daydreamfiles

A group passing in the opposite direction had the clip playing too. Dean's voice carried from someone's phone, clear and recognizable beneath the sound of morning traffic and students hurrying toward class. Someone had edited a thick black mustache over footage of him skating, with DENNIS DI LAURENTIS, PRIVATE CITIZEN flashing across the bottom.

You lowered your head and kept walking.

The conversation had felt different last night, confined to your headphones and the dim recording space you had built out of blankets, soundproofing foam, and equipment that technically belonged to Briar Athletics. Dean had been an irritating voice slipping through your filter, answering questions you had not asked and defending a friend nobody believed existed.

Now the entire campus had heard him.

More troublingly, they had heard you with him.

A table outside the student center had turned the call into a drinking game despite it being far too early for anyone involved to be drinking. Someone shouted that everybody had to take a shot whenever Dennis referred to Dean in the third person.

You hurried past before you could hear the rules for whenever Wire Girl sounded annoyed.

Your phone had not stopped vibrating since you left your apartment. The podcast's follower count had climbed overnight. The episode had already doubled the numbers from the week before, and nearly every campus account had clipped some part of the call.

You should have been thrilled.

Instead, you kept remembering the section you had cut.

Dean had gone quieter near the end, after his defense of his unnamed friend had dissolved into something less performative. He had asked whether you ever got tired of hearing everyone else's secrets without being allowed to tell any of your own.

You had ended the call soon after that.

You had also listened to the raw recording twice before going to sleep, which was information you intended to take to your grave.

Mara and Camden were already seated at your usual café table when you arrived. Camden had positioned his tablet between two coffees and a plate containing the remains of a muffin he had apparently attacked rather than eaten. Screenshots covered the screen in neat rows.

Mara saw you first. The corner of her mouth lifted around her straw, but she restrained herself from saying anything revealing while Camden twisted around in his chair.

"Finally. Sit down. This has developed."

You dropped your bag beside the table. "It has been twelve hours."

"And in those twelve hours, Dennis Di Laurentis has united this campus in a way the administration never could."

Mara pushed the untouched coffee toward you. "Drink that before he starts presenting exhibits."

Camden tapped the tablet. The first screenshot was the mustache edit you had already seen outside. The second was a poll from a Briar meme account asking whether Dennis was Dean. Ninety-eight percent of respondents had chosen obviously, while the remaining two percent had selected Dean has never met Dennis in his life.

"I have compiled the evidence," Camden announced.

Mara stared at him. "Camden, no shit it was Dean, dummy. He called himself Dennis and used his regular voice."

His expression tightened with genuine offense. "I know it was Dean."

"Then what are we doing?"

"I'm determining motive."

Mara looked across the table at you, her face perfectly composed except for the amusement in her eyes. "Of course you are."

Camden swiped to another page. "Dean did not call because he wanted to defend his reputation. He spent approximately three minutes defending himself and another eight antagonizing Wire Girl."

You wrapped both hands around the coffee. "Maybe he enjoys antagonizing people."

"That is not new information. What matters is that he had already made his point and stayed on the line anyway."

Mara reached across to steal a piece of his muffin. "Maybe he enjoys hearing himself talk."

"Incorrect. He enjoys hearing her talk."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

Camden did not notice. He was too busy pulling up a waveform of the episode as though he had been hired by a federal agency.

"He laughs four times," he continued. "Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind men do when they think a woman is funny and become deeply inconvenienced about it."

"You need a hobby," you said.

"This is my hobby."

"It shouldn't be."

Mara chewed thoughtfully. "He has other hobbies. They're worse."

Camden ignored both of you. "The current question is whether this was his first call."

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

Mara's gaze snapped toward you, but Camden was still staring at the tablet.

"What makes you think he called before?" you asked, aiming for casual and missing by enough that Mara kicked you beneath the table.

Camden finally looked up. "He knew how the delay worked. He also knew exactly how far he could push before she cut his audio. That suggests familiarity."

"Or he listens to the show," Mara said. "Like half the campus."

"It suggests familiarity," Camden repeated, because he considered volume a reasonable substitute for evidence.

You glanced down at your phone as another notification appeared. Someone had created a Dennis fan account. The profile picture was Dean's official hockey headshot with the eyes covered by a black bar.

