He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.

“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.

Dead.

The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.

“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.

Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.

“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.

His chest tightens at the thought of you.

You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.

Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.

***

“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s

“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”

“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”

“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”

“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”

“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.

“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.

“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.

***

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.

Dean turns.

You are walking down the center aisle.

His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.

Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.

He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.

You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.

The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.

“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

You stand up.

A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.

You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.

You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.

You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.

“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”

You stop, swallowing hard.

“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”

A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.

“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”

You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.

Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.

“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”

You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.

“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house. 

“My dad was driving,” you say softly.

Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.

“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”

You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”

You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.

“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”

“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.

“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”

Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.

“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”

Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.

“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.

“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”

“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.

“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”

You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.

You collapse.

You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.

But Dean is faster.

He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.

“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”

Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.

“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”

You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”

“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”

Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.

“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”

“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”

“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”

“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”

Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.

“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”

Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”

“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.

“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.

You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.

“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”

***

Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.

He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.

Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.

He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.

Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.

“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.

“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”

“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”

“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.

“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.

The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.

His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.

He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.

“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”

Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.

Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.

The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.

“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.

He flips the light switch.

You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.

Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?

“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”

He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.

Your eyes are open.

A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

But you don’t respond.

Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.

Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.

Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.

But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.

Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.

“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”

You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.

“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”

He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”

You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.

Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”

He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.

Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”

He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.

“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”

He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.

“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”

He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.

He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.

Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.

Dean freezes.

It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.

Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.

He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.

“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”

You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.

A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.

Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.

***

Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.

The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.

Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.

“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.

Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.

“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You don’t respond.

A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.

Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.

The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.

Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”

The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.

Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.

The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.

“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says.

You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.

“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.

“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”

You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.

Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”

You take a small sip.

They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.

“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.

Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.

“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”

And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.

***

The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.

It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.

The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.

“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.

The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”

Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.

“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.

“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”

“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”

“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.

“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.

You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.

“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”

“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.

“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”

You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”

***

The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.

Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.

You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.

“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”

Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.

“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”

Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.

Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.

“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”

The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.

Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.

Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.

Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.

“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”

The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.

“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”

Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.

“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”

The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.

You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.

Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.

***

When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.

Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.

“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.

“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.

“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”

“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.

“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”

You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.

Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.

“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.

Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.

They all stop when you walk in.

There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.

But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”

“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”

“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”

“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”

“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.

Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”

The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.

Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.

After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.

“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.

“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.

“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”

“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.

He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.

The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.

“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”

“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”

“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”

“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.

You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.

Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.

As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.

The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.

Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.

***

Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.

The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.

He looks down.

You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.

Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.

He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.

He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.

Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.

But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.

Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.

He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.

He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.

About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.

Dean turns his head.

You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.

Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.

But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.

A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.

He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.

For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Then, the fourth second hits.

The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.

You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.

And now, you are in Dean’s bed.

You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.

The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.

You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.

But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.

You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.

“Dean,” you whisper.

The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.

You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.

“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.

His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”

“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”

You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.

“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”

Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.

“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.

“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your wet eyes.

Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.

“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”

You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.

“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”

“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.

You break.

You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.

And Dean breaks right along with you.

The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.

You hold him, and he holds you.

You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.

You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.

You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.

The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.

“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”

You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”

“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”

“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”

“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”

You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.

Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”

You look into his eyes, inches from your own.

“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”

The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.

Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.

You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.

“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.

The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.

But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.

“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“Never,” Dean replies instantly.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.

For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.

***

Grief is not a straight line.

It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.

But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.

Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.

The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.

He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.

A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.

“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.

“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.

“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”

You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”

“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.

Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.

You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.

The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.

So, you quit.

It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.

***

“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.

“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”

“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”

You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”

“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.

***

He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.

The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.

You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.

Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”

“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”

Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”

“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.

“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”

You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.

The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.

“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.

“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.

“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.

“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”

“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”

“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.

“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”

“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”

You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.

You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.

You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.

Hours later, the house finally quiets down.

Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.

You and Dean are left alone in the living room.

The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.

“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.

“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”

Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.

Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.

“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”

Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”

“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”

His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”

“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”

“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.

The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.

You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.

Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”

Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.

The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.

“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.

“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.

“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.

He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”

“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”

You stare at him, completely paralyzed.

For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.

But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Then kiss me,” you whisper.

Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.

The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.

It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.

When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.

“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.

But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”

You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”

Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”

You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.

“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.

You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.

“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”

A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.

“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”

Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”

“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.

He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”

“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.

“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.

For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.

You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.

***

“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”

Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.

“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”

Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”

“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”

“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”

You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.

“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.

Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.

“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”

“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.

He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.

Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”

Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”

***

The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.

You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.

You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.

Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.

“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”

Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”

A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.

“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”

The crowd erupts into applause.

It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.

You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.

“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.

You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.

You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.

He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.

You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.

Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.

Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.

A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.

You walk down the opposite set of stairs.

You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

***

The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.

You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.

Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.

“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.

Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.

You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.

“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.

***

Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.

Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.

“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”

Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”

“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.

“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.

“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.

You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.

Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.

“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.

Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”

“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”

“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.

“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.

“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”

Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.

The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.

“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”

“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.

You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.

***

By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.

Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.

“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.

“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”

“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”

You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.

“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”

“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.

The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.

You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.

“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.

“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”

“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”

As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”

“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”

“You were very bossy.”

“And you loved it.”

You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”

The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.

The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.

Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.

He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.

You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”

“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.

Your breath hitches.

Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.

He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.

You freeze.

Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.

“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”

The air completely leaves your lungs.

You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.

You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.

You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.

And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.

The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.

***

The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.

“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”

You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.

It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.

You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.

You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.

“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.

Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”

“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”

“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”

You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”

“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”

Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.

He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.

“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”

Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”

***

The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.

You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.

She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.

“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.

You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.

A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.

Your breath completely catches in your throat.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”

“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.

The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.

Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.

He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”

“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.

“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”

You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.

“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”

“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.

She hands the envelope to Dean.

Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.

“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

***

The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.

The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.

“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.

“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”

“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.

“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”

“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.

“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”

You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”

“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.

He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.

He hands it to you.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.

You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.

Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You look down at the envelope in your lap.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.

“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” Dean counts.

“Two,” you whisper.

“Three.”

Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.

There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.

It’s a boy!

The world completely stops spinning.

You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.

Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.

“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.

Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.

“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.

When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.

He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.

“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.

You look at him.

For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.

But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.

There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.

“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.

Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.

“Beau,” Dean whispers.

Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”

“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.

“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”

“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.

“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.

When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.

He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.

“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.

“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”

Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.

“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”

A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.

“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”

Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.

“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”

He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.

You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.

The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.

But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.

It continued.

It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.

You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.

“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.

Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Injury

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

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

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

A dangerous one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh how you loved being right.

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

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

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

It was simply woven into who you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. The Male Gaze

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

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

Jealousy.

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

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

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

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

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

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

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

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

+1 The Hat Trick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looked right. Far too right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally. Finally. Finally.

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

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

THE BRIAR U HOCKEY HOUSE WAS BUSTLING WITH MUSIC AS USUAL. Hundreds of people were packed inside, dancing, drinking, celebrating the latest win. Every room was overcrowded with bodies and noise. The floor trembled beneath your feet from the bass, laughter echoed from somewhere upstairs, and every few minutes someone would erupt into drunken cheers that spread through the house like wildfire. It was chaos in the way only a hockey house could be.

And of course you couldn't skip it. Not when Dean Di Laurentis was going to be there.

Maybe that was the real reason you kept showing up to these parties. Certainly not for the beer, and definitely not for the endless stream of hockey stories you had already heard a hundred times before. No, you came because these parties gave you an excuse to be around him without raising suspicion. They gave you an excuse to sit in the same room, exchange secret looks, and pretend nothing was happening between you.

Which was funny considering there had been plenty happening between you for months now. Garrett would lose his mind if he ever found out. That thought almost made you smile.

The thing between you and Dean was going on for nearly a year now. Dean had somehow become your favourite secret. What had started as harmless teasing after practices and team dinners had gradually turned into something much more dangerous. Late-night texts became private conversations. Private conversations became stolen moments when nobody was paying attention. And stolen moments became sneaking away from parties together, lingering in empty hallways, wandering hands whenever Garrett wasn't near.

It wasn't exactly a relationship. At least neither of you had ever called it that. But it was impossible to pretend it meant nothing anymore.

Now you were sitting comfortably on one of the living room sofas surrounded by members of the Briar U hockey team. Logan was arguing animatedly with Tucker about some play move from tonight's game while your brother occupied a yellow plushy armchair nearby with Hannah curled up on his lap.

You watched them for a moment and immediately regretted it. They were being disgustingly sweet as always. The kind of sweet that made everyone around them want to throw something. Your attention drifted away before you could witness another round of heart eyes to something more interesting. Turned out the most interesting thing for you was Dean.

He sat across from you in another armchair, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes pretending you didn't exist. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, one arm draped casually over the backrest like he owned the place. That lazy look made you want to simultaneously slap him and climb into his lap. But the place was already occupied. 

Some girl was perched on the arm of his chair.

She was tall and beautiful in that effortless, glossy way that was reminding you of those models from expensive magazines. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, long legs crossed and uncrossed with practiced elegance. She leaned in close to whisper something into his ear, her painted red lips brushing the shell of it, and she laughed – a soft, melodic sound that was clearly meant to charm.

Dean barely reacted.

His head tilted slightly, acknowledging her presence the way one might acknowledge a fly buzzing around a window. His lips didn't curve. His eyes didn't soften. He gave her nothing because he was looking at you.

His gaze met yours across the crowded room with such familiarity that your stomach immediately tightened into a knot of heat and irritation. It was infuriating how quickly your body was reacting to him now. One look and suddenly you were back in the shadows of his bedroom, his hands on your waist, his mouth trailing down your throat. One look and your skin was remembering the deep blue silky bedsheets against your back, his breath hot in your ear, the way he'd murmured your name like it was the sin and the blessing at the same time.

Your body remembered everything. Every secret touch beneath tables where nobody could see. Every stolen moment in hallways while parties were going on on the other side of the door. Every whispered promise that ended with both of you grinning like idiots, breathless and giddy and drunk lying on his bed, tangled in the deep blue sheets.

The girl beside him said something else. Her hand landed on his shoulder, fingers trailing lightly up to his neck, a possessive little gesture that made your jaw tighten. Dean nodded absentmindedly but he still was watching you. Tentative, full of something you both couldn’t acknowledge right now.

Your eyes narrowed. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, that familiar burning fire inside that you felt when Dean was with someone that wasn’t you. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was just pure, undiluted annoyance at his absolute nerve.

Dean caught you gazing at the girl and his mouth twitched.

“Asshole” you mouthed, pulling a red solo cup closer to your lips, taking a sip of your drink. 

The amused satisfaction on his face only grew, spreading across his features like he was savoring every second of your discomfort. His eyes dragged over you slowly, deliberately, a lazy inventory that made your breath catch despite yourself. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.

And then, almost like he wanted to see how far he could push you, he let his hand settle casually on the girl's thigh. Just rested it there. Palm flat. Fingers loose. A casual, intimate gesture that made the blood boil in your veins.

You scoffed loud enough for him to hear, and the sound turned a few heads nearby. You didn't care. Your blood was simmering now, a hot, prickling awareness that made your fingers curl into the armrests of your own chair.

The bastard actually looked pleased with himself. As usual. His eyes glittered with dark amusement, and that infuriating little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he'd just won a game you didn't even know you were playing.

The girl shifted, clearly misreading his hand as encouragement. She leaned in again, pressing closer, her fingers sliding up into his hair. Dean let her. He didn't move, didn't react. His hand stayed on her thigh, motionless, while his eyes held yours across the room with an intensity that made the air between you feel thick and charged.

You could feel that invisible thread that connected you across the room, taut and humming. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered and then rose back to your eyes. And in that single, silent exchange, you understood exactly what he was doing.

