comment which somehow made it worse. “you’ll work like everyone else,” he said. “you’ll wake up early. you’ll learn what needs learning.”

rafe nodded, military instincts kicked in. listen, adapt, easy except this wasn’t the military. there was no structure. no schedule, no clear enemy, just him.

you hated him. not because he was rich or because he was from somewhere else. not because he was military but because he acted like those things made him better.

like the people here were beneath him, like hard work only counted if someone gave him credit for it and that bothered you. you knew people who worked harder than anyone and never got thanked.

the first day was terrible. not because the work was impossible but because rafe had been through worse. he’d pushed himself through things most people would never understand. he knew exhaustion and discpline. but this?

this was different. nobody was telling him he was doing well. nobody was ranking him. nobody was measuring him. there was no achievement. just work and you. you watched him struggle.

he could handle exhausting training. he could handle physical demands. but he could not handle the fact that nobody cared.

“you’re holding that wrong.”

rafe looked up. “i’m not.”

you tilted your head. “you are.”

“i’ve handled worse things than this.”

“then why are you struggling?.”

you rolled your eyes. "you're unbearable."

"nice to know we're bonding."

"we're not."

for some reason, that actually made him smile. just slightly which annoyed you more because you didn’t want him to be charming.

that was the problem. rafe cameron was frustratingly easy to notice. even when he was being arrogant. even when he was complaining. even when he was acting like he belonged somewhere else.

you noticed him. the way he worked harder than he admitted. the way he automatically helped when someone needed it. the way he went quiet when people mentioned family. the way the confidence slipped sometimes.

but then he’d say something irritating again. and you’d remember: right. he’s still rafe cameron.

one evening, after a particularly terrible day, you found him sitting outside. not angry, not complaining, just sitting. you had started to think he only had two settings: arrogant and more arrogant. “you’re quiet.”

"you really hate me, don't you?"

"yeah."

he nodded. "fair."

that was somehow worse. for one second, he didn’t look like the spoiled rich guy. he looked tired and lost, human. hating him was easier when he was impossible, not when you started seeing the real side of him.

“you know,” you said quietly, “being in the military doesn’t automatically make you better than everyone.”

his expression hardened slightly. “i know.”

“do you?”

a long silence. then: “i’m trying.”

you didn’t know what to say. that was the first real thing he’d said since arriving.

rafe was awful. he was arrogant, and spoiled and frustrating but he wasn’t empty. that was going to make forgiving him a lot harder. you couldn’t hate someone you were starting to understand.

and you definitely couldn’t forgive someone you still wanted to fight with every single day.

over the next week, rafe cameron had decided two things about you.

first: you were annoying. second: you were way too comfortable telling him what to do. third: he absolutely did not like the fact that he was starting to look for you every morning.

you hated that you were starting to notice things. that was the first problem. noticing meant caring and caring about rafe cameron was absolutely not something you wanted to do.

especially not after the first week. especially not after watching him stand in the middle of a field, looking at a list of chores like it was an attack. “you’re kidding.”

you didn’t even look up. “what?”

rafe held up the paper. “this is the schedule.”

“yes.”

“this is the entire schedule?”

you finally looked over. “you mean the schedule that tells you what time you wake up, what needs to be done, and when it needs to be done?”

“yeah.”

“that’s usually what a schedule is.”

he stared at you. “there are chores on here.”

“you’re on a farm.”

“i know where i am.”

“do you?”

that earned you a glare. a very rafe cameron glare. the one that probably worked on everyone else. the one that said i’m used to people backing down. unfortunately for him, you were not everyone else. “you can’t just stare at the chickens until they become less annoying,” you said.

“i wasn’t.”

“you were.”

“i was thinking.”

“about?”

“how much i hate chickens.”

you laughed before you could stop yourself and immediately regretted it. his expression changed, not much, just enough like he noticed. or even worse, like he liked hearing it so you looked awyay. “don’t get comfortable.”

“what?”

“you’re still annoying.”

“i was making a joke.” rafe shook his head but you saw it. the tiny almost-smile and it irritated you. you weren’t supposed to find him funny.

he pretended the work didn’t bother him. pretended the early mornings weren’t exhausting. pretended he didn’t care when people talked about him but you knew people. you knew the difference between someone who didn’t care and someone who cared too much.

rafe cared too much. he just hated admitting it.