"I have to get to the media office," you said, gathering your things before Camden could begin examining prior callers.

Mara stood with you. "I'll walk you out."

Camden waved without looking away from his investigation. "I'll send updates!"

"Please don't," you said.

Outside the café, Mara waited until the door shut behind you.

"You listened to the recording again, didn't you?"

You adjusted the strap of your bag. "I had to edit it."

"After you edited it."

A group of students passed with the episode playing from a phone between them. Dean's laugh reached you before they disappeared down the path.

Mara's eyebrows rose.

"It was one time," you admitted.

"You look guilty enough that I know it was more than one."

"You're starting to sound like Camden."

"That is messed up, and you know it."

You walked together toward the athletics building, your shoulders drawn against the morning chill. Mara stayed quiet long enough that you knew she was deciding whether to push.

"He liked talking to you," she finally said.

"He liked annoying me."

"Those things are not mutually exclusive for someone like Dean."

You gave her a look.

Mara smiled and nudged your shoulder. "I'm not saying you need to pick out curtains. I'm saying Camden is ridiculous about most things, but he might not be wrong about this one."

"He called because I talked about him."

"He could have left a comment. He could have submitted a complaint. He called the live line, lied terribly about his name, and stayed there until you ended the conversation."

You stopped near the steps of the athletics building. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Absolutely." Her expression softened. "I'm also reminding you that the person on the phone was Dean Di Laurentis. He's probably forgotten half the conversation already."

That should have made you feel better, yet it didn't.

The first indication that Elaine was having a bad morning was the closed door to her office. She only closed it when she needed privacy, silence, or several uninterrupted minutes to reconsider every decision that had led her to collegiate athletics.

The second indication was the printed picture taped to the outside.

Someone had placed the fake mustache over Dean's official roster photograph and written DENNIS beneath it in red marker.

You removed it before knocking.

"Come in."

Elaine sat behind her desk with her laptop open, her phone pressed against one ear, and an expression suggesting the person on the other end was steadily reducing her faith in humanity.

"No," she said. "There is no student athlete named Dennis Di Laurentis registered at Briar. Yes, I understand that was the name provided. Because it was not his name."

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"No, the athletics department did not authorize anybody to call a gossip podcast. I cannot comment on the private recreational activities of fictional citizens."

You lowered yourself into the chair opposite her.

Elaine ended the call and placed her phone facedown with more restraint than you would have managed.

"Why would he do that?"

There did not appear to be a safe answer.

"Maybe Dennis felt strongly about the issue."

Elaine looked at you.

You folded your hands in your lap. "Sorry."

"My inbox contains eighty-seven messages about this. The social account has been tagged in a video of Dean wearing a digital mustache. Logan liked it from his public profile."

"Did he remove it?"

"After six hundred people took screenshots."

That sounded like Logan.

Elaine turned the laptop toward you. The latest post showed Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Dean standing along the boards during practice. Someone had edited detective hats onto everyone except Dean, who wore the mustache.

"Dean was told to leave the rumor alone," she said. "He was specifically told not to engage with Briar Wire. Somehow, he interpreted that as permission to invent a man named Dennis and call them directly."

"The host."

"What?"

"You said call them. There's only one host."

Elaine's eyes narrowed slightly.

You reached for your coffee. "As far as anyone knows."

Elaine studied you for another moment before turning the laptop back around. "I need clean content from practice today. Something normal enough to remind people that this department exists for purposes other than producing attractive men with poor impulse control."

You attempted not to react to attractive.

"There's already a practice package scheduled for Friday."

"It is now scheduled for this afternoon. Get a few short answers from the guys, film warmups, and make Dean say something that will not become a campus euphemism."

"That last part seems outside my qualifications."

"You got three usable answers out of him yesterday."

"He gave me nine unusable ones."

"Then you have experience."

Elaine stood and handed you a folder containing the revised shot list. "Nobody discusses Briar Wire on camera. Nobody says Dennis. Nobody pretends to know Dennis. Nobody calls the host. I have already explained this to them."

A burst of laughter carried down the hallway.

Elaine closed her eyes.

"Did it go well?" you asked.

"No."

The answer should have warned you.

The laughter grew louder as you followed Elaine toward the rink. By the time you reached the tunnel, Logan had his phone held out in front of Garrett and Tucker, replaying a video none of them needed to see again.