He wasn't interested in her. He'd never been interested in her or any other girl lately. He was using them to see if you still wanted him, to see if you'd break first. To get a reaction and know if that fire in your eyes was just irritation, or something deeper, something that kept you up at night the same way he kept you up at night.

Your throat went dry.

His hand squeezed the girl's thigh once, lightly, a deliberate flex of his fingers that was meant for you. And your own thighs pressed together in response. You hated how your body always answered him before your brain could catch up. And you hated even more the desire to walk over there, pull his hand off her, and place it on your tigh instead.

You didn't. You stayed rooted in your chair, jaw tight, pulse pounding. But your eyes never left his. And his never left yours. 

"God, why do you look so miserable?" an irritating ramble was heard before the sofa dipped sharply and Allie collapsed beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. 

Allie threw one arm around your shoulders and draped herself across the cushions. Her cheeks were flushed pink from alcohol, her lipstick smudged at the edges, and several strands of hair had escaped her perfectly arranged bun, curling loose around her face like she'd just rolled out of somewhere far more interesting than a hockey party.

You laughed despite yourself and let your head fall onto her shoulder, the warmth of her presence a welcome anchor in the noise.

"I don't look miserable"

"Sweetie," she tilted her head, examining your face with theatrical intensity. "I've known you for years. You absolutely look miserable. You've got that little crease between your eyebrows, the one that appears when you're either deeply annoyed or deeply horny. And since Garrett's not currently lecturing you about anything, I'm going to go with the second option"

You shoved her. She laughed.

"Briar just won," she continued, counting on her fingers with exaggerated precision. "There's free alcohol, free food, and Garrett is too busy making out with Hannah to bother you. By all logic, this should be your ideal night."

"Those are incredibly low standards,” you belly laughed, throwing your head back on the sofa. The ceiling was getting a little blurry. 

"They're realistic standards. There's a difference," Allie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, but there was a slight smile playing on her lips. You like this girl so much.

You chuckle and took another sip of your drink as the noise swelled around you. Someone was shouting in the kitchen. A group of freshmen near the keg had started chanting someone’s name loudly. The music pounded through the floorboards, bass vibrating up through your feet and settling somewhere deep in your chest. The whole house was caught in that giddy moment between victory and disaster.

Allie watched the chaos fondly. You watched Dean fondly. And unfortunately, Allie caught that immediately.

"Oh my God," she exclaimed, bumping your shoulder with hers.

You groaned before she could even finish the thought. "What?"

"There it is"

"There what is?"

"That look," she wiggled her fingers toward your face like she was casting a spell.

You straightened, schooling your features into careful neutrality. "What look?"

"The Dean look," she whispered his name like it was a dirty secret. Which, you supposed, it was. "I've had to watch this nonsense for almost a year, and I know that look intimately."

"There is no Dean look," you protested, trying to avert your gaze to something else but it still returned to Dean. 

"Oh, please," she snorted. "I've watched you two orbit each other for months. There's absolutely a Dean look."

Heat flooded your cheeks, creeping up your neck. Across the room, Dean was pretending to listen to whatever Logan was saying. But the idiot had glanced in your direction at least seven times in the last five minutes. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren't.

"Stop smiling," Allie ordered.

"I'm not smiling," you muttered hiding behind your cup.

"You are. It's that little one. The one that makes you look like you're remembering something very specific."

Your face burned hotter, "I hate you."

"No, you hate him," she nodded toward Dean. "Or at least, that's what you keep telling me. Usually while making that exact same face."

You covered your eyes with one hand, groaning into your palm.

Allie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink on your dress, her shoulders shaking against yours. The unfortunate thing about confessing your secret during a wine night was that she never, ever let you forget it. From the moment you'd whispered Dean's name across her kitchen table, she'd made it her personal mission to torment you at every possible opportunity. Allie'd kept your secret faithfully, but she'd also weaponized it with surgical precision.

"You know," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that was somehow still loud enough to be heard over the bass, "if I didn't know you two were hooking up, I'd still think something was going on"

Your eyes widened, "Allie!"

"What?" she looked at you and raised her eyebrows. 

"Volume," you hushed, looking up, checking that no one was paying attention to you two.

"Oh please," she waved a dismissive hand. "Nobody can hear me over this shit of music. I could scream 'Dean Di Laurentis is fucking my best friend every night' at the top of my lungs and nobody would notice."

"Allie"

"Okay, okay," she held up her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn't fade. "I'm just saying. The man looks at you like you're the last woman on Earth. And the way he was watching you walk across the room earlier? I felt like I needed a cold shower"

You shoved her again, but you couldn't quite suppress the laugh that escaped you.

"Seriously," Allie pressed, leaning in closer until her breath was warm against your ear. "Does he do that thing everyone's been talking about? The thing with his tongue?"

Your face went nuclear, heat flooding up from your chest to the tips of your ears. "I'm not answering that"

"That's a yes," Allie giggled, biting her lip like she'd just won the lottery.

"That's a no comment," you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

"That's absolutely a yes," she looked positively delighted, her eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Okay, next question. Has he ever…"

"Allie!" The warning in your voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

She laughed, raising both hands in surrender, but the mischief in her eyes remained undimmed. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets," she leaned back, taking a slow, theatrical sip of her drink. "For now"

You risked another glance toward Dean. Bad idea. Because he was already looking.

The second your eyes met, the corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, lazy smirk. The one that said he knew exactly what he did to you. It made your stomach flip and your thighs press together and your brain short-circuit all at once.

Asshole.

Your body immediately betrayed you. Heat pooled low in your belly, a familiar ache that had become embarrassingly predictable whenever he looked at you like he was already counting down the minutes until he could get you alone.

Allie noticed. Of course she did, "Oh, that's pathetic."

"Shut up"

"You're pathetic"

"I'm not," you mumbled under your nose.

"Oh, you so are. And mentally, you're already making out with him in a closet somewhere," she tilted her head, studying you with mock concern. "Or more than making out, based on that little shiver you just did"

You shoved her shoulder hard enough to make her wobble. She giggled, spilling her drink on the yellow couch. There will probably be a stain in the morning.

For a few moments, you let yourself relax on the couch. The alcohol hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, warm and loose. The music blurred into a pleasant thrum. Garrett was laughing at something Hannah said, his usual intensity softened by something that looked suspiciously like affection. Logan and Tucker were bickering about something pointless and completely stupid. Dean was still across the room, still looking entirely too pleased with himself, still watching you with that dark, knowing gaze that made your pulse stutter.

Then Allie sat bolt upright, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm that had never, in the history of human civilization, led to anything good.

You narrowed your eyes immediately, "No"

"I haven't even said anything yet,” she pouted, looking offended.

"You have that look,” you pointed out, turning your head on the couch to look at her.

"What look?" her voice was innocent and full of mischief. Oh, that wasn't good.

"The one that always gets me into trouble"

Allie gasped in mock offense. "I am offended by that accusation"

"Good. Be offended. Keep being offended. Don't say whatever you're about to say."

"Drink or Dare!" she announced, practically bouncing as she said the words to the entire room.

A collective groan echoed around the group. Logan dropped his head back against the couch like a man who'd just received a death sentence. Tucker muttered something obscene and looked ready to flee the country. Even Garrett paused mid-laugh, shooting Allie a warning look that she completely ignored.

"Come on," she whined, drawing the word out. "We're celebrating. Briar won," she shot you a pointed look, "We should be having fun"

"We're sitting," Tucker said flatly, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

"Exactly. It's depressing. I'm depressed. You're all depressing me!"

Before anyone could stop her, she snatched your cup from your hand and disappeared toward the drinks table, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission.

You watched her go, dread and affection curling in your chest. "That's never a good sign"

"Never," Tucker agreed solemnly.

A minute later, Allie returned carrying a suspicious, shimmering mixture that seemed to contain at least three different types of alcohol and a bottle of liquor in her other hand.

She placed the cup proudly into your hand and put the bottle on the table, "Suit yourself"

You stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the drink, "You want me dead"

"I want you entertaining," she leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "And maybe a little looser. You get very honest when you're drunk. I want to hear more about what Dean does with his tongue"

Heat flooded your cheeks again, "You're the worst friend in the world."

"I'm the best friend in the world. I kept your secret, I never told Garrett, and I've been emotionally supporting your situationship for months. The least you can do is get drunk and give me details"

A reluctant laugh escaped you, warm and helpless. That was the problem with Allie. She was absolutely impossible to refuse when she looked this delighted with herself, her eyes bright and her grin so wide it crinkled at the corners. She'd kept your secret faithfully, never once judging, never once slipping. She just... tormented you. Mercilessly. Beautifully.

With an exaggerated sigh, you accepted the cup and dipped your head in surrender, "Fine"

Allie's grin immediately turned victorious, sharp and wicked.

Across the room, Dean leaned forward in his chair, his lazy indifference replaced by sharp, focused interest. His eyes found yours across the crowd, dark and knowing, and the corner of his mouth curved into something that looked almost like anticipation.

The game started innocently enough.

At first, it was just an excuse for everyone to keep drinking. Allie had to chug half her cup because she refused to reveal her celebrity crush, emerging red-faced and sputtering while Tucker howled with laughter. Logan was dared to call one of the assistant coaches and profess his undying love, which ended with the entire room wheezing as Logan tried to explain, through tears of humiliation, that yes, he was drunk, and no, he wasn't dying, he just had feelings.

Even Garrett got dragged into the chaos at some point, forced to let Hannah answer a question on his behalf. She revealed a secret about his obsession with organizing his sock drawer by color and it has sent the hockey players into a spiral of mockery. Garrett's ears went red. Hannah looked utterly delighted. The rest of the room collectively lost their minds.

The atmosphere grew louder with every round, the initial awkwardness dissolving into something looser and more reckless. People shifted closer together on the couches, bodies pressing into one another as space grew smaller. Drinks were constantly refilled, the clink of bottles and the slosh of liquor becoming a familiar rhythm. 

You found yourself laughing more than usual. Mostly because Dean wouldn't stop staring at you.

Every time you looked up, his gaze was already there – waiting, patient, dark with something that made your stomach flip. The worst part was that he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. A few months ago, the two of you would have been careful, stolen glances disguised as coincidence, eyes darting away before anyone could notice. Now it almost felt like a game. A dangerous one, considering Garrett was sitting less than ten feet away, oblivious and laughing at something Tucker said.

Dean caught you looking again. The corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, infuriating smirk. You immediately flipped him off.

His grin widened, slow and pleased, like you'd just given him exactly what he wanted. His eyes dropped to your lips. Lingered. Rose back to meet yours with deliberate slowness.

"Okay!" Allie clapped her hands loudly enough to silence several conversations at once, her grin sharp and wicked. "Your turn"

Your head snapped around. "Mine?"

"Yes, yours," she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her eyes glittering with barely contained mischief. A chorus of agreement rose from around the room, scattered voices urging you on, Logan banging his fist against the coffee table in encouragement.

You groaned dramatically and sank deeper into the couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, "Fine"

"Dare or drink?" she singsonged, tilting her head and fixing you with a pointed look.

You glanced at the suspicious mixture sitting in your cup, that vaguely radioactive cocktail Allie had so lovingly prepared. Whatever was in there, it was going to taste terrible and hit hard.

You looked at Allie. At her knowing grin. At the way her eyes flicked briefly toward Dean before returning to you.

Your pulse quickened.

"Okay, dare," you said, sinking deeper into the couch cushions and stretching your legs out before you. 

The alcohol had settled beneath your skin like honey, warm and slow, leaving you pleasantly loosened at the edges. For a blissful, ignorant moment, you forgot that agreeing to a dare at a Briar hockey party was historically a catastrophic decision. Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on Dean almost automatically, drawn by some gravitational pull you'd long since stopped fighting.