“you don’t have to prove anything, you know.” you said it without thinking. you were both fixing a fence. well. you were fixing the fence. rafe was standing there, holding a piece of wood like he was trying to understand why it existed.

he looked over. “what?”

“you heard me.”

“i’m not proving anything.”

you gave him a look. "right."

"fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"nothing."

"no, say it."

"you act like every single thing is a test. like if you're not the best at something immediately, it means something about you."

rafe looked away. for once, he didn’t have a sarcastic comment. “you don’t know me.”

there it was. the wall. you recognized it now. every time you got too close to something real, he shut it down. “you’re right.” you went back to the fence. “i don’t.”

maybe that was why he looked at you differently. you didn’t chase after the answer. you didn’t push. you just let him have it.

a few days later, you finally saw the military side of him and you hated how much sense it made. there was an accident, nothing serious. one of the workers slipped while moving equipment, and before anyone else even reacted, rafe was already moving.

not panicked. not scared, just focused. his voice changed. everything about him changed.

“move back.”

everyone stopped. suddenly he wasn’t the arrogant guy complaining about mud. he was someone trained, someone who knew exactly what to do. he checked what happened, called for help, kept everyone calm and you stood there watching him.

that was the first time you understood. the military wasn’t just something he used to make himself sound important. it was part of him. it had shaped him. you had been so focused on the arrogance that you forgot there was a reason behind it. later, when everything was okay, you found him sitting alone.

“you okay?”

he looked up. the fact that you asked seemed to surprise him. “yeah.”

you sat down a few feet away. “you were good today.”

his eyes narrowed. “that sounded painful for you to say.”

you rolled your eyes. “don’t ruin it.”

a small smile. “sorry. you know what’s funny?”

“what?”

“everyone always thinks the military made me this way.”

you looked at him. “made you what way?”

he shrugged. “angry.”

that caught you off guard. “did it?”

he stared out at the fields. “i don’t know.” quiet. “maybe.”

for once, rafe didn’t seem like someone who had all the answers. he seemed like someone trying to figure himself out and that was dangerous.

because it was easier when he was just a jerk.

but then the next morning happened and you remembered exactly why you hated him. “you’re joking.”

you looked at him. “what now?”

rafe pointed at the breakfast sitting on the table. “this is breakfast?”

you stared. “yes?”

“there’s no way.”

your eyebrows lifted. “what did you expect?”

“i don’t know. something normal?”

you looked around. “it’s eggs.”

“and?”

“and toast.”

“that’s it?”

you crossed your arms. “you survived military food.”

“exactly.”

“and?”

“and this is somehow worse.”

you stared at him. then slowly: “get out.”

he blinked. “what?”

“leave.”

“why?”

“because if you insult my mother’s cooking again, i’m going to make you eat outside with the chickens.”

a pause. then: “you wouldn’t.”

“try me.”

he laughed. a real one that made him look younger. less like the person everyone warned you about, more like someone who had forgotten how to be happy.

that night, you lay awake thinking about him which was annoying. rafe cameron was supposed to be temporary. a spoiled rich military guy your dad’s friend dumped on the farm until he learned some manners.

that was it. except now you knew: he was arrogant but he was also loyal. he was frustrating but he cared.

he was impossible but he was trying

you weren’t sure anymore if you wanted him gone.

and that was a problem. rafe cameron was not someone you were supposed to understand. he was someone you were supposed to hate.

“you’re doing that wrong.”

rafe didn’t even turn around. “you say that a lot.”

“you do things wrong a lot.”

“wow.”

“what?”

“nothing. you’re just very supportive.”

you walked over, taking the tool from his hand, “you know, for someone who spent years in the military, you’re weirdly bad at admitting when someone else knows something.”

“i know how to admit when someone knows something.”

“really?”

“yes.”

“okay.”

it began to feel like routine. the arguing. the constant back and forth. the way neither of you could have a conversation without turning it into a competition.

your dad noticed before either of you did. parents always did. “you two fight like you’re married.”

you nearly dropped what you were holding. “absolutely not.”

rafe scoffed at the exact same time. “that’s disgusting.”

your dad just laughed. “sure.”

and that made both of you even more irritated.

the thing was you and rafe understood each other more than either of you wanted to admit.

you both hated being wrong. you both hated looking weak. you both had stubborn streaks that could last days.

the difference was: you had learned to ask for help. rafe hadn’t. and sometimes it showed, like when he injured his hand and tried to pretend it wasn’t bothering him. “give me your hand.”

he looked up. “what?”