Garrett was already dressed for practice, retaping the top of his stick while Tucker adjusted one of his skates beside him. Dean stood a few feet away with his arms folded, looking far too relaxed for someone who had created an administrative crisis before breakfast.

Logan noticed you first.

"Did Elaine send you to film Dennis?"

Dean turned his head. "Keep talking, Logan."

"I wasn't speaking to you."

Garrett glanced up from his stick. "He's been doing this for twenty minutes."

"You keep responding," Tucker pointed out.

"That's because he keeps speaking."

Logan raised his phone so you could see the screen. Someone had layered the audio from last night's call over footage of Dean playing against Vermont, making it appear as though he was defending himself while checking an opposing player into the boards.

"It's called 'Dennis Defends His Best Friend,'" Logan explained.

Dean made no attempt to look. "That sounds like copyright infringement."

"The footage belongs to Briar," you said, setting your equipment bag on the bench. "Technically, it's Elaine's problem."

"Everything is Elaine's problem today," Garrett said.

Elaine stepped into the tunnel behind you. "And yet some of you continue working tirelessly to give me more."

Logan lowered his phone.

Her gaze moved across the four of them. "I understand the instructions I gave you were difficult, so I'll repeat them. Nobody says Dennis on camera. Nobody discusses Briar Wire. Nobody attempts to send a message to the host through official athletics content."

Dean looked genuinely puzzled. "Who would do that?"

Elaine pointed toward the ice. "Anyone who is not currently being filmed can begin warming up."

Garrett and Tucker moved immediately. Logan lingered long enough to give Dean an encouraging pat on the shoulder before following them through the gate.

Dean watched him go. "I'm going to hide every left shoe he owns."

Elaine looked at you. "Do not include that in the package."

"I hadn't planned on it."

She left to take another call near the offices while you unpacked the camera and checked the revised shot list.

Garrett went first and gave you exactly what you needed in one take, speaking about the team's preparation for Friday's game with the ease of someone who understood that the fastest way to finish an interview was to answer the question properly.

Tucker's response was shorter but just as usable.

Logan made it through almost the entire answer before his eyes drifted toward Dean and his mouth twitched.

You lowered the camera.

"I didn't say anything," he protested.

"You were about to."

"You don't know that."

"You looked directly at him."

Dean rested a hand against his chest. "Why am I being punished for Logan's inability to behave professionally?"

"Dennis would never blame his friends like this," Logan said.

You pointed toward the ice. "Go."

Logan pushed away from the boards, laughing as he joined Garrett and Tucker.

That left Dean.

You positioned him in front of an empty section of the boards and lifted the camera.

"Whenever you're ready."

He looked directly into the lens. "The team has been working hard this week, and we're looking forward to bringing that energy into Friday's game."

You waited after he finished.

Dean's eyebrows rose. "What?"

"That was normal."

"I'm capable of normal."

"Do it again."

"Why?"

You adjusted the focus. "I didn't like it."

A laugh escaped Elaine from somewhere behind you before she disguised it as a cough. Still speaking into her phone, she continued toward the media offices.

"Get one more take," she called. "Make sure you have everything you need before he gets on the ice."

Dean repeated the statement without adding anything that could be interpreted as a reference to anonymous podcast hosts, fictional friends, or the back entrance of any building on campus.

You recorded a few seconds of him pulling on his gloves before lowering the camera.

From the ice, Logan struck the boards with his stick.

"Great job, Dennis!"

Elaine's voice carried back through the hallway. "Logan!"

"Sorry!"

Dean watched him skate away. "The shoes are only the beginning."

"That sounds like something Dennis would do."

His head turned slowly toward you.

"Et tu?"

"I literally don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not."

You crouched to place the camera inside its bag, giving your hands something to do while Dean remained beside you. He could have joined the others immediately. Instead, he leaned against the boards and watched you secure the lens cap before asking whether you had listened to the episode.

"The entire campus listened," you said. "Although Dennis might want to spend more than three seconds choosing an alias before his next public appearance."

His smile suggested the criticism did not trouble him. "You assume anonymity was the goal."

That made you pause.