He was already looking at you. Of course he was.

"Read your last text message. Out loud." Logan's voice pulled you back to reality like a bucket of cold water.

The smug grin on his face immediately made your instincts flare. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking far too pleased with himself, like he already knew exactly what was waiting on your screen and was simply savoring the moment of revelation.

You narrowed your eyes at him, "You look way too happy about that dare"

"Just read the message"

A chorus of agreement rose around the room. Groaning dramatically, you unlocked your phone and thumbed open your messages. At first, you weren't worried. Your group chats were full of nonsense. Hannah sent you TikToks every day without fail. Allie texted you so often that half your conversations consisted entirely of voice notes and chaotic emoji strings.

Then your eyes landed on the latest message.

And your heart stopped.

For one horrifying second, you simply stared at the screen, convinced the alcohol was making you hallucinate. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, the words would rearrange themselves into something innocent. Something that wouldn't destroy your entire evening. Something that didn't make your stomach drop straight through the floor.

Nope. It was still there.

Because of the booze and the chaos of the party, you had completely forgotten who your latest conversation had been with.

Di Laurentis. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis.

And it wasn't innocent. Not even close. The message glowed up at you like a confession, the kind of words that could only be interpreted one way. Your thumb hovered over the screen as if you could somehow erase it through sheer force of will.

Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes from the screen and scanned the room. Everyone was waiting. Logan was grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary. Allie was bouncing impatiently in her seat, practically vibrating with anticipation. Tucker looked deeply entertained. Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

The bastard.

You cleared your throat and glanced back down at the phone, praying the words had somehow changed while you weren't looking. They hadn't. You were absolutely, completely screwed.

"If G leaves you alone for five minutes, meet me in the kitchen ;)"

The words hung in the air for barely a second before the entire room fell silent.

It was the kind of silence that only happened when something had gone very, very wrong. You could hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. You slowly turned your head toward your brother.

A minute ago, Garrett had been completely uninterested in the game. He'd been too busy with Hannah curled up in his lap, his lips pressed to her cheek, whispering things that made her laugh. Now he was staring directly at you.

No. Not at you. Through you. Into your soul. His jaw was tight, his eyes flat and unreadable in that terrifying way that meant he was already cycling through various methods of murder and trying to decide which one was most appropriate for the occasion.

The thing about Garrett was that he had always been ridiculously overprotective. Growing up with him meant growing up with an unwanted bodyguard, a shadow that materialized whenever a boy so much as looked in your direction. If Garrett was around, potential suitors simply ceased to exist. During his first year at Briar, when you were still finishing high school, he somehow managed to intimidate every guy who had ever shown interest in you despite living hours away. To this day, you had no idea how he did it. His methods remained a mystery, but his results were undeniable. Your dating life had been a complete disaster because of him.

Things only got worse when you arrived at Briar.

You still remembered the first night he introduced you to the hockey team. Everyone had been friendly, warm, welcoming. Until Garrett casually placed a hand on your shoulder and announced in the coldest, most unyielding voice imaginable, "She's my sister. She's off limits."

The entire team had immediately nodded their agreement like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Well. Almost the entire team.

Your gaze flickered toward Dean for the briefest moment. Just a fraction of a second. Barely long enough to register.

His mouth twitched.

You hated him.

"WHAT?" Garrett practically roared, returning your gaze back to him.

Hannah nearly slid off his lap when he shot upright, his body going rigid in an instant. His arm immediately wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against him, but his eyes never left your face – dark, furious, the kind of look that had made grown men back away slowly. One hand gestured sharply through the air as though he couldn't decide whether to point at you or simply strangle whoever was responsible.

"Repeat it," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

You nearly choked on your drink. Every muscle in your body tensed at once, a reflexive flinch that you barely managed to suppress. Under normal circumstances, you probably would have folded immediately. You would apologise, make excuses, deflect until he forgot. But the alcohol buzzing through your veins had loosened something in your chest, giving you a reckless, dangerous amount of confidence.

"It's just a text, G," you said, trying for casualness and failing miserably. "Don't overreact"

The room erupted.

Logan laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch, his face going red as he wheezed into his cup. Tucker buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Even Hannah pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile she couldn't quite suppress. Across from you, Dean suddenly became fascinated by the beer bottle in his hand, turning it over like it held the secrets of the universe. The devilish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the act.

"Who sent that?" Garrett asked.

His voice was quieter now. Which was somehow much worse. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as he leveled that cold, sharp gaze at you. It was the voice he used before a game, before a fight, before he did something that would end up on someone else's permanent record.

"No one," you said with a shrug, taking another sip of your drink.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Or maybe you wanted to kill Dean Di Laurentis. Honestly, either option sounded appealing at this point. Your fingers tightened around your cup as you prayed for a distraction. Something like a fire alarm, a power outage, a sudden natural disaster that would rescue you from this nightmare would perfectly suit you.

"Someone sent it," Garrett pressed, his jaw tight.

"No one important"

"Someone" he stepped forward, and you felt the weight of his suspicion pressing down on you like a physical thing.

You pressed your lips together and said nothing.

Garrett stared. You stared back. The room watched the silent battle unfold with open amusement, nobody daring to break the tension. You could feel your resolve crumbling, could feel the confession building in your throat like a physical weight. You were already seconds away from breaking when Hannah finally decided to intervene.

With the patience of a woman who had clearly dealt with this nonsense before, she slipped out of Garrett's lap and took his hand firmly in hers. "Come on," she said, her voice soft.

"I'm not done," Garrett's eyes didn't leave your face.

"Yes, you are," she tugged his arm gently.

"Hannah…"

"Garrett"

Something in her tone made him stop. The sharp edge of his anger seemed to falter, replaced by something softer that he tried very hard to hide.

The entire room watched in fascination as the captain of the hockey team allowed himself to be dragged away like a misbehaving child. He followed her reluctantly, his feet dragging, but not before sending one last warning look in your direction.

The message was clear. This conversation was far from over.

A few seconds later, they disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind them, and the room exhaled collectively.

The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then every single pair of eyes in the room turned toward you. And somehow, that felt even worse than your brother's fury.

“Gosh, you're all so noisy,” you complained, pushing yourself off the couch before the inevitable avalanche of questions could come crashing down on your head. There was no chance you were surviving another minute in that circle. Not with Logan looking so pleased with himself, Allie practically vibrating with energy, and half the hockey team staring at you like they had just uncovered the greatest mystery in Briar history.

You grabbed the last sip of your drink and finished it in one swallow. Everyone was smiling. Every single one of them.

“For God's sake,” you muttered, shaking your head. “A girl can't even have fun anymore”

The laughter that followed only made you roll your eyes harder. Honestly, you hated Dean. You hated him so much.

With as much dignity as someone fleeing a crime scene could manage, you slipped away from the lounge area and disappeared into the crowd. The music grew louder as you moved through the packed house. Bodies brushed against your shoulders, conversations blended together, and somewhere in the kitchen someone nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks.

Your heart was still beating too fast. Partly because of Garrett. Partly because of the entire room hearing that text. Mostly because of the infuriating smirk Dean had been wearing the whole time. The image refused to leave your head.

He hadn't looked nervous. He hadn't looked guilty. If anything, the idiot had looked entertained. And the worst part was that it had affected you far more than it should have. A year later and Dean Di Laurentis still had the ability to completely derail your thoughts. Sometimes you wondered if it had all been doomed from the start.

Maybe from that very first party during your freshman year, when you had shown up determined to prove to Garrett that you could survive college without his supervision. You had drunk too much, laughed too loudly, and somehow ended up alone in a hallway with Dean. One minute he had been making fun of you for trying to outdrink hockey players. The next he had been standing too close, looking at you in a way no one ever had before.

Everything after that had happened so quickly. And yet not quickly enough.

One stolen kiss had turned into another. Then into secret meetings. Late-night texts. Hidden smiles across crowded rooms. Months of pretending nothing was happening whenever Garrett was around. The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist.

You escaped through the front door before you could think about it too much. Cold November air immediately wrapped around you. The contrast almost made you gasp. After the heat and noise inside the house, the porch felt strangely peaceful. The music became muffled behind the walls, reduced to a distant thump beneath the sound of the wind. For once there was nobody outside. No smokers. No drunk freshmen. No couples looking for privacy. Just you and the freezing wind that seemed determined to go straight through your clothes. 

You rubbed your arms and exhaled slowly. A small cloud formed in front of your face before disappearing into the darkness. 

A second later something heavy landed across your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. Your eyes dropped to the jacket immediately. 

The scent reached you before anything else. Salty cologne that always reminds you of the sea , clean laundry, and something that always seemed uniquely Dean. You smiled despite yourself and you didn't need to turn around to know the person standing behind you.

Dean had a way of making his presence known before he even spoke. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was habit. Maybe after a year of sneaking around together your body simply recognized him before your brain did. Whatever it was, you always knew when he was near. It was irritating. And comforting. Which pretty much summed up your entire relationship with Dean Di Laurentis.

“I think I said meet me in the kitchen,” his voice came from directly behind you, low and rough from laughing and drinking all night. The warmth of his breath brushed your ear and a shiver ran down your spine.

“I think,” you replied, unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips, “you were too busy entertaining your latest addition”

Dean laughed softly. The sound was warm and familiar.

A moment later he stepped closer and slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him with an ease that spoke of long practice. The movement felt natural now. Familiar enough that you leaned into him without thinking.

“Jealous much?” he asked. The smugness in his voice was unbearable.

You rolled your eyes and finally turned in his arms.

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned, circling your arms around his neck. “I've never been more threatened in my entire life”

“Good”

The yellow glow of the porch light softened his features, casting warm shadows across his face. His blonde hair was more disheveled than usual, probably because of that girl running her finger through them all night. His eyes never left yours, moving slowly over your face as though checking that you were really there.

“I hate you. God, I hate you so much, Di Laurentis,” you groaned, pushing at his chest. 

The gesture carried far more frustration than actual force and Dean knew it. Judging by the way his grin only widened, he was enjoying every second of your suffering. The humiliating text, Garrett's near heart attack, the entire hockey team staring at you like you had just revealed state secrets – somehow all of it had become entertainment for him.

“You keep saying that,” he observed lazily, catching your wrist when you tried to shove him again. His fingers wrapped around it for only a second before loosening, but the touch lingered anyway, warm even in the freezing November air. “And yet I can't help noticing that your actions never really match your words”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, “Please don't start acting like you're some kind of relationship expert. You sent me a text that nearly got us both killed”

“Nearly,” Dean repeated, emphasizing the word as though it somehow worked in his favor. He leaned back against the porch railing, looking entirely too relaxed for a man whose life had just flashed before his eyes courtesy of Garrett Graham. “See? That's the important part. If your brother was actually going to murder me, I'd already be dead.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “The only reason you're still alive is because Hannah dragged him away before he could finish processing what he heard and understand that you were screwing his sister”

The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist. Garrett's expression had gone from confused to suspicious to outright homicidal in less than ten seconds. You had spent your entire life dealing with his overprotective tendencies, but seeing that look while knowing that you were fucking his best friend was really terrifying. 

Dean must have noticed the change in your expression because some of the amusement faded from his face. Not completely, nothing ever removed that infuriating smugness from Dean Di Laurentis, but enough that his gaze softened as it moved over your features.

“You're overthinking again”

“No, I'm being realistic”

“You're definitely overthinking”

“Dean, my brother practically declared war in there”

“Your brother declares war every time a man breathes in your direction”

“That's not the point”

“It kind of is”

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to argue, but the words disappeared the moment he stepped closer. The distance between you had never been particularly safe. It didn't matter how many months had passed or how accustomed you had become to his touch, there was still something unfair about Dean when he looked at you like that. The porch light cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the familiar curve of his mouth. For a ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how many times you had kissed that mouth and how little you regretted any of them. Which was incredibly inconvenient considering you were trying to be angry.