“your hand.”

“why?”

“because you’re holding it weird.”

“i’m fine.”

“rafe.”

“i’m fine.”

you stared and he stared back. there it was. that stupid pride. the thing that made you want to shake him. “you know what?” you stepped back. “fine.” you turned away. “bleed all over the equipment. see if i care.”

the first time you saw him genuinely angry at himself, you didn’t know what to do. rafe being angry at other people? normal. rafe being angry at himself? different.

it happened after a mistake. a simple one. something got damaged, and nobody blamed him but he blamed himself. you found him outside later, sitting alone. “you know everyone’s fine, right?”

he didn’t look at you. “i know.”

“then why do you look like someone died?”

his jaw tightened. "i messed up.”

you sat beside him, not too close. you knew better. “rafe.”

“what?”

“you’re allowed to mess up.”

he laughed quietly but there was no humor in it. “you really don’t know me.”

“maybe.” you looked ahead. “but i know you act like one mistake means you’re a failure.”

“you make everything sound easy.”

“it’s not easy.”

“you make it look like it is.”

you looked at him and for once, he looked away first. you hated that moment: not because it was bad but because it was too honest. rafe cameron wasn’t just some arrogant guy who thought he was better than everyone. he was someone who had spent his whole life trying to be enough.

and you understood that which was incredibly inconvenient.

of course, the next day he ruined it. apparently rafe cameron could not go too long without being unbearable. “you’re serious?”

you looked at him. “what?”

he gestured at your outfit. “you’re working like that?”

you looked down. “yes?”

“you’re going to ruin those.”

“they’re work clothes.”

“they’re old.”

you stared. “yes.”

“you could get new ones.”

“why?”

he shrugged. “because you don’t have to wear stuff like that.”

somehow, that made you angry. you knew what he meant. but you also knew what he didn’t understand. “not everyone gets to replace things because they don’t like them, rafe.”

his expression changed. “that’s not what i meant.”

“maybe not.” you grabbed your things. “but that’s what you sounded like.”

and you walked away, leaving him standing there. quiet.

that night, he didn’t argue which was weird. rafe always argued: at this point, it was basically his hobby. but he was quiet. you hated that you noticed. you hated that you wondered if you’d hurt his feelings.

he was rafe cameron, for christ's sake. he was supposed to be impossible, not someone who looked genuinely upset because you misunderstood him.

the next morning, there was a bag sitting outside your door. you frowned. inside were new work gloves. better ones. stronger ones. and a note.

“these aren’t because yours weren’t good enough. they just looked uncomfortable.”

you stared at it. that was probably the closest thing to an apology rafe cameron had ever written. you found him later. “you bought these?”

he shrugged. “yeah.”

“why?”

“cause you needed them.”

“that’s it?”

“what else would it be?”

you looked at him. really looked. and there it was again. the problem. the thing you didn’t want. he cared, in the most rafe way possible. quietly. badly and without knowing how to say it.

slowly, annoyingly, somehow… things changed. rafe learned which chickens were aggressive. you learned he hated talking about himself. rafe learned you always hummed when you worked. you learned he always tapped his fingers when he was thinking. rafe learned you drank your coffee way too sweet. you learned he secretly liked helping when nobody made a big deal about it.

and neither of you admitted that you were becoming friends because admitting that would mean admitting something else. that you liked him, and he liked you.

which was a problem. a huge problem. rafe cameron wasn’t supposed to like someone who made fun of him. you weren’t supposed to like someone who annoyed you every five minutes.

but then there were moments. small ones, dangerous ones, like when you slipped in the mud and rafe caught you before you fell. his hands immediately grabbed your arms.

“careful.”

you looked up. suddenly he wasn’t the arrogant guy who arrived with an expensive suitcase. he was just rafe. tired eyes, soft expression. someone who cared. “you caught me.”

he looked away quickly. “you were falling.”

“still.”

“don’t make it weird.”

you smiled. “you’re blushing.”

“i’m not.”