Dean explained that calling as himself would have turned every word into an official statement. Athletics would have drafted a response, Elaine would have called him before sunrise, and someone would have found a way to make the entire thing sound far more serious than it was. Dennis, however, was free to argue with an anonymous host without pretending he had consulted a publicist first.

"So he's a loophole."

"He's a private citizen."

You tried not to smile, but Dean caught it anyway.

His attention lingered as you zipped the camera bag. "You like the show."

It was not quite a question.

Pretending otherwise would have sounded ridiculous when half the university listened, but admitting how closely you followed it created an entirely different problem.

"The host can be funny," you conceded. "When she isn't too busy enjoying her own opinion."

"So most of the time."

"She would probably say the same thing about Dennis."

Dean laughed and looked toward the ice, where Garrett was directing the beginning of a drill. Logan kept glancing toward the tunnel, clearly waiting for another chance to make the situation worse.

The humor eased from Dean's expression before he spoke again. He admitted that Wire Girl had done something most people around Briar rarely bothered to do. She had allowed him to answer.

"People hear something about me and decide it fits before they ask whether it happened," he said. "She talks plenty of shit, but when somebody challenged her, she didn't hide behind the recording. She picked up."

Something about the way he said it made the voice from your headphones feel too close to the man standing beside you.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. "So you called to defend yourself."

"At first." His mouth curved faintly. "Then the conversation got interesting."

He offered the admission casually, leaving himself enough room to pretend it meant nothing.

You glanced toward the ice rather than letting him watch you process it. "She sounded irritated."

"She was." Dean did not seem bothered by that. If anything, he looked pleased by the memory. "She also stayed on the line."

The whistle sounded again. Dean pushed away from the boards but paused before stepping through the gate.

"You think she'll answer another call?"

You met his gaze. "That depends on whether the caller gives her something worth answering."

Dean held your eyes for another moment, appearing satisfied with an answer you had not meant to make sound like an invitation.

"Good to know."

He joined the drill, and you told yourself the strange feeling in your chest came from relief that the conversation was over.

Logan skated close enough to say something that made Dean shove him toward the boards. Garrett separated them without interrupting the drill, while Tucker continued as though his teammates trying to injure one another over a fake name was an ordinary part of practice.

You filmed warmups and gathered the remaining footage Elaine requested. By the time you packed your equipment, your stomach had begun reminding you that coffee did not qualify as breakfast.

Mara's message appeared as you left the rink.

We're at the student center. Camden has created another chart. Come save me.

You found them at a table near the windows twenty minutes later. Camden had traded his tablet for his laptop, which somehow made his investigation look even more official.

"No," you said before sitting down.

"I haven't told you what this is."

"You made a timeline."

He angled the screen away. "You don't deserve to see it."

Mara pushed a basket of fries toward your side of the table. "Take these before he starts explaining audio chemistry."

"Audio chemistry isn't a thing."

"That is what I told him."

"It is absolutely a thing," Camden argued. "You can hear attraction."

"You can hear Dean enjoying attention," Mara said. "That is not groundbreaking."

A familiar voice interrupted Camden's response.

"Are you still talking about this?"

Allie stood at the end of the table with Hannah and Grace beside her. She knew Camden through the theatre department well enough to look unsurprised by the collection of screenshots covering his laptop.

"I'm analyzing motive," he told her.

Allie glanced at the screen. "He was flirting. Mystery solved."

Camden sat straighter. "Thank you."

Mara looked between them. "How do you two know each other?"

"He came to one of our rehearsals and spent the entire intermission explaining why the lead's boyfriend was cheating," Allie said.

"He was."

"He was also fictional."

"That does not make me wrong."

Grace laughed as they borrowed chairs from the next table. Hannah sat beside Mara, while Allie positioned herself close enough to Camden's laptop to begin examining his evidence. Grace dropped into the chair across from you.

"Logan says liking the video was an accident."

"He also added it to his story," you reminded her.

"With a caption."

Mara reached for another fry. "What did it say?"

Grace pulled out her phone and read it aloud. "My thoughts are with Dennis during this difficult time."

Camden pressed a hand to his chest. "That is beautiful."

"It is why I took his phone away."

The lunch rush swelled around you, filling the student center with conversation and the scrape of chairs. You had almost convinced yourself the subject might finally change when Beau approached carrying a tray overloaded with food.

He wore sweats and looked as though he had come straight from a morning lift.