“See?” he said quietly, clearly reading your thoughts far more easily than he should have been able to. “That doesn't look like hate to me”

“Oh, shut up”

His laughter immediately filled the space between you, low and warm and entirely too familiar. It was the kind of sound that had become dangerous over the past year because your body reacted to it before your brain could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. You hated how comfortable it felt standing here with him while the party continued inside without either of you. Most of all, you hated how natural this had become.

A year ago, Dean had just been your brother's best friend. Now his jacket was draped over your shoulders, his hands were resting on your waist, and your first instinct after embarrassing yourself in front of an entire room had been to kiss him senseless.

“That's exactly the problem,” you muttered under your breath.

Dean frowned slightly,“What is?”

You shook your head and let it fall against his shoulder with a dramatic groan. “The fact that I should hate you after tonight and somehow you're still making me smile”

For a second neither of you spoke. You could hear the muffled music coming from inside the house and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. Then Dean's arm tightened around your waist, pulling you a little closer against him.

“Good,” he said simply.

You lifted your head enough to glare at him. “Good?”

“Yeah” The corner of his mouth curved upward as he looked down at you. “Because I'd be pretty offended if one stupid text was all it took to take you away from me”

“You're impossible,” you muttered instead, though there wasn't nearly as much conviction in your voice as there should have been.

Dean only hummed softly, as if he found your answer perfectly acceptable. As if being impossible was something he had accepted about himself a long time ago. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, but there was something else in his expression too, something quieter beneath the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. For a moment he simply looked at you, his gaze moving slowly over your face as though he was memorizing it. Then his hand lifted and his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.

The touch was gentle. Dangerously gentle.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you love it”

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. “Dean…”

You never got the chance to finish.

His lips met yours before the rest of the sentence could leave your mouth, stealing the argument before it had fully formed. The kiss wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't the desperate kind born from impatience. It felt almost unfairly confident, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on you. Like he knew every protest was doomed the moment he touched you.

The worst part was that he was right.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, all the irritation and embarrassment from earlier slowly melting away beneath the warmth of his mouth. The memory of Garrett's interrogation, the laughter from the hockey team, the humiliation of reading that text aloud – none of it seemed nearly as important when Dean was standing this close.

When he finally pulled back, he barely moved away. His forehead remained close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

“Still hate me?” he asked quietly.

You narrowed your eyes in an attempt to glare at him, but the effort fell apart almost immediately.

“A little less,” you admitted. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself as you rose slightly onto your toes and brushed your nose against his. “You can try again, though. Maybe you'll have better luck this time”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and satisfied.

"Careful," he warned, voice low and rough against your ear. "You're giving me encouragement"

"Maybe you need it"

"Sweetheart," he murmured, and the word curled like smoke between you, "I definitely don't"

You barely had time to scoff before his mouth was on yours again and this time, there was nothing careful about it.

Dean laughed into the kiss, low and breathless, and pressed harder, as if he wanted to fold you into him entirely. You breathed into his mouth, a soft, yielding sound, and when your lips parted just slightly, he took the invitation without hesitation. His tongue swept in, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, and your hands found their way beneath his shirt without thought. Your nails dragged across the hard planes of his stomach, over the ridges of muscle, and he smiled against your lips.

His palm slid down your spine, over the curve of your waist, and settled firmly on the plush of your ass, squeezing with a possessiveness that sent a shiver straight through you. You moaned into his mouth, breath catching, and your fingers curled against his skin.

"Up," Dean muttered, and before you could register the shift, he had turned, lifted you with an ease that made your head spin, and set you down on the railing.

The wood was cool beneath your thighs. You squeaked in surprise, but the sound dissolved into something needier as you hooked your legs around his hips and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth caught the thin strap of your dress, tugging it down your shoulder with agonizing slowness. You laughed feeling ticklish under his touch but it died the instant his mouth found the tender spot just behind your ear. 

You moaned, your head falling back, giving him better access to you neck, your breath coming faster now. The tension inside you coiled tighter with every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every shift of his body against yours. It was building, relentless, a pressure that bordered on unbearable.

Dean shifted between your thighs, rolling his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate motion, and you felt him hard and wanting, straining against the denim of his jeans. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of your dress, and your mind went hazy, thoughts scattering like smoke.

"I think…" you breathed, the words tumbling out between shaky inhales. "Fuck… Dean… I think we need to find a better place"

But he hadn't stopped. His lips were already tracing their way back up your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, teasing. His hips kept rolling against your heat, making you feel dizzy but this time not from the alcohol but from Dean himself.

"One more minute, baby," he mumbled against your skin, and then he kissed you again, deep and consuming, and your brain went completely dark.

His lips were like a drug, something you couldn't leave and get enough of at the same time. Your hips bucked instinctively toward him, and he pressed forward in response, a low sound rumbling in his chest. You felt the damp heat of your own want soaking through, a mess you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now… right now, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The only thing that existed was him. The weight of his hands. The warmth of his mouth. The way he said your name without saying it at all.

And you wanted him. That was all that mattered right now. 

Dean's hand slid up your body, palm flattening against your chest, squeezing through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers found your nipple through the layers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. His free hand gripped your thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he hitched your leg higher around his hip. The movement opened you up, pressing your core against the ridge of his jeans, and you both groaned at the contact.

"Fuck," Dean breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and glistening. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me?"

You nodded, breathless, because you could. You could feel every inch of him straining against the denim, hard and wanting and so deliciously close.

His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, and your head fell back with a moan. The railing dug into your thighs, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against you. Dean took advantage of your exposed throat, latching onto the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you whimpered, nails raking down his back.

"Dean," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

"Say it again," he growled against your neck, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers found the damp heat between your thighs, tracing you through the soaked fabric of your panties. "Say my name like that again"

"Dean," your hips rocked into his hand, desperate for more friction. "Please."

"Please what?" his voice was a dark murmur, his fingers pressing harder, circling your clit through the thin fabric. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart"

"You," your voice a broken whisper. "I want you, I want…"

His mouth cut you off with another kiss, swallowing your words as his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric. He found you slick and ready, and the sound he made was almost reverent.

"So wet for me," he breathed against your lips. "This all for me?"

"Who else would it be for, you idiot?" you broke the kiss and looked at him irritatingly.

He laughed again, but it was strained, barely there, because his fingers were sliding through your folds, circling your clit with devastating precision. Your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the sensation, and he obliged, pressing harder, faster, until you were a trembling mess in his arms.

"That's it," he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours. "That's it, let go for me. I've got you"

The heat in your belly was growing, unbearable and intoxicating, spreading through you like wildfire. Dean's mouth captured your moans, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the movement of his hand. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rocking desperately against his fingers as the pressure built and built and built and….

"What the fuck?!" Garrett's voice cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water, and you jerked back so fast you nearly lost your balance on the railing. 

Your heart slammed against your ribs as your eyes found him, standing in the threshold with Logan and Tucker. Garrett's face was a thundercloud, jaw tight, nostrils flared, the vein in his forehead doing that thing it only did when he was about three seconds from committing a felony.

Behind him, Logan had his hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but he wasn’t impressed at all. Tucker wasn't even trying to hide it, he was laughing, full-bodied, tears-in-his-eyes laughing, the traitor.

“Fuck,” Dean’s hand quickly left your core, circling your body and pulling you closer. His head fell on your shoulder and you felt Dean's breath hot against your ear, low and steady despite the disaster behind his back. "On the count of three, we run"

You nodded, barely, your pulse hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

One.

Dean's hands found your waist, lifting you down from the railing with a slowness that felt almost mocking given the circumstances. Your feet hit the floor. Garrett took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in your body tense. His face was stone. The kind of face that said I'm going to bury my best friend in the backyard and no one will ever find the body.

Logan wheezed behind him. Tucker whisper-shouted, "Oh my God, he's going to kill him"

Two.

Dean's fingers laced through yours, squeezing once – tight, reassuring, maybe a little apologetic. His palm was warm and solid, and you clung to it like a lifeline. Garrett was coming closer now, slow and deliberate, the way predators did before they pounced. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass.

"Dean," he said, and his voice was eerily calm. That was worse. That was so much worse. "I'm going to give you five seconds to explain why your hands were under my sister’s dress"

"Five seconds?" Dean called back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "That's generous"

"Dean," you hissed.

Tucker lost it completely, doubling over and slapping the doorframe. Logan was crying now. Actual tears.

Three.

"Bye, G!" Dean shouted, and then he was running, dragging you with him, your feet barely finding purchase as you launched off the porch and into the night.

Garrett's roar echoed behind you. You didn't look back. The cold wind whipped your face, biting at your cheeks and tearing through your hair, but you couldn't stop laughing. Breathless, hysterical, giddy laughter that mixed with the pounding of your feet and the thunder of your heart. The party lights blurred behind you, growing smaller and smaller as you rounded the corner, the music fading into a distant thrum.

Dean didn't slow down. He pulled you into the shadows of someone's house, pressing you back against the rough brick wall, his body caging you in before you could even catch your breath. His mouth found yours and he kissed you like you hadn't just committed a crime against his friendship with your brother.

"Now he's actually going to kill you," you breathed against his lips, but your hands were already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, because apparently you had zero survival instincts.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him almost undid you – hair wild, lips swollen, that stupid, goofy grin spreading across his face like he hadn't just made an enemy of his best friend for life. His nose brushed against your cheek, soft and tender in a way that felt almost ridiculous after the chaos.

"Worth it," he whispered, and his voice was so warm, so certain, that your chest ached with it.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you forgot entirely about Garrett, about the run, about the cold. Because God, it was worth it. Every single, reckless, disastrous second of it.

thankx for reading <3

I've been rereading and editing this work for two days now, so I really hope it's alright and doesn't contain too many spelling or grammar mistakes. also, I haven't actually read the book, so my perspective on every character is mostly based on the vibe I got from the tv show. and if anything feels off, that's probably why. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

alright, I'm off to sleep and take a little break. I'll be happy to wake up to any dean requests in my inbox! as usual, comments and messages are always welcome. your words keep me going, even when I really should be sleeping. so please, let me know what you think of this one. it means the world to me :3

– your santi 🪐

He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.

At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.

Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.

“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”

Run of the mill.

Simple.

Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.

Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.

And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.

Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.

Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.

The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.

He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.

You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.

Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.

The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.

But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.

You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.

You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.

You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.

You would’ve been home by now.

But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.

“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.

Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“

The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-

“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“

“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”

“I’m tryin’-“

“Not hard enough.”

“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“

You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.

“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“

“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”

Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”

“They are. Think about it.“

“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“

“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.

“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”

Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”

You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.

It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.

The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.

But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.

You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.

Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.

“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”

Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”

“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.

Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.

“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“

Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-

“Sorry-“

“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.

Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.

It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.

You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-

“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“

“Stop.”

You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“

“No. Don’t want Ella-“

“Emma-“

“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”

“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“

“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”

You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.

He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.

Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.

You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.

Dean wants to be done with this.

You’re not done with him.

You swipe right on Emma.

For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.

“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.

“Baby, I need you not to talk-“

“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”

That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.

But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.

Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-

“No.” He grunts, and you blink.

“It’s okay-“

“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”

You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“

“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.

Looking at you.

His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.

“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.

You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“

“’m fine-“

“You’re not fine-“

“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.

“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”

He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head. 

“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.

Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.

But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.

Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.

Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.

“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”

You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.

It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.

Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-

It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.

You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.

You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“

“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”

“A bar.”

He makes a sour expression. “Why.”

“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”

Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.