“rafe.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

he was smiling and you noticed.

that night, rafe was lying awake.

thinking about the farm and how much he complained when he arrived. how he’d expected to hate everything and somehow the thing he hated most was the fact that he didn’t.

because this place had started becoming something. a routine. a home. he didn't even know how many days had passed because it just felt like life.

and you… you were becoming someone. someone he looked for. rafe cameron had spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone.

then you came along with your muddy boots and your attitude and your complete lack of interest in his reputation. and somehow… you were the first person who made him want to stay.

the problem with rafe cameron was that once he got comfortable somewhere, he forgot how to pretend he wasn’t. unfortunately for him… he was getting comfortable. way too comfortable. somewhere between waking up before sunrise and spending hours covered in dirt, rafe had accidentally become part of the farm which was something he would never admit. especially not to you.

“you’re smiling.”

rafe immediately dropped his expression. “no i’m not.”

you leaned against the fence beside him. “you are.”

“i’m not.”

“rafe, i’ve known you for weeks. i know what your normal face looks like.”

he looked at you. “concerning.”

“your normal face looks like someone offended you by existing.”

“accurate.”

you laughed. “see? there. you did it again.”

“did what?”

“made a joke.”

he rolled his eyes.

“i make jokes.”

“you make sarcastic comments.”

“same thing.”

“you’re exhausting.”

“you like it.”

the words slipped out before either of you could think. suddenly there was silence. rafe looked at you. you looked at him. for a second, neither of you knew what to do. you were right. he did like it. he liked that you challenged him. he liked that you didn’t let him hide behind the attitude. he liked that you could make him laugh when he didn’t even realize he wanted to.

so naturally… he did what rafe cameron did best. he avoided the feeling, cleared his throat, and threw feed to the chickens more aggressively than usual.

the farm had become a competition between you two. everything was a competition. who could finish chores faster who could get the other one to admit they were wrong. who could annoy the other person first. (which was usually you.) “you’re doing that on purpose.”

you looked up innocently. “doing what?”

“singing.”

you blinked. “i’m humming.”

“same thing.”

“you hate my humming?”

rafe immediately looked away. “no.”

“you do.”

“i don’t.”

“you literally just said —”

“i said it was distracting.”

you smiled. he shook his head but he was smiling and you caught it. you always caught it.

your dad noticed before either of you did. parents always did.

especially when two people were convinced they were fooling everyone. one afternoon, he watched rafe hand you a drink without you asking. watched you take it without saying thank you because apparently you had reached the stage where basic manners disappeared. watched rafe pretend he wasn’t waiting for you to smile.

“you two are strange.”

you nearly choked. “what?”

your dad shrugged. “nothing.”

rafe immediately became defensive. “we’re not strange.”

which was why the next week hurt more than it should’ve. things were good, too good. rafe should’ve known better. what was the saying? good things never stayed or lasted. well it was true, especially for him.

the car arrived in the afternoon. you noticed it before he did. a nice car, too nice for the farm. rafe was outside fixing equipment when the woman stepped out. and immediately… you knew.

not because you knew her, but because you knew him. the way his entire body changed. the way his expression closed off. the way the easy rafe disappeared.

“rafe?” the woman smiled. “wow.”

he went still. “sofia.”

your stomach dropped slightly. you had never heard that name but you knew exactly what it meant. sofia. someone from before, someone who belonged to his world. she walked closer. “you look different.”

rafe gave a small, humorless laugh. “yeah. well. things change.”

“your dad told me where you were.”

of course. ward. you watched from a distance, not because you were trying to listen but because you couldn’t seem to make yourself leave.

sofia looked around. “this place is… different.”

“yeah.”

“you always hated places like this.”

rafe looked away. “people change.”

something about the way he said it hurt. suddenly you remembered you didn’t actually know everything about him. you only knew this version. the farm version. the version that laughed with you, the version that argued over stupid things but there was a whole other life.

one you weren’t part of. sofia noticed you. “oh.” her eyes moved between you and him. “who’s she?”

rafe opened his mouth.

and for some reason… you waited. you don’t know why. maybe you wanted to hear what you were. maybe you wanted to know if you mattered but then he hesitated.

only for a second but you saw it and that was enough. your brain filled in the silence.

you weren’t anything. you were just the girl on the farm. the girl who taught him how to hold a tool properly. the girl who made him laugh. the girl who forgot that boys like rafe cameron came with entire histories attached.

you looked away. “i’ve got work to do.”

rafe immediately looked at you. “wait—”

but you were already walking.

“it’s fine.”

it wasn’t, not really, but you weren’t going to stand there and feel like you didn’t belong.

behind you, rafe watched you leave. for the first time since arriving at the farm, he felt like he was losing something. something he didn’t even realize he had.