"Is this the Dennis support group?"

Camden pointed toward the empty chair beside Allie. "Sit down."

Beau obeyed. "The football group chat has been unusable since seven this morning. Someone put Dean's face on a missing-person poster."

Allie immediately reached for Camden's laptop. "Have you seen this one?"

"Do not encourage him," Mara said.

It was already too late.

Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Dean arrived a few minutes later, showered and changed from practice. Garrett went directly to Hannah, lowering his head to kiss her before taking the chair she had saved. Grace returned Logan's phone only after making him promise not to post anything else. Tucker settled at the end of the table with his lunch, apparently accepting that Dennis would remain the topic no matter where he ate.

Dean stopped when he saw Camden's screen.

"No."

"That's exactly what Elaine said," you told him.

He looked at you, and the recognition that passed through his expression made you abruptly aware that nobody else at the table knew you had spent several minutes discussing Wire Girl with him alone.

Camden turned the laptop around. "I've constructed a timeline."

"Of what?"

"Your descent into obsession."

Dean took the remaining seat across from you. "I called once."

"You stayed on the line for eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds."

Dean stared at him. "Why do you know that?"

"I care about the truth."

Mara stole one of your fries. "He cares about being right. They frequently overlap."

Allie pointed at Dean with one of Beau's fries. "You were flirting."

Dean dismissed the accusation, but Hannah quietly pointed out that he had not sounded particularly angry. Tucker added, without looking up from the ketchup packet he was opening, that Dean had stopped defending his imaginary friend three minutes into the call.

"Did all of you listen with a stopwatch?" Dean asked.

"Camden did," you said.

"I also counted the laughs. Four."

Logan turned toward Dean. "That's more than you laugh at most of our jokes."

"Your jokes aren't funny."

Beau leaned across the table. "Wire Girl's are?"

Dean stole a fry from his tray rather than answer.

"You made me replay the part where she called you emotionally dependent on your own reputation," Beau continued.

The table erupted.

Dean pointed the stolen fry at him. "That is not what happened."

Beau looked delighted. "You said the audio cut out."

"The football facilities have terrible reception."

"We were in the parking lot."

Camden turned toward Mara. "Please note that he requested a replay."

"I'm not your secretary."

"You're the only person here with neat handwriting."

Allie had already started adding something to his timeline.

Mara watched them with growing regret. "We cannot let the two of you become friends."

Dean's gaze eventually returned to you. "You've been quiet."

"I'm eating."

"You had an opinion at the rink."

Everyone's attention shifted toward you.

You hated him a little for that.

Allie's eyes narrowed with immediate interest. "You discussed the call at the rink?"

"He asked whether I listened," you said, keeping your tone even. "Apparently, my answer did not provide enough validation."

Dean objected to that description, but Camden had already started looking between the two of you with the intensity of someone about to open a new document.

Mara reached across and closed his laptop.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Dean looked amused. "Does he always do this?"

"Yes," you, Mara, and Allie answered at once.

Camden looked betrayed by all three of you.

Garrett redirected the conversation by asking Beau about football practice, and the table gradually separated into smaller discussions. Hannah stole pieces of Garrett's lunch while he pretended not to notice. Grace checked Logan's phone twice when he became too interested in something on the screen. Tucker stayed outside the renewed debate, though you caught him shaking his head when Dean quietly asked Beau to send him the missing-person edit.

When everyone began separating for afternoon classes and practices, you returned to the media office with Elaine's package still waiting to be assembled.

She approved the final cut with only two changes. Garrett's quote opened the video, followed by Tucker and Logan over footage from warmups. Dean's painfully normal statement closed it.

No mention of Dennis. No suggestive comments. Nothing that could reasonably become a campus euphemism.

You uploaded the final version shortly after seven and returned home with the pleasant exhaustion that came from accomplishing something nobody could turn into gossip.

The feeling lasted twenty-three minutes.

After changing into an old sweatshirt, you settled at the desk near your bedroom window. The equipment for Briar Wire remained hidden beneath a folded blanket and two storage boxes whenever anyone visited, but tonight you pulled out the microphone and connected the voice filter before opening the submission portal.

Most of the new messages involved Dennis. Several claimed to be him.