You sigh. ‘Dean-“

“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“

“Yes, you are.”

“No-“

“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.

You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.

And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.

He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.

You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.

“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.

“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.

Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.

“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”

You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.

“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.

Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”

You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.

Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.

What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.

You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.

Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.

Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.

But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.

Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.

You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-

Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.

He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.  

“Where-“

“She left.”

Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“

“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”

“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“

“I know.” He’s jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. “Just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”

Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.

“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”

He frowns. “No, I’m not-“

“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”

“I don’t want someone else.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.

Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”

“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“

“I’m not acting like a child-“

“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.

Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.

“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“

He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.

“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”

You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”

He rasps your name, and you shake your head.

“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“

You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.

He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.

You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.

He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.

Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.

“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.

Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“

“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“

He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”

“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“

“No.”

“Why-“

“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”

You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“

“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.

His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-

“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”

It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”

You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.

“De- Dean-“

“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.

“Dean-“

“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”

You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.

Dying wish.

He still thinks he’s allowed to die.

“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.

Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“

“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.

He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“

“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“

“I told you, no-“

“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”

You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.

It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.

“What if I want to have sex with you?”

Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“

“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”

He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.

There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.

Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.

His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.

Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.

You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.

Dean mouth hangs slack.

“Jesus fuckin’-“

He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.

You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.

Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.

You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.

A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.

Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.

He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.

“You’re sure-“

“Yes.”

He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”

It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.

You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.

“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“

“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.

A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.

His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.

“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“

“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.

You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.

You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.

This is different.

Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.

He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.

“De, be- Be careful-“

You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.

“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.

And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.

He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”

You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.

“Answer me-“

“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“

“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”

“Dean-“

“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“

“I- I don’t remember-“

“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”

Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.

He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.

“Oh my- Dean-“

“I told you, answer-“

“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“

“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”

“Mmm- Mhm-“

“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“

His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.

Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.

He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.

“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“

“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“

You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.

It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.

You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off. 

A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.

Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.

When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.

You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.

“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“

It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.

You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.

Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-

“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”

You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“

“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”

He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.

“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.

“Dean, Dean, please-“

He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Dean-“

Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.

Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.

The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.

“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“

He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.

“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“

You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.

Then he finally lets you over the edge.

Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.

You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.

“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.

When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.

It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.

But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.

Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.

“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.

“I’ll get over it.”

You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.

“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.

“Wha-“

“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”

He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.

“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.

“Blame it on the curse.”

You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.

“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”

You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought  he said. “What?”

“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”

He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.

“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“

“It’s not. It’s-“

He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.

“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”

He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.

“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”

Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.

Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.

He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.

At least he still sweeps you off your feet.

Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.

“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.

“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“

Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.

He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.

Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.

Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.

You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.

He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.

“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“

Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.

But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.

He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though. 

“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”

You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.

“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“

Again, he moves.

You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.

“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“

You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.

He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.

Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.

He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.

Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.

It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.

Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.

It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.

Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.

You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.

Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“

“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“

“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”

He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.

“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“

He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.

You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.

There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.

“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.

“Feels good.”

“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.

You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.

Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”

He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.

By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.

Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.

“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.

“Dean…”

“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“

He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.

You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.

“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“

His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.

Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.

“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“

“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”

He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.

You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.

But it was worth it.

Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.

“Eds?” you ask softly, poking him with your foot from your side of the couch. You’re each settled into a corner with your legs sprawled out between you, tucked under the comforting weight of a worn, soft blanket.

His head turns sharply towards you, as though he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. With his eyes so wide, you can see the coloured lights reflected in the dark chocolate brown of his irises. The flush in his cheeks is back— rosy and warm— and it makes your lips curl into a soft, knowing smile.

“What’re you thinking about?” You can’t help but tease him a little, letting your toes burrow beneath the weight of his thigh. You watch him closely, already knowing the answer. You know exactly what he's thinking about; what he’s been thinking about since you led him away from your work.

“You’d make a good boyfriend.”

That’s what you told him. And since then, he’s been quiet, clearly stuck in his head, with the flush on his cheeks never quite fading completely.

He stays unusually silent, his typically chaotic and excitable demeanour dampened by a hesitance written so openly on his face. For a moment, the only sound between you is the low hum of the old TV playing some cheesy Christmas movie. Neither of you could name it— let alone describe the plot— and you honestly doubt Eddie even realises it’s on.

“I meant it,” you say gently, well aware of how he’s likely second-guessing himself— and maybe even you— right now. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes as he looks at you, as though he’s desperately searching for the punchline to a joke you aren’t making.

Your smile is as soft as the sigh that leaves your lips as you shuffle just a little closer to him.

“Have you really never thought about it?” This time, it’s your turn to feel the hesitance. It ripples under your skin, a nervous heat building in your cheeks to match his own.

“Of course I have,” Eddie’s voice is a little rough, having been silent for so long. He’s still searching your face, clearly convinced you must be playing some sort of trick on him. “You’re serious? You aren’t… pulling my leg or something?”

You laugh then— a soft, relieved sound that bubbles out of you. “You scared me,” you admit quietly, “I thought for a second you were trying to find a way to let me down kindly.”

He catches you off-guard then— as he usually does. One second, there’s a good few feet of couch between you; the next, Eddie is crowding into your space, just like he had outside your work. He takes a single, deep breath, and then his lips are on yours.

The pressure is awkward at first— a little rough and uncertain as you scrambled to regain composure from the sudden, though much-wanted, assault. His lips are soft— so much softer than you’d ever expected.

You sense the anxiety building within him again as he starts to pull back, obviously panicked when you take a second too long to fully respond. It’s then you realise; Eddie is kissing you, but you aren't kissing him back— too stunned to move in the moment.

Startled into action, your hands reach for his neck, brushing over the slight stubble of his jaw. Gently, you pull him back into you, finally letting your lips press so softly against his— the way you’ve wanted to for much too long.

He practically melts into you. You feel his body release every ounce of tension it’s been holding as his hands settle on your waist. His fingers dig in, clutching at the fabric of your shirt as though to make sure the moment is real— that this is really happening.

“I think I'd make a good boyfriend, too,” Eddie mumbles against your lips. You can feel his wide grin as he smiles into your kiss, pressing his lips harder to yours as if to seal his words between you.

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His grin is infectious as he blows the fogged breath back at you, making your nose wrinkle gently when his warm breath hits you square in the face. Your heart stutters as a strange fluttering twists your stomach.

He’s so freaking close.

Gloved hands cover your own around the festively decorated cup, the woollen material pleasantly rough against your bare fingers.

“Drink up, sweetheart,” Eddie's voice is a soft tease as he guides the cup to your lips, those big brown eyes never leaving yours.

A slow, comforting cloud of steam rolls over the edge of the paper cup; releasing a rich, indulgent aroma. The sweet heat of cinnamon and chocolate hitting your tongue is a surprisingly familiar taste, one that makes your eyes fall shut and your heart race, just a touch.

Slowly, your eyes flutter open as you feel Eddie move, watching him with fond curiousity as he pulls something from his back pocket. It’s a hat; the soft mustard wool almost glowing under the streetlight above you. It’s your hat. The one you forgot at Eddie’s the evening prior, after a quiet movie night at the trailer with him and Wayne.

Had he really come all this way to meet you out of work, simply because he found your forgotten hat?

“Ed-” he cuts you off, nudging the cup to your mouth once again as he pulls the hat- still warm from his pocket- over your head. His self satisfied smile as he tugs it over your ears has your heart doing a flip in your chest; traitorous beast that it is.

He’s just being friendly, you tell yourself. He’s your friend and he doesn’t want you to be cold.

Which must be why he begins to unravel the slightly worn scarf from around his neck, only to wrap it around yours. His touch is so gentle you feel a shiver crawl up your spine, your heart nearly beating from your chest when the back of his hand brushes your jaw in a mere whisper of a touch as he adjusts the knitted material.

There's a second where you both just stare at one another. It's not awkward. Nothing with Eddie has ever been awkward. But there is something. Something new, something tender, hovering in the small space between you.

“You have a little-” Eddie tugs his glove off with his teeth, leaving it hanging from his mouth as he reaches towards you.

He’s got a soft, almost hesitant smirk on his face as he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip; lingering longer than is probably necessary- though your brain seems to have stuttered to a stop the very moment his skin meets yours. The sensation of his thumb against your lip sends a bolt of electricity through you, lighting up every nerve and leaving you wired and on edge, like the slightest spark would upend your entire perception of this friendship; and it has.

“Uh-” his eyes widen a fraction, as though realising perhaps he has overstepped some unwritten boundary. The sound is muffled around the glove still hanging limply between his teeth. His cheeks flushed and his eyes dropping from your face as he slowly withdraws from you. “You had some cinnamon on your lip,” he mutters quietly, spitting the glove out into his hand.

“You know how I have my hot chocolate,” your words are a little rough, and definitely awestruck. You can’t remember ever telling Eddie that small tidbit. “And you met me out of work, to bring me my hat?”

Eddie shrugs, cheeks still a delicate red, “didn’t want you to be cold just ‘cause you’re forgetful.”

A hushed laugh escapes you, it's really no more than a quiet breath as your lips curve into a fond smile. Your eyes lock onto the way Eddie nervously moves his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing at the back of his neck like he doesn’t know what to do now.

There’s barely a moments hesitation as you raise up to your toes, pressing your lips to rough stubble decorating his cheek in the faintest whisper of a kiss.

“You’d make a good boyfriend, you know?” You tease gently, watching as he stumbles over his own words in an attempted response. “Think about it,” you say quietly, slipping your arm through his. The soft wool of your hat rests against his shoulder, his warmth spreading through to you as you silently walk with him down the street towards his van.

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Rude customers weren’t new. Hell, Eddie practically expected them. But today had just been something else entirely. It had started with the older woman who took one look at him. tattoos, rings, wild hair pulled back haphazardly, and decided she already knew everything she needed to know. Her mouth had pursed, her words sharp and clipped as she questioned his prices, his professionalism, his very presence behind the counter.

Then came the younger customer, all lingering looks and saccharine sweet laughter, leaning a little too close as he worked. She’d laughed at his jokes a little too hard, brushed her fingers against his arm like it was an accident, made it painfully clear she thought it might buy her a discount. When he shut it down, her smile curdled into something sharp, her voice turning clipped and nasty. She paid without another word and walked out without tipping, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the windows.

By the time he was cleaning up, counting the minutes until he could lock up and disappear, the universe apparently decided it wasn’t done with him. An older man pulled in just before closing, engine sputtering. Eddie had taken one look under the hood, already running through possibilities, when the man started questioning his competence. Each skeptical comment scraped against Eddie’s patience, wearing it thinner and thinner until he was gripping the edge of the hood just to keep himself from snapping.

Now, sitting in the van with the day finally behind him, all of it pressed down at once. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet, simmering hurt of never quite being taken seriously. Eddie dragged a hand over his face, smearing grease across his cheek, and exhaled slowly. He was home. Barely holding it together, but home nonetheless. Climbing the steps of the trailer felt like wading through wet cement, each creak of the metal stairs echoing louder than it should.

Normally, it was a motion he barely registered, muscle memory carrying him up without thought. Tonight, though, his legs felt heavy, like they might give out at any second, every step a reminder of just how wrung out he was. By the time he reached the door, his hand lingered on the handle, knuckles sore, breath slow and uneven. The door swung open with a familiar groan, and the dim, amber glow inside wrapped around him like an old blanket.

Wayne was right where he always was, slouched into the corner of the couch, eyes heavy from an earlier shift at the power plant. The TV murmured low in the background, some rerun Eddie wasn’t paying attention to. His eyes were already drooping, exhaustion from the power plant etched into the lines of his face, but they softened just a little when he saw Eddie step through the door. “Hey, kid.” Wayne called out, voice rough but warm.