“rafe?” sofia’s voice pulled him back but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. he was looking at you, walking away, thinking the worst.

he knew exactly why.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

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rafe starts doing things that don't make sense for someone who "doesn't want a relationship." which you ironically used to make fun of your friends for doing.

he "casually" remembers your coffee order, fills up your gas tank because he noticed the light was on, texts you when you get home, keeps snacks in his kitchen that only you eat. buys your favorite cereal without realizing he's doing it. then still insists, "don't make this weird." like he isn't already acting like somebody's boyfriend.

you stop seeing other people first. not because he asks you to. because every date feels unfair. every conversation feels like you're comparing them to someone you promised yourself you wouldn't fall for.

they laugh. you wonder if rafe would've laughed harder. they reach for your hand. it doesn't feel right because you already feel someone else's.

eventually you stop accepting dates altogether. he never notices.

then one night somebody asks if you're together. you smile before you can stop yourself.

rafe answers first. "nah."

just one word. so easy, so effortless, like denying you doesn't hurt him at all. your smile disappears before anyone notices. except rafe does. and he spends the rest of the night pretending he didn't.

after that, you start pulling away. you stop sleeping over, stop reaching for his hand absentmindedly. stop bringing groceries over because "you were already at the store." you stop leaving little pieces of yourself at his house and suddenly his place feels empty.

rafe doesn't understand why he's so irritated all the time. why the house is so quiet. why he keeps checking his phone expecting a text that never comes. why he keeps opening the fridge and staring at the strawberry yogurt he bought out of habit. you haven't eaten strawberry yogurt in his kitchen for three weeks.

he still bought it anyway.

"you busy tonight?"

"yeah."

"tomorrow?"

"i've got plans."

"since when?"

"since you said this was casual."

he stares at the message for almost an hour.

the first time he sees you with someone else, he actually feels sick. real nauseous, vomiting, i'm-going-to-vomit sick. he knows it's his fault, because that's what casual means, isn't it?

no promises. no exclusivity. no right to be upset. so why does it feel like someone reached into his chest and stole something?

he waits until you're alone. "who's that?"

you shrug. "a guy."

"you like him?"

"maybe."

his jaw clenches. "thought we had a thing."

you laugh, except it doesn't sound amused. "we don't."

"this isn't the same."

your eyes finally meet his. "you told everyone it was."

that sentence follows him home, echoes around his bedroom, sits beside him in the passenger seat and screams at him during his lectures.

you told everyone it was.

you aren't lying. he did, over and over again. to his friends. to strangers. to himself. maybe if he called it casual enough times, it wouldn't matter that he couldn't sleep without you anymore.

the fight happens because neither of you knows how to communicate. "i never said i didn't care."

"you never said you did."

"you knew."

"i shouldn't have had to guess."

"i'm here, aren't i?"

"that's not enough anymore."

"i love you." he says it too late. of course he does. rafe has always been a second too late. one conversation too late. one apology too late.

one confession too late.

you close your eyes. "i know. that's what makes it so unfair."

"stay." it's the smallest you've ever heard him sound. not rafe cameron. just... a boy. loving someone louder than he knows how to admit.

it was never casual to him either.

he was just the last person willing to admit it.

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

“Baby,” Rafe calls out in hopes that you’re just in the bathroom. He stares at the ajar door leading to the toilet, but it doesn’t move. No one responds to him. A few birds chirp outside his window, and he finally realises that he’s completely alone right now.

He pouts. Rafe Cameron pouts, because there’s no one here to see him act like a child and he’s missing his pretty girlfriend too much. You left him to wake up alone, so that must mean you hate him.

Fuck. He knew it. He knew you hated him. He’s had a feeling for a good amount of time. An angel like you should never settle for a bullshit of a boyfriend like himself, and you realised that yourself at last.

So Rafe trudges down the stairs of Tannyhill in an absolutely foul mood, sending glares toward every corner despite being alone in the Cameron estate. But even then, even as he’s pouting and frowning and waiting to punch anyone who appears in front of him, he’s still hoping that with every edge he turns, you might appear.

You don’t. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t really turned any corners at all, but still. You don’t appear. You just don’t.

Have you really left? Left Rafe alone to wallow in his misery once again? He hasn’t not had you in a while, and truth be told, he’s gotten too used to it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He loves you too much, and he needs you too much. Every second of every day.