One person insisted they had seen Dean practicing his fake name in the library. Another claimed he had been born Dennis and changed it after a traumatic childhood spelling bee.

You moved both into the joke folder.

The next submission did not have a subject line.

You opened it and stopped halfway through the first paragraph.

According to the anonymous sender, Dean had been caught inside the athletics building after midnight with the daughter of one of Briar's largest donors. A security employee had supposedly found them in a restricted corridor near the media offices. The incident had been recorded, but the footage disappeared before university administrators could review it.

Elaine's name appeared in the next paragraph.

The sender claimed she had ordered security to erase the recording to protect Dean and prevent the donor from withdrawing funding from the hockey program. Several players supposedly knew what happened, and an unnamed employee had allegedly been threatened with dismissal for speaking about it.

You reread the submission.

It contained enough details to sound convincing at first glance. There was a date, an entrance, and a specific area of the athletics building.

Then everything began to collapse.

The date listed was the Saturday of the Vermont game. You remembered it because you had spent most of that weekend sorting road footage from a freezing press box while Dean and the rest of the team were several hours away from campus.

The restricted corridor supposedly ran beside the east media suite.

There was no east media suite.

The submission included no photograph, recording, email, or name that could be verified. At the bottom, one final sentence had been written in capital letters.

POST THIS BEFORE ATHLETICS GETS TO YOU.

You clicked the reply option.

Dean was out of state on the date you provided. The location you named does not exist. Send proof or stop submitting allegations through this portal.

The response arrived less than a minute later.

You have the story. Use it.

You stared at the screen.

Most people who submitted gossip wanted attention. They enjoyed the possibility that their story might be featured, even when it involved something ridiculous or harmless.

This person did not want to entertain your listeners.

They wanted your voice attached to an accusation.

You took screenshots of the entire exchange, saved them inside the encrypted Briar Wire folder, and marked the submission as rejected.

Then you messaged Mara.

Someone sent me something weird about Dean. Serious weird, not Dennis weird.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Do you need me to call?

You had just started typing when your phone vibrated with a message from Camden.

Then another.

Then six more in rapid succession.

CAMDEN: Please tell me this is fake.

CAMDEN: Actually don't text. Call me.

CAMDEN: People are saying she deleted it.

CAMDEN: The school paper already reposted the accusation.

Your stomach dropped.

Mara's next messages appeared beneath his.

MARA: That is not your upload.

MARA: Someone used your voice.

MARA: Call me right now.

You opened the link Camden had sent.

The account posting it had copied Briar Wire's black-and-white branding almost perfectly. A fake screen recording showed the podcast logo, an upload time, and a progress bar moving beneath a flickering waveform. Whoever created it had even included a second timestamp that made it appear the audio had been deleted ten minutes later.

Bold lettering stretched across the caption.

DELETED BRIAR WIRE EXCLUSIVE

Below it, the account claimed Wire Girl had removed the segment after Briar Athletics threatened legal action.

You pressed play.

Your disguised voice filled the room.

"According to a source inside Briar Athletics, Dean Di Laurentis was caught after hours with the daughter of a major university donor."

For one disorienting second, your mind refused to understand what you were hearing.

Then you caught the seams.

According to a source came from an episode you recorded three weeks earlier about a stolen campus statue. Inside Briar Athletics had been taken from your coverage of the new training facility. Dean's full name came from last night's episode.

Every word belonged to you.

The sentence did not.

The clip continued assembling the allegation from scraps of old recordings. Static covered the worst transitions, making the uneven rhythm sound like damaged audio rather than something manufactured. Beneath it, someone had added a faint notification sound and the beginning of your usual intro music, details designed to make the recording feel complete.

To anyone listening casually, it was convincing.

The view count climbed by the hundreds while you watched.

Comments appeared too quickly to read. Students demanded that Dean be removed from the team. Others tagged the university president, the athletic director, and every account associated with Briar hockey. Elaine's full name was being posted beside accusations of corruption and deleted security footage.

A student account uploaded photographs of three young women whose fathers had donated to Briar, asking which one had been with Dean.

None of them had anything to do with the story.

Another post claimed Dean had already been suspended from Friday's game. A reply beneath it insisted the hockey team had been ordered not to speak publicly. Someone else claimed Garrett had helped Dean leave the building through a side exit.

The lies were multiplying faster than you could identify them.