Eddie didn’t trust himself to answer right away. He toed off his boots by the door, letting them thunk against the wall, shoulders still wound tight like he’d forgotten how to let them drop. Whatever irritation he’d been holding onto all day clung stubbornly to him, written plainly across his face. “There’s leftovers on the counter,” Wayne continued, nodding toward the kitchen. “Your girl came by. Dropped off your favorite.”

That did it.

Eddie’s stomach growled loudly enough to embarrass him, the sound cutting through the fog in his head. His gaze snapped to the counter, and sure enough, there it was. A plate of your famous homemade lasagna, wrapped in foil, waiting patiently like it had all the time in the world. The rich smell of tomato sauce and melted cheese hit him instantly, and his mouth watered despite himself.

He crossed the trailer in a few long strides, snagged a fork from the drawer, and dug in without hesitation, not even bothering to heat it up. He didn’t care. Warm or cold, it tasted like salvation. He ate standing there, leaning against the counter, fork moving almost mechanically as his body reminded him just how long it had been since he’d last eaten any real food that wasn't from a vending machine.

The shop had been slammed all day, customers stacked back to back, and somewhere along the line he’d completely blown past his lunch break. Each bite settled something in his chest, even if only a little. Still, the relief was bittersweet. Oh how he wished he’d gotten off early. Even just an hour sooner would’ve meant seeing you, your smile, your voice, the way you always made the trailer feel brighter just by being in it. Lately, your schedules felt like they were working against you on purpose.

His days were swallowed whole by the shop, late-night D&D campaigns, and even later nights playing at the Hideout. Yours were just as bad, with overtime shifts at Family Video stretching long past closing time, and on top of that, those ever-present college assignment deadlines. It gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. Hell, at this point, even Steve Harrington had spent more time with you than he had.

The mere thought left a sour taste on his tongue that had nothing to do with the lasagna. He stabbed at another bite, jaw tightening as a flicker of jealousy curled low in his gut. He trusted you, completely, but it still stung, knowing someone else got to see you laugh, got to hear about your day, while Eddie was elbow-deep in engines and taking crap from strangers who didn’t know the first thing about him.

He swallowed hard, forcing the feeling down. Leaning back against the counter, fork resting on the edge of the plate, his eyes drifted toward the empty doorway of his room. Somewhere between the grease, the exhaustion, and the ache of missing you, the weight of the day finally began to settle. And for the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie let himself feel just how damn tired he really was.

“Night, Wayne,” Eddie muttered, the words leaving him in a long exhale, like even speaking required more energy than he had left. He didn’t wait for a response, already turning down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment he just stood there, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the sink as he stared at his own reflection, tired eyes, shadows beneath them, jaw still tight with everything he hadn’t let go of yet.

The shower was quick and scalding. Water beat down against his shoulders, carrying grease, sweat, and frustration with it as it spiraled down the drain. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw, like maybe if he washed hard enough he could erase the day entirely. When he stepped out, steam clung to the small bathroom, mirror fogged beyond recognition. He pulled on his pajama pants and didn’t bother with a shirt, bare skin prickling as the cooler air hit him.

He moved on autopilot toward his room, exhaustion tugging him forward. More than sleep, his body craved comfort, something to quiet the static in his head, something to make his chest feel less tight. Normally, that comfort had your name written all over it. Tonight, he’d already resigned himself to the alternative. Weed would have to do. Slipped into his room he didn't bother flipping on the light, knowing every inch of this place by heart.

His feet navigated around clutter effortlessly as his hand reached for the spot where he kept his personal stash, fingers closing around the pre-rolled joint. Habit carried him forward as his other hand searched for his lighter on the nightstand. And then, he froze. His breath caught sharply in his throat as his shin brushed the edge of the bed, and his heart slammed hard enough that he nearly dropped everything in his hands.

There, sprawled across his lumpy, unmade mattress like she belonged there, because she did, was you. Nestled deep into his pillow, cheek squished adorably against the fabric, lips parted just enough as soft, steady breaths escaped you. Your chest rose and fell in a slow, peaceful rhythm that felt completely at odds with the chaos that had been rattling around inside his head all day.

Eddie rubbed his eyes hard with the heel of his palm, a shaky laugh threatening to escape as disbelief flooded him. He blinked once. Twice. You were still there. Still breathing. Still very, very real. You were dressed in his Hellfire shirt, the fabric worn thin and soft from years of use, hanging off you just right. Your legs were bare, clad in those barely-there shorts he loved, skin warm and familiar even from a distance.

The sight hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs in the best way possible. Everything inside him shifted all at once. The anger drained first, then the irritation, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief that left his knees feeling weak. The day, the customers, the looks, the comments, all fell away like background noise. All that mattered was that you were here. You’d crawled into his bed when he wasn’t even home, made yourself comfortable in his space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Immediately, he set the joint and lighter down, not even sparing a glance to where they landed on the cluttered desk. They made a soft, hollow sound as they hit wood, forgotten the second his attention snapped back to you. The craving in his chest shifted instantly, no longer a restless, jagged need to numb himself, but something gentler and far more powerful pulling him forward. He moved slowly, like the slightest wrong step might shatter the moment.

The mattress dipped as he carefully climbed onto it, muscles tense as he navigated around your sleeping form. You’d somehow managed to claim nearly the entire bed, limbs loose and unguarded, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. Eddie smiled despite himself, something soft and fond tugging at his mouth. As much as he told himself to let you sleep, to just lie there and soak in the fact that you were here in his space, the need to touch you was overwhelming. It was instinct. Muscle memory. Survival, almost.

His fingers hovered for half a second before they made contact, brushing lightly over your bare thigh. His breath hitched as his hand slid upward, slow and reverent, slipping beneath the hem of his own shirt you wore. His fingertips traced the curve of your waist, then settled against your ribs, feeling the gentle rise and fall beneath his palm. Further proof that you were really there. A breathy exhale slipped past his lips before he could stop it, tension bleeding out of him in one quiet rush.

He froze when your foot nudged against his calf, heart jumping into his throat. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid he’d woken you too abruptly. “Eds?” Your voice was soft, thick with sleep, but the sound of it sent something warm and electric straight through his chest. Your eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found him. Recognition bloomed across your face, followed by the faintest smile.

God, he could’ve cried right then.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He murmured, voice low and rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything gentle all day. His thumb brushed unconsciously against your side, grounding himself in the feel of you. You didn’t give him time to say anything else. You shifted forward, closing the small space between you, one hand curling into the fabric of his pajama pants as you leaned in. Your lips met his in a kiss that was soft but deliberate, unhurried yet full of intent, like you’d been waiting all night to do exactly this.

The world seemed to tilt slightly as his brain caught up with his body. For half a second, Eddie just stayed there, stunned, before instinct took over. He kissed you back with a quiet hum, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, the other tightening at your waist like he needed the reassurance that you weren’t about to disappear. The kiss wasn’t desperate, but it was deep with everything he hadn’t been able to say, how tired he was, how much he missed you, how the day had chewed him up and spit him out until he’d walked into this room ready to fall apart.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, noses brushing as your breaths mingled in the dark. Eddie let out a shaky laugh under his breath, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that he didn’t have to hold himself together anymore. You shifted closer, legs tangling with his, fitting against him like you’d always belonged there. Eddie huffed softly, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “You’re a little bed hog, y’know that?”

You smiled into him, the sound more felt than heard, and burrowed closer like you were determined to prove his point. Your cheek pressed against his chest, warm and familiar, and he felt the tension he’d been carrying finally give a little. You kissed his bare collarbone, slow, unhurried, then drifted lower to the faded black widow spider tattoo. “Your car wasn’t in the driveway,” He murmured, fingers lifting to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

His movements were gentle, careful, like he was still half-afraid you might vanish if he startled you. “Thought I wouldn’t get to see you until the weekend.” You cuddled closer at that, fitting yourself against him like it was second nature. One hand slid behind his back, nails grazing his skin in that slow, absent-minded pattern you knew drove him a little crazy, grounding and soothing all at once. The other threaded into his hair without hesitation, fingers finding their place like muscle memory.

“Steve dropped me off,” You whispered, as Eddie practically melted beneath your touch. His eyes fluttered shut when your fingers grazed his scalp, the sound he made low and involuntary. “Guess he and Robin were tired of me moping around.” That earned a quiet snort from Eddie, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to the top of your hair, lingering there, breathing in the faint trace of your perfume mixed with the familiar scent of his sheets.

It grounded him in a way nothing else could.

“Shitty day?” You asked softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your fingers brushed beneath his eyes, light and careful, tracing the shadows there. He sighed, long and slow, like he’d been waiting all day for someone to ask. “Yeah.” He admitted, voice low. You didn't push, only hummed quietly, sympathetic, your thumb brushing his jaw. Eddie let his eyes fall shut for a moment, leaning into the touch.

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until now, until the adrenaline drained out of him and left only the ache behind. “But this?” He added after a beat, eyes opening to meet yours. “This helps. A lot.” You smiled at that, soft and sleepy, and settled back against him, head finding its place beneath his chin. Eddie wrapped an arm around you, holding you closer, like if he let go the day might come rushing back in.

Your breathing slowed first, evening out into a gentle rhythm that Eddie unconsciously matched. Every gentle inhale you took, every soft exhale that brushed against his skin, felt like permission, like the universe was finally giving him leave to drop the weight he’d been carrying all day. For the first time since pulling into the driveway, Eddie realized he could finally breathe without restraint, without that lingering edge of irritation and exhaustion gnawing at him.

Turns out, he didn’t need the joint tonight after all. The familiar haze of smoke, the escape he’d planned, suddenly seemed unnecessary. Right here, right now, with you pressed against him, soft and steady, filling every hollowed-out corner of his chest, he already had everything he’d been craving. All the comfort, all the peace, all the relief he’d needed was wrapped up in the warmth of your presence. And for Eddie, that was more than enough.

You immediately hear rustling on the other side of the door, and something clattering over. Probably another pair of poor sunglasses tossed dramatically to the floor. Typical.

And then, finally, the door swings open.

Eddie strolls out looking like a movie star, arms dramatically spread and gesturing down his body as he does a little twirl, evidently proud of his choice of clothing. 

“What do you think, sweetheart?” he asks smugly, like he’s not the reason you're about to miss an important event. “Check the fit.”

And oh, you check the fit. 

He’s dressed mostly in black, as per usual. Wearing an oversized velvet blazer, animal print satin shirt underneath, first buttons undone–obviously—a constellation of tattoos and a couple scars peeking under the fabric. Paired with slim, flared at the bottom trousers that hug him in all the right ways, and of course, some Chelsea boots. His silver rings match the chunky chain around his neck and the sparkle in his eyes. His lips are curled in that cocky smirk that drives you insane.

You want to slap him and jump his bones at the same time. Why does he have to look so good? 

You have to remind yourself that you’re mad before you start drooling and give yourself off too easily (which has always been a problem with him.)

So instead of snapping, you take a deep breath, shift your features into something deceptively sweet, and walk over to him. You brush a few pieces of lint off his shoulders, smiling up innocently, then place a hand on his chest, your diamond ring shining right over that rockstar heart of his.

“You look infuriatingly hot, baby,” you whisper, batting your eyelashes at him. “Maybe if we weren’t so…late, I would’ve probably sucked you off,” you shrug nonchalantly. “Anyways, what a shame.” 

And just like that, you turn on your heel, smirking as you catch the way his confident expression crumbles. You walk out of the bedroom straight to the grand spiral staircase, as he follows behind you desperately. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa–wait! Let’s not get ahead of ourselves!” He stammers, trailing after you like a lost puppy, but you don’t even look back. “Angel, we're not that late! We have time! You can still–” 

“Eddie,” you cut him off, right as you reach the end of the stairs. “We were supposed to take off an hour ago. You’re lucky you’re the one who rented the damn plane, and it can’t take off without you.”