“Baby …” he whines in frustration, to no one in particular, as he enters the kitchen, expression contorted like he’s holding back tears. He runs a rough hand through his buzzed hair and tries to grip and pull on his strands, but then he remembers that he doesn’t have that hair anymore.

(He should’ve listened to you when you told him not to shave off all his hair. Is that why you left him? Fuck. He hates his past self now. Why didn’t he listen?)

Rafe heads straight for the coffee machine, grumbling under his breath about how you “better be surprising me with head for scaring me like this.”

“The fuck?”

He whips around, almost spraining a muscle. His eyes are as wide as saucers, pupils blown so wide that the blue of his irises is almost nonexistent. Rafe swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares straight at you.

Shit. Did she hear that?

“What’s got your panties in a fuckin’ twist?” you scoff lightheartedly, amusement lacing your features as you laugh softly. You’re holding a mug, filled with your morning coffee already, and Rafe thinks he might cry.

Your lips part again so you can say something, but Rafe doesn’t hear a single word at all. His mind is racing, and his heart is beating too loudly in his chest. He can hear his heartbeat speeding up with every second that passes, and the pace with which he approaches you almost matches the rate his heart is going at.

“No— Nonononono, my coffee—” you sputter, attempting to save your day’s life support by leaving it safe on the nearest counter. A good half of it spills anyway when Rafe throws himself at you, clutching you so tightly you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

The base of your mug clatters against the marble counter. Rafe buries his face into your neck, inhaling your scent like he’s forgotten it over the time he spent without you in bed with him. He lets out a soft sound that’s a little too similar to a dog’s pitiful whimper.

His nose twitches. “Why did you leave?”

You roll your eyes, but hug him back just as firmly. You’re a little pissed that you’ve lost some of your energy in the form of caffeine, but you have no capacity to think about that as Rafe hugs you so close you’re practically one figure now.

“I was literally just going back up,” you deadpan, patting his back gently, trying to soothe him. You swear he’s crying into your shoulder — is he sniffling? Whining? You’re not sure. You do know that he’s sulking, though. He always does.

And then the proof comes: Rafe groans, the sound muffled from the way he presses his face against you. It’s familiar, because you’ve heard it countless times over the course of your relationship. Which is practically every single fucking day.

He doesn’t say anything, much to your exasperation. He never says anything though, so you don’t know why you’re so pressed. You file that thought away and focus on soothing your big baby of a boyfriend.

For a few very long moments, the two of you stay like that. You’re not sure how much time has passed, but it’s enough for you to grow tired on your feet (because you haven’t had your morning coffee yet).

“Can we—?” you begin, but Rafe cuts you off promptly.

“I thought you left,” he says sadly into your neck, and you can hear the slight crack in his voice. The shakiness and fear of his statement possibly being true when he woke up without you by his side. “For real, baby. I thought you actually packed your shit and left.”

Your annoyance fades into a fond sort of concern. Rafe has attachment issues, and you’re the one person he actually loves too much to let go of. He’s made it clear that anyone else can fuck off when he gets tired, but you? The six feet two future CEO of Cameron Development never wants you to be out of his sight. He needs to have you with him every time.

It’s clear to even a blind person that Rafe can’t function properly without you. Ward’s labelled you a liability countless times before, but Rafe doesn’t care — he hasn’t cared in a long time, and neither have you.

Your head turns to press a kiss against his temple. “Sorry, baby,” you murmur, warm breath tickling his skin. He shifts a little and buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up yet. You know I’ll never leave you like that.”

Rafe makes an unintelligible noise that you’re about to question, but then he pulls away from your neck and stares down at you with that pout. You fall silent immediately, watching closely as Rafe’s expression changes from sulky to hopeful and relaxed.

“Yeah,” he whispers, like raising his voice even just a little would chase you away. “You won’t. You love me too much.”

You flash a smile at him, cupping his face tenderly, when he suddenly leans down to kiss you. “Rafe—!”

He plants a giddy kiss on your lips, short and sweet, before pecking your entire face over and over again like he can’t get enough of you. Rafe’s relishing the soft laughs you’re letting out, his heart lurching at the realisation that he’s making you laugh like this.

How could you leave him when you look so happy having his kisses all over your face?

“Come back to bed,” he mumbles, focusing his affection on the corner of your mouth. When he locks eyes with you, you can see the plea in the blue. “We haven’t cuddled enough.”