You switched to the official athletics account.

The practice video you uploaded less than an hour earlier had been flooded with comments.

WHERE IS THE FOOTAGE?

HOW MUCH DID THE DONOR PAY YOU?

IS DEAN PLAYING FRIDAY?

ELAINE KNEW.

The clean, neutral statement you had worked so hard to get from him now sat beneath hundreds of demands for his suspension.

A breaking-news post from the student paper appeared at the top of your feed.

BRIAR WIRE AUDIO ALLEGES ATHLETICS COVER-UP INVOLVING HOCKEY STAR DEAN DI LAURENTIS.

They had embedded the fake recording.

Your phone began ringing.

Elaine.

You stared at her name until the call ended, unable to decide which version of yourself she was trying to reach. As far as Elaine knew, you were the student employee who had filmed Dean that afternoon. You could tell her the audio contained obvious cuts, but explaining that you knew the exact source of every stolen word would invite questions you could not answer.

She called again.

This time, it went to voicemail.

The notification appeared seconds later, and Elaine's voice came through your speaker, tight and controlled.

"Do not answer anyone from the paper. Do not respond from the athletics account. Call me as soon as you hear this."

Mara was still calling.

Camden had sent another string of messages.

CAMDEN: Wire Girl wouldn't post this without proof.

CAMDEN: At least I didn't think she would.

CAMDEN: They're saying athletics made her delete it.

CAMDEN: What the hell is happening?

That message hurt more than the others.

Camden believed in the podcast more fiercely than almost anyone you knew, and whoever made the recording had already done enough to make him question the person behind it.

A new message appeared inside the submission portal.

The same blank subject line.

You opened it with shaking fingers.

You had your chance.

Before you could respond, the screen refreshed.

Now they'll hear it anyway.

Your pulse hammered against your throat.

This had never been about getting the rumor published somewhere. The sender could have posted the accusation themselves at any time.

They wanted Briar Wire blamed for it.

They wanted your credibility attached to the lie, Elaine accused of burying it, and Dean placed at the center of something ugly enough that denying it would only make him look guilty.

Your phone continued vibrating against the desk. Elaine again. Mara again. A new email from the student paper requesting a statement from Briar Wire. Another from someone claiming to represent one of the donor families now being named online.

Then the call window opened across your computer.

UNKNOWN CALLER.

The words pulsed above the accept button.

You stared at them, unable to know whether the person on the other end was the anonymous submitter, a reporter, a student demanding answers, or someone who had found the number and wanted to threaten you.

The call kept ringing.

You pulled on your headphones, activated the voice filter, and accepted it.

"Briar Wire. You're on."

For the first time since you had heard him speak, Dean did not waste a second pretending to be charming.

"That wasn't you."

The place was silent when Dean opened the door. Not merely quiet, but emptied out, as though he had removed every possible interruption before you arrived. No television downstairs, no music bleeding through the walls, no one shouting from the kitchen.

His eyes found yours, and the expression on his face made the greeting die in your throat.

Dean was usually easy to read because he wanted to be. Every grin was deliberate. Every teasing comment arrived with the expectation that you would give one back. Even when he wanted you, he made a performance out of it, stretching the anticipation until one of you finally lost patience.

Tonight, there was none of that.

He stepped aside to let you in, his gaze moving over you only once before returning to your face.

“You came.”

The words were quiet enough to sound almost like relief.

Something in your chest tightened. “You told me to.”

He closed the door behind you and stood there for a moment, his hand still wrapped around the knob. He looked like he had spent the entire evening preparing for you and had only now realized that preparation had not made him ready.

You tried to smile. “Are you going to tell me why the house looks abandoned?”

Dean did not answer immediately.

His jaw shifted before he finally said, “I didn’t want anyone here.”

The weight of it followed you upstairs.

His bedroom door was already open. At first, nothing seemed different. The bed had been made, which was unusual enough, and the lamp beside it cast a low amber glow across the room.

Then you noticed the dresser.

A blindfold. Soft restraints. The toy you had once admitted you used when you were alone. Your phone stand beside them, still folded shut.

Your breath caught.

Dean stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without being touched.

“You planned this.”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

He exhaled through his nose, and you heard the restraint in it. “Since you gave me the list.”

That had been three weeks ago.