“Well it’d be pretty stupid if they left, don’t you think?” He chuckles, but it dies down as you glare at him before turning around to walk across the foyer. 

But just as your hand touches the doorknob of the massive front door, he stops you.

“Okay–okay. Stop, sweetheart. I’m sorry, alright? I know I took too long,” he says, grabbing your hand gently. “But we’re gonna make it. I promise.”

You exhale, some of the frustration melting away as you look at his huge doe eyes. Eddie, your stupid, gorgeous husband who’s been touring arenas and taking you to fancy hotel rooms around the globe, and was supposed to fly you across the country to get there on time for Dustin’s high school graduation. The kid had stumbled over his words on the phone when he invited you, saying it was okay if Eddie was too busy with the band to attend. 

“I just…we can’t miss it, Eddie,” you say, voice coming weaker than you expected. “Dustin’s been through enough. He won’t say it but…he’ll never forgive you.”

Eddie steps closer shaking his head, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “And I’ll never forgive myself if we do.” He leans to kiss your forehead, then smiles. “Come on, let’s go make the kid cry.”

The door swings open to reveal your driver–who’s been waiting too long–in a sleek car on the driveway. Eddie gestures dramatically for you to step forward, bowing a little too low. 

“After you, my lady.”

You can’t help the smile that breaks through. It’s impossible to stay mad at him anyways. 

But of course, just as you’re about to slide into the car when he opens the door for you, he leans down, whispering hot in your ear. 

“Also…not that I’m rushing or anything, but maybe on the plane you can still suck me off or whatever you said back there.”

“Eddie!!!”

Hawkins, Indiana. Graduation ceremony. 

The car slows as it nears the parking lot next to the field of Hawkins High. The same field where you would lay on the grass with Eddie to make out under the bleachers like there was no tomorrow…until a coach kicked you out. You can already imagine today it’s dressed in classroom chairs and green/orange banners, with a small stage at the front and rows of bleachers filled with happy families near the entrance. 

Eddie already teased you twice on the way there for your wrinkled clothes and for touching up your swollen lips after suspicious activities on the plane. 

“Do I look decent?” You ask, fixing your hair, right as the car stops. 

He leans in from his seat, watching you with a smug little smirk. “Angel, you look wrecked in the best way possible.”

You swat his arm, but he just laughs as he opens the door. He steps out with that classic Munson flair–the same way he walks out to a red carpet now–turning around and extending his hand, bowing dramatically.

“My love.”

You slip your fingers into his, letting him help you out, gigging like you’re teenagers again. Except–a couple of years and hundred thousand dollars later. 

“My dear husband.”

His arm finds the small of your back immediately as you walk forward, and the warm Indiana air greets you like a nostalgic slap to the face. The summer heat, the cut grass, the distant cheers. 

God, it’s good to be back. 

As you walk across the parking lot you can’t even see the stage yet, but the speakers are loud and you’d recognize that tone anywhere. 

“…Screw the school. Screw the system. Screw conformity. Screw everyone and everything trying to hold you back and tear us apart…”

You both freeze. 

“That’s Dustin,” you gasp. “He’s doing his speech. Come on!!”

You pull Eddie’s hand, shoes stomping against the floor as you sprint toward the chainlink entrance of the field. 

“Hey hey, careful, sweetheart,” Eddie warns, jogging a step ahead of you to make sure you don’t faceplant the concrete. “Can’t have my wife tripping over, especially after–“

“THIS IS OUR YEAR!!!!” 

You hear the screeching noise of a mic slamming on the floor and the crowd goes crazy. There’s wild cheering, clapping, even whistling. You hear multiples “Holy shit!” and “No way!” 

“What the hell?” Eddie says, eyes narrowing as you both finally reach the gates. 

Your eyes land on the stage and there he is. Dustin fucking Henderson. Right up front and center, smiling like a maniac. Orange gown ditched and rocking a grey t-shirt with none other than bold black letters saying:

HELLFIRE LIVES. 

You arrive just in time to see him snatching the diploma from Higgin’s hand like a trophy, and flipping him off right after. Then, confetti goes off, raining down the stage. Dustin lifts his arms triumphantly as the graduates are on their feet, cheering like there’s no tomorrow. Someone in the crowd yells “HELL YEAH, HENDERSON!” 

You’re pretty sure that was Steve Harrington. 

You turn to Eddie slowly, speechless, and realize both of your jaws are hanging open. His eyes are locked on Dustin, glinting with that familiar fondness he always held for the boy. 

“My, my…Henderson, you crazy son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, matching the same devilish grin Dustin is rocking on stage. 

Eddie’s never been more proud of the little shit. 

You, on the other hand, could almost cry. Because this wasn’t just rebellion. This was special. This was a tribute.

A tribute to the club that welcomed him with open arms. A tribute to his friend Eddie Munson, who once swore that if he ever made it on that stage, he’d flip off Principal Higgins with pride. And Dustin did it for him. 

Back in ‘86, once the smoke had cleared and the military took over Hawkins, Eddie had been bed bound at the hospital with dozens of injuries and a long road of recovery ahead. This, plus the allegations of him being a satanic murderer, made it impossible for him to graduate high school that year. Higgins never gave him another chance to do so, and Hellfire was ruled as a forbidden club. 

Half a year later, Eddie was back to his full health, and he wanted to do nothing more than ditch school, get the hell out of that cursed town, marry the love of his life and fight for his dreams. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye to Wayne, who’d just lost his trailer and almost his son (well, his nephew turned son), but it was all worth it once Eddie got rich enough to buy him a nice house on the hills and flew him to any concert he wanted to attend (which was every single one of them.) 

So yeah, maybe you can’t help the tears that threaten to fall out after everything you’ve lived through with him. Eddie notices your shift, he always does, and his arm tightens around your waist as he brings you closer to him. 

“Still think we’re too late?” He whispers against your hair, still teasing but softer than he usually is. 

You shake your head, reaching up to brush your thumb over a small scar on his cheek.

“I think we made it just in time, Eddie.”

You and Eddie stay back for a little. 

From the edge of the field, still by the chainlink entrance, you watch Dustin bask in his moment. The crowd hasn’t stopped buzzing since his little stunt. People swarm the stage, clapping his back, hugging him, asking for pictures like he’s the rockstar here. His mom’s bawling. The kids are laughing so hard you can hear it all the way to your spot. 

You wait until the hugs stop, and most of the graduates scatter. That’s when you and Eddie start walking forward, but you don’t even make it five steps in before you feel the people craning their necks and start whispering around you. 

“Wait…is that–?” 

“Holy shit. That’s Eddie Munson.”

“The singer???”

“Wasn’t he, like, in a cult or something?”

“I heard he killed those kids back in ’86.”

“No, they cleared him, remember?”

You’re both used to all the attention at this point. So you keep walking. Heads held high. Designer clothing catching the golden sun as you walk in like a power couple. There’s even a pep in Eddie’s step. One that says he knows who the fuck he is now. That he’s back, and yes, he made it.

Every whisper is a reminder that he was never supposed to survive this long, let alone be here, with you on his arm, walking across this field like he owns the place.

So you do what comes naturally, you wrap your arm tighter around his, hugging closer to his side. Just enough to show him, and everyone gawking at you, that you’re here. That you’re never going anywhere.

Because god, do they look at you too.

Some with awe, because yes, you’re that girl. The one who followed him out of Hawkins and married the long haired freak who turned into a rock god. Some with surprise too, or judgment, or just plain envy.

“Oh my god she married him??”

“I heard he bought her a huge mansion in LA.”

“Look at her hair.”

“She’s so pretty. How the hell did he pull her?”

“He’s kinda hot too.”

“Sure, Jan.”

The last comment makes you chuckle. He didn’t just “pull you.” He earned you from the moment he introduced himself so nervously that he forgot he actually spoke the english language. And you earned him back with a soft laugh and those bedroom eyes he always claims you give him. 

But you forget all about the rumors as you spot Dustin by the stage. His back is to you, as he animatedly talks to Mike, Lucas and Will, arms flying in that signature Henderson drama. 

When the kids–God they’re all grown up, you should probably stop calling them kids–see you approaching, their eyes go wide in surprise. 

“What?” Dustin asks, confused. “What are you guys–”

He turns around, eyes going huge as he makes out the two figures standing in front of him. 

“EDDIE!!” 

His cap nearly flies off as he throws himself at Eddie as if he was a fifteen year old again. The kids stay back smiling, giving him the moment. 

“Whoa–shit–” Eddie barely catches him, stumbling back with a laugh, wrapping both arms around him tightly. “Jesus Christ, Henderson. You’re not a spring chicken anymore!”

Dustin laughs into his velvet blazer, almost crying from happiness. “You guys made it! You actually made it!!”

Eddie hugs him back just as hard, clapping a hand on his back, shaking his head. “You little bastard. You crazy crazy son of a bitch.” He pulls back, grinning like a devil. “That stunt with Higgins? Full on legend shit, my friend.”

Dustin shrugs nonchalantly, but he can’t stop grinning. You swear you see a little pink on his cheeks. “I was just honoring the person who taught me that being myself is a power, not a weakness.”

Yeah, that’ll do it. You’re crying now. 

Eddie’s grin falters just a little. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes do it for him. ‘Thank you, buddy.’

Dustin turns to you now, because if he keeps looking at Eddie there will be a lot more manly tears. 

“I’m so happy for you, Dustin. That whole thing on stage? It suits you. The spotlight. You wear it well.” You’re smiling so hard through the tears your cheeks hurt. 

Dustin beams at that. “You think?”

Eddie steps closer, reaching out to ruffle his curls. “Of course. I’m proud of you, kid. You know that, right?”

“I know.” Dustin nods enthusiastically. He’s smiling so hard you think he’s about to combust. “Oh my god, thank you for coming, seriously. I’ve missed you two so much.” 

Before you can even blink, this time he slams into you with a bear hug, squeezing so tight that you can almost feel your ribs crushing your organs. 

“Hey, careful, Henderson!” Eddie laughs, putting his hand behind you when you stumble back. “She can’t–”

“Eddie!”

This time Mike is enthusiastically hugging him from the side before going over to you more gently. 

“Dude you look amazing!” Luke chimes in, fist bumping Eddie and brushing your arm. 

Will just wraps him up in a silent hug, smiling in that soft, sweet way of his against Eddie’s shoulder. You can’t help it but mess with his bowl cut when you see the look on his face. 

“Alright, alright,” Eddie laughs, completely surrounded by his boys now. “What the hell–did all of you grow like a foot or did I fucking shrink??” He groans dramatically, holding Will by his shoulders and looking him up and down like a grandpa to his grandson. 

“Both,” Dustin snorts. “You’re getting old, man.”

You all laugh, but it doesn’t take long before the rapid fire starts with Mike. 

“Wait, how’s L.A.?” 

“When are you inviting us to your castle?” Lucas follows. 

“Is it true you made a song about Hawkins?” Will adds sheepishly. 

“No, that one was definitely about me.” Dustin says proudly. 

They, all in unison. 

“Do you still play D&D???” 

Eddie barely keeps up with all the questions, about tour life, the new album, the crazy parties, and that time he almost got arrested with the band if it wasn’t for you saving their asses. 

You watch them pile around him, laughing like they’re little kids again, even in their graduation gowns and big boy shoes and college letters waiting for them back home. It feels like no time has passed. Like 1986 was nothing but a bad nightmare you managed to escape from. 

Like Hellfire really does live. 

Inside all of you. With Eddie right in the center of it, holding it all together. Grinning like he never left. 