You nod despite yourself, already reaching for your mug (now half-filled because of a certain someone), but Rafe has other plans.

The fucker picks you up bridal style, ignoring the yelp you make.

“You’re not escaping me this time,” he reasons simply, already walking out of the kitchen despite your protests about your abandoned (and spilt) coffee. You eventually quieten down about it when you realise Rafe won’t be turning around.

Now your coffee’s going to get cold, and you’ll have to make another one.

“You don’t need coffee when you’re gonna spend the whole day with me,” Rafe huffs petulantly, as if he can read your thoughts (and at this point, he probably can, with how well he’s able to decipher your expressions).

“You are exactly why I need coffee,” you grumble under your breath, then let out a high-pitched scream when Rafe almost drops you. “Hey! You know it’s true!”

“But you still love me.”

“Debatable.”

“I’m gonna throw you out the window.”

“You won’t do that. You almost cried ‘cause you woke up alone.”

“I— Fuck. Fine. But we’re still cuddling.”

The parchment felt like a death sentence in my trembling hands—crisp, official, and utterly final. I stared at the ornate script, the words swimming before my eyes: *"By decree of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the Ministry of Magic, a binding betrothal is hereby established between…"* My stomach churned. I already knew the name; it had been the hushed whisper in the corridors, the grim topic of conversation amongst the Slytherins. *"...Miss Y/N L/N and Mr. Mattheo Gaunt Riddle."*

Year Seven was supposed to be exciting. The final exams, Quidditch tryouts, maybe even a stolen kiss or two behind the greenhouses. Instead, it was starting with shackles. Arranged marriages were archaic—relics of a bygone era—but here we were, being dragged back into it for the sake of pureblood lineage. As if my family's ancient bloodline wasn't pristine enough.

The cause of my imminent doom was leaning against the wall across the Slytherin common room, a picture of indolent indifference. Mattheo Riddle. Dark hair perpetually mussed, eyes like chips of obsidian, and a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. He exuded an aura of dangerous charisma that made most students scurry out of his path. But me? I was now legally bound to him. The irony tasted bitter on my tongue.

"Well, well," Mattheo drawled, pushing off the wall and strolling toward me. His voice was a smooth, velvety threat. "Looks like we're stuck with each other, L/N."

I crumpled the parchment in my fist. "Stuck is an understatement, Riddle. This is a bloody nightmare."

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound that grated on my nerves. "Don't pretend you're not flattered. Who wouldn't want to be betrothed to me?"

"Oh, I can think of a few," I snapped, my eyes blazing. "Anyone with a functioning brain and a desire to, you know, choose who they spend their life with."

His smirk widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Such spirit. I'm almost… impressed."

The "almost" hung in the air, thick with sarcasm. That was our dynamic in a nutshell—a constant sparring match, a battle of wills fueled by mutual disdain. He reveled in my frustration, while I seethed under his arrogant gaze.

The engagement was a public spectacle. Announcements at breakfast, pointed glances in the corridors, and the ever-present whisper of our names linked together. It was suffocating. And the worst part? Mattheo seemed to enjoy it. He’d drape an arm possessively around my shoulders during meals, his touch sending shivers of disgust down my spine. He’d answer questions about our "future" with infuriatingly vague pronouncements, leaving me to grit my teeth and plaster on a fake smile.

My attempts at a normal Year Seven were thwarted at every turn. Gryffindor boys who’d dared to flirt with me suddenly found themselves on the receiving end of Mattheo’s icy glare and a few well-placed hexes. Even my closest friends grew hesitant, the air around me now tainted by Mattheo’s presence.

"He's like a bloody Dementor," my friend Clara muttered one afternoon, as we watched Mattheo lean against a tree, his gaze fixed on me. "Sucking all the joy out of the air."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Tell me about it. I can't even look at another boy without him glaring holes into their skull."

The enforced proximity did offer a twisted kind of insight, though. I saw glimpses of Mattheo away from the public eye. The way his brow furrowed in concentration during Potions, the almost imperceptible twitch of his lip when he read a particularly clever passage in a Transfiguration textbook. These moments were fleeting, quickly masked by his usual sardonic demeanor, but they were there.

One evening, stuck in the library together to “study”—a thinly veiled excuse for our parents to see us interacting amicably—I found myself staring at him. He was engrossed in a heavy tome, his features softened in the lamplight. For the first time, I saw past the arrogance and the threats, and caught a glimpse of… something else. A weariness, perhaps? Or maybe just boredom.

He looked up, catching my gaze. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a neutral expression that was almost unsettling in its unfamiliarity.

"Problem, L/N?"

I quickly averted my eyes, a blush creeping up my neck. "No. No problem."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. It was different from our usual animosity, charged with something… more.

As the year progressed, our interactions, while still laced with sarcasm and barbed comments, began to shift. We argued about house points with a shared competitiveness. We found an odd sort of camaraderie in our mutual disdain for certain professors. During a particularly grueling detention scrubbing cauldrons, Mattheo surprised me by sharing a mumbled joke that actually made me laugh.

The Yule Ball arrived like a looming deadline. I had dreaded the thought of being seen on Mattheo’s arm. But as he stood before me in his dress robes, a certain unfamiliar nervousness in his eyes, something shifted within me. He was undeniably handsome, and for the first time, the thought didn’t fill me with immediate revulsion.

Our dance was stiff and awkward at first, but as the music softened and we found a rhythm, a strange sort of understanding passed between us. His hand on my back was firm, his gaze surprisingly steady.

"You look… tolerable," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the music.

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. "And you're not entirely unbearable yourself, Riddle."

It was a minuscule crack in the wall of our mutual animosity, but it was there.

The turning point, perhaps inevitably, came during a late-night study session in the deserted astronomy tower. We were arguing, as usual, about some obscure Charms theory. Our voices echoed in the stillness, the tension crackling between us.

"You're being deliberately obtuse," I accused, frustration bubbling over.

"And you're being willfully ignorant," Mattheo retorted, his eyes flashing.

We were close—too close. Our anger was a palpable force. And then, something shifted. The anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by a different kind of intensity. His gaze lingered on my lips, and for the first time, I didn’t want to look away.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "You know," he said, his voice low and husky, "you're not what I expected."

My heart hammered in my chest. "And what did you expect?" I whispered, my breath catching in my throat.

His gaze searched mine, a flicker of something vulnerable in his dark eyes. "A simpering pureblood princess, eager to please."

"And what did you get?" I challenged, my voice barely a breath.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and banished the usual shadows. "Someone who challenges me. Someone who isn’t afraid."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss. It was fierce, possessive, filled with a pent-up energy that mirrored the animosity that had simmered between us for months. And surprisingly, I kissed him back, my own frustrations and grudges melting away in the heat of the moment.

The world didn’t magically transform. We were still betrothed, still bound by an archaic agreement. But as we stood there, breathless and slightly shaken, in the silence of the astronomy tower, something had undeniably changed. The hatred hadn’t vanished entirely, but a new emotion had taken root—a complicated tangle of resentment and reluctant attraction.

The arranged marriage was still a cage, but now, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be quite so lonely. The year still stretched before us, filled with uncertainty and the weight of our forced union. But for the first time since that dreaded parchment arrived, I felt a flicker of something akin to hope. Perhaps, against all odds, this nightmare could turn into something else entirely. The enemies were still there, but maybe, beneath the surface, lovers were beginning to bloom.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who pops by your house almost everyday and with different excuses. "hey, is topper here?" "forgot my keys" "needed to ask your mom somethin'", etc.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who, if you look close at every single family photo you've had together, from seven to now eighteen, he's constantly near you, by a one person distance max, and in the short occassion he's not, you can bet his eyes are on you.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who makes sure that there's food for you whenever you're around him. cookout? he's slipping half of his food onto your plate. dinner? you'll find that you have the most servings.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who's only had one girlfriend in the entire nine years you've known him. you remember when you were fourteen, sobbing your eyes out in your bed as top told you the news, only to find that they'd mysteriously broken up a week later.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who tells topper to go easy on you without you knowing. the pair will be hanging out, topper's feet up on the table while rafe scratches his arms.

"dude, she's been pissing me off so much."

"i'm sure you piss her off too."

"nah, not to the -"

"go easy on her."

older!brother's bsf!rafe who's given you flowers every valentine's, a tradition that started when you didn't get one that made you bawl your eyes out when you were much younger but just stuck. you who doesn't know that he gives them because he wants to, not because you think that topper's forcing him too.

older!brother's bsf!rafe who's always been the only option for you, he's just waiting patiently for you to see it.

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