It’s chaotic. It feels like home. It’s so perfect you could cry another waterfall now because damn, you’ve missed them too, but you don’t get the chance before a hand lands on your shoulder, making you startle and turn around. 

Steve Harrington is there. Still unfairly handsome, rocking a brown suit and tie, with a pair of sunglasses hanging from his shirt collar. He looks like he has at least three kids, and a mortgage. 

And beside him, grinning like a maniac, is rockin’ Robin. 

“Harrington! Buckley!” Eddie beams, reaching for Steve first. 

“Guys!!!” You light up, already jumping into Robin’s arms.

“Oh my god, you guys look so hot!!” Robin exclaims, pulling you in. “Did you age backward or does LA just have different water?”

You laugh into her shoulder. 

Eddie is still hugging Steve in what feels like years packed into one tight embrace. Robin pulls away from you, immediately reaching to ruffle Eddie’s hair with a dramatic gasp. 

“Wow, still no shampoo, I see,” she teases. 

Eddie just grins. “Hair day is an event. Only happens on Wednesdays, Buckley.”

Steve shakes his head, turning to hug you. “You look amazing.”

You laugh softly. “So do you. Look at you, all…mature and stuff,” you say, gesturing between them when you pull away. 

“Yeah. Adult lives I guess. Had to leave everything to fly in this morning,” he explains, gesturing between them. “No way we were missing Henderson’s big day.”

Robin nods. “I cried twice already. Steve won’t admit it, but I saw his misty eyes too.”

Steve rolls his eyes but smiles anyways, then he claps Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey, we’re gonna hang with the guys at the WSQK. Let the kids do their thing, you know. You guys should come.”

You realize that the kids have scattered over, indeed doing their thing now that the high of the ceremony is wearing off. 

Eddie smirks, sliding his hand into yours. “Wouldn’t miss it, Harrington.” 

The sun is slowly hiding behind Hawkins silhouette, painting the sky in gorgeous hues of gold. The WSQK rooftop feels familiar. Feels like home as laughter between old friends fills the air. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, Steve and the power couple. 

You’ve dragged out a bunch of folding chairs, and a couple of crates for a makeshift table. But you’re not sitting in your own chair though, you’re in Eddie’s lap, secured with his arm wrapped firmly around you as your body settles into his. 

Steve reaches into the red cooler next to him, fetching the first round of beers and passing them around the group. You’re at the end of the half circle, so he stands up to hand yours. He gives one to Eddie first. 

“Here you go, man.”

Eddie accepts it with a grin, already sipping the cold beverage, then Steve offers a bottle to you.

“Here. Got your favorite, if I recall correctly,” he says fondly, almost making you feel bad to say no to his hopeful face. 

“It is my favorite,” you smile softly, pushing it gently back with a shake of your head. “But sorry, Steve. I can’t.”

Eddie, without missing a beat, places his bottle on the floor with a clink. “I’ll take that one too,” he chuckles, welcoming the one meant for you with his free hand. 

All eyes land on you. 

“Wait. Wait. What do you mean you can’t??” Robin perks up on her seat, as Nancy squints at you. “What does that mean?”

You glance at Eddie, biting your lip. He’s already grinning like the smug bastard he is. He shifts behind you, straightening up slightly, his chest presses to your back as his arm slides lower across your waist, until his palm rests over your belly protectively. 

“Let’s just say…there might be a little Munson on the way,” he drawls dramatically. Of course he does. He’s so proud his eyes crinkle from how big he smiles. 

The next thing you hear is a mix of squeals, clapping and a few beer bottles being knocked over. Nancy and Jonathan are sitting the closest to you, rising up with their arms outstretched and surprised smiles, but Robin is the first out of her seat. 

“OH MY GOD, NO WAY!”

She’s sprinting full speed toward you before you even stand, and nearly tackles you as you rise off Eddie’s lap, squeezing you in a hug so tight it lifts you onto your toes.

“Were you guys not gonna TELL US? What the hell is wrong with you!” Robin scolds, but she smiles through every single word. 

Steve, Nancy and Jonathan circle you, patting Eddie on the back as they wait for Robin to let you go, muttering “congratulations” and “no way” in disbelief. You laugh shakily, feeling overwhelmed and absolutely loved. The damn hormones make you a crying mess again, tears stinging your eyes from how loud and pure it all feels. 

“Eddie, you're going to be the best dad!” Robin beams, slapping his arm. “I’m just kidding, you’re out of your depth, man. I fear for this child,” she jokes, and Eddie chuckles shakily through his own tears as she throws herself into his arms too. 

Jonathan finally reaches you, hugging you from the side. “Congrats, that’s amazing,” he says softly. 

Once he lets you go, Nancy cups your face lovingly. Her eyes are glossy too as she nods reassuringly. “You’re going to be the most badass mom.” 

You can’t even talk. All you do is nod and wipe the tears off your face as Eddie places a hand on your back to hold you up because he knows you can’t do it by yourself. 

“Alright, my turn!”

Before you can blink Steve scoops you up in a spin, lifting you off the ground and twirling you so fast it makes your laughter bubble out. 

“STEVE!” you squeal, holding onto his shoulders. “Put me down!”

“Nu–uh. I can do this all day!”

“Hey!” Eddie calls him out, placing a hand on his arm. “Okay, Harrington, that’s enough. That’s the mother of my child you’re spinning around like a record.”

Steve carefully sets you down, hands going up in surrender with a laugh. “She’s got the glow, man. I couldn’t help it.”

“She does,” Nancy agrees. 

Robin nods enthusiastically, eyes going up and down your figure. “You’re so annoying, look at your glow. No wonder you look so hot.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks go hot with flustering.

“Well, I was gonna tell you guys later. We had a whole like…little thing planned and everything. But I guess it just came out,” you shrug. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you again from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“It’s better this way. Best surprise of the night,” he says. 

Robin wipes her eyes dramatically. “Okay, does anyone else have a secret baby I need to know about before I combust?” 

Nancy snorts. “Don’t look at me.”

You all laugh again.

Once the emotions settle, everyone goes back to their seats, warm from all the hugs and the joy and the fact that there’s gonna be a little Munson in the world.

You’re back in Eddie’s lap, and his arms are still wrapped around your waist, if anything more protective now, even among your awesome friends. The conversation and the beer keep flowing, as you sip from the can of soda Eddie went to fetch for you. 

“They have you teaching sex ED?” Nancy asks in disbelief after Robin slipped the fact like it was nothing. 

“Yeah. I teach about the miracle of life and how not to accidentally start it,” Steve chuckles, a pink tint taking over his cheeks. 

“You know I think some of those classes would’ve been useful for you two,” Robin says, pointing at you without missing a beat. 

“Oh no,” you smirk. “He definitely knew what he was doing the whole time.” 

The suggestive tone you use and the way Eddie buries his face on your neck to place a hot kiss make the group collectively groan. 

“You guys are disgusting," Robin scowls, pretending to gag. 

“Hey–be nice. The baby might be named after you.” 

“Really??”

“No,” you snort. Robin flips you off as the group laughs. “Though Eddie’s been trying to convince me to name the baby Dustin.”

Eddie chokes on his beer.

“Hey!” he laughs, face flushing red. “You didn’t have to throw me under the bus like that.”

You giggle. “They would eventually find out the name of our baby, honey.”

But he shakes his head. “Unbelievable. Betrayed by my own wife.”

“For the record, that’s gonna be my name for my firstborn, man! Get your own!” Steve says, pointing at Eddie. 

“Well. Dustin always thought I was cooler. He’d be honored.” Eddie smirks. 

Steve scoffs. “Please. Who knew him first?”

“Oh don’t bullshit me with that, man–“

“Oh my god,” Robin groans. 

Nancy sighs into her drink. “Here we go again.”

“Some things never change,” you say, smiling impossibly bigger as you place a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. 

“I just think it’s a beautiful, powerful name. Dustin Munson? That’s got a ring to it.” 

“Dustin Harrington has a better ring.”

“Are we just ignoring the fact that you don’t even have a firstborn to name yet, Steve?” Jonathan chimes in with an amused smile. 

“Yeah. What happened, Harrington? No nuggets yet?” Nancy adds. 

Steve laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. Not yet. But…who knows, Kristen might be the one.”

The group goes ooooh, making him blush further. 

Robin chuckles. “Didn’t you say that about the last five girls you dated?”

“Okay. That’s harsh, Buckley.”

She still goes on and mentions every single woman name she can think of. Which ends up being…a lot. 

Until Eddie speaks up. “Hey, come on Robs. Cut him some slack. When you know…you know. Right, Harrington?”

Steve softens in his seat, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Eddie turns to you, but you’re already looking at him. Your fingers are laced with his where they rest on your belly. You could almost melt looking at those glassy brown eyes. 

“…I always knew,” he adds, gaze never wavering. 

You don’t even have to say anything. It’s in your smile. It's in the way you slip your hand past the opening of his shirt. In the way you lean and bring him into a passionate kiss like it’s only the two of you and the little heartbeat under your skin that completes your world. 

Except. You’re not. The collective groaning makes you laugh into Eddie’s lips just as he slips his tongue past your lips. 

“You guys are disgusting,” Nancy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. 

“I can confirm now I actually don’t know,” Steve chuckles, looking away at the sunset. 

Robin is a little more dramatic, flopping over the arm of her chair. “Boooo. I’m gonna puke. Stop it. Stop being so in love–it’s physically painful.”

You and Eddie just laugh as you pull back. You clean the smudge of lipstick on his mouth, as he plants a kiss on your shoulder. 

“Jealousy’s a disease, Buckley,” he says, flipping her off. 

Jonathan chuckles, shaking his head. 

Steve just raises his bottle. “To disgusting love.”

“To disgusting love,” you say, holding up the can, unable to tear your eyes from Eddie’s.  

It’s dark outside as your driver takes you to Dustin’s house, where he insisted you spend the night over before you had to leave the next day. You're wearing Eddie’s blazer, nuzzled against his chest on the backseat. 

“You’re quiet,” you whisper. 

“Just thinking, sweetheart.”

“…About what?”

He shifts in his seat, gaze set on the moving streets outside. “…About how insane today was. Dustin flipping off Higgins. The kids. Robin crying. Steve twirling you like a Disney princess. You crying. I mean…” He laughs under his breath. “Only in Hawkins, man. I’ve missed this”

You chuckle, “I’ve missed it too.”

“But.. I’m mostly thinking about you. And the baby. About…what happens next.” He’s still looking at the window, before he sighs. “You think we’ll be any good at this? I mean, logistically. Baby, I got a new tour coming, rehearsals, press, like shit, do I need to start adding lullabies to the tracklist?” He chuckles, masking the shakiness in his voice. 

You just reach up, placing your fingers on his jaw to gently make him look at you. “I think we’ll figure it out, Eddie. It’s not gonna be easy…but we’re kind of used to doing the impossible.” 

He nods. 

“I’m glad I have you,” he adds after a moment. “Because if they grow up seeing how you love, how you protect people, how you shine…they’re gonna be just fine.”

You stare at him. The streetlights roll past in soft waves, painting him in golden stripes and everything feels just…perfect. A few years ago you thought you could never have a life like this. But it’s here. He’s here. 

“Oh shit. Didn’t mean to make you cry again baby,” he says when he sees your eyes glistening, his hand travels to your cheek to wipe the tears away. 

“I’m okay,” you shake your head and reach for his hand again. “You just…you said everything I didn’t know I needed to hear.”

“I mean every word,” he gives you that boyish smile that would keep you up all night when you were back in high school. “This is our year, angel. I can feel it.”

You want to slap him and jump his bones at the same time. Again. Because he’s perfect. And stupid. And stupidly perfect. And he’s yours. 

Your Eddie. Your life. Your year. 

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”