You had slipped it into his hand after sex because giving it to him while neither of you was fully dressed had seemed easier than having a real conversation about it. You had expected him to make some obnoxious comment, maybe circle one of your answers and send it back with a joke written in the margin.

Instead, he had folded it once and put it inside his nightstand.

He had barely mentioned it since.

“You acted like you forgot about it.”

“I was trying not to scare you off.”

You turned then.

Dean stood closer than you expected, but his hands remained at his sides. His gaze moved over your face as though he was searching for the first sign that you regretted coming.

It was the hesitation that unsettled you most. Not because he seemed uncertain about what he wanted, but because he cared too much about whether you wanted it too.

“You wouldn’t scare me off,” you said.

His mouth tightened faintly. “You say that now.”

The answer carried more than the night in front of you. It held every time one of you had left before morning, every conversation you had refused to have, every moment when the arrangement had started feeling like something neither of you knew how to name.

You looked back at the dresser. “Is this why you told me not to make plans tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“So I’m staying?”

Dean went still.

It was barely a pause, but you felt it.

“That depends on what you want.”

There it was again. The rule sitting between you, suddenly much more fragile than it had been downstairs.

You turned fully toward him. “What do you want?”

His eyes lowered to your mouth before lifting again.

“For once, I don’t want you watching the clock.”

The honesty of it struck harder than anything filthy he could have said.

Dean stepped forward, stopping when only an inch remained between you. He still did not touch you.

“I’ve spent three weeks thinking about this,” he said. “Not just what you checked yes to. Not the camera or the restraints or any of that.”

His voice dropped, roughened by something that had nothing to do with control.

“You handed me a list of everything you wanted and trusted me not to make you regret it.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean looked away for half a second, gathering himself before his attention returned to you.

“I need to know you’re still sure.”

You reached for him first, curling your fingers into the front of his shirt. The contact seemed to undo something in him. His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, the last of the distance between you felt unbearable.

“I’m sure.”

His hand rose to your face, but instead of grabbing your jaw or pulling you into him, he brushed his thumb across your cheek.

The tenderness of it nearly frightened you more than everything waiting on the dresser.

“We go through the list again,” he murmured. “Every limit. Every word. You tell me what you want recorded and what stays between us.”

You nodded.

“And if you change your mind at any point, you tell me.”

“I will.”

His forehead lowered against yours. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Dean’s hand slid around the back of your neck, his fingers tightening just enough to change your breathing.

He kissed you, and whatever restraint had kept him still until then disappeared.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing already uneven.

“Take it off.”

The command was low, but when your hands moved toward the hem of your shirt, Dean caught them before you could lift it.

His eyes stayed on yours as he pushed the fabric upward himself. You raised your arms, letting him drag it over your head before it landed somewhere behind him. His gaze dropped to your bra, lingering long enough that your skin heated beneath the attention.

Dean reached around you and opened the clasp. He did not rush as he drew the straps down your arms, watching every inch of skin revealed until the fabric slipped from your fingers.

You reached for his shirt, but he caught your wrist.

“Not yet.”

There was no smile accompanying the words. He looked too affected to tease you, too focused on taking you apart exactly the way he had imagined.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans. He opened them, then lowered himself as he pushed the denim down your legs. You stepped out one foot at a time, steadying yourself with a hand on his shoulder while he removed your shoes and socks before pulling the jeans away completely.

Only your underwear remained.

Dean stayed on his knees in front of you, his hands resting against your thighs as he looked up.

The intensity in his expression made you resist the instinct to cover yourself. His fingers hooked beneath the fabric at your hips and slowly drew it down, his mouth brushing the inside of your knee once you stepped free.

When he stood, you were completely bare while he remained fully dressed.

The imbalance made your pulse jump.

Dean guided you backward until the mattress pressed against the backs of your legs. He kissed you once, hard and brief, before urging you down onto the bed.

The soft restraints were waiting near the headboard.

He lifted one of your wrists and secured it above you, checking the space beneath the rope before fastening the other. His fingers lingered against your pulse, the touch quieter than everything else about the moment.

Then he moved to the foot of the bed.

Dean spread your legs and tied each ankle to the lower posts, leaving you open beneath him. The restraints held you firmly without biting into your skin. He checked every knot twice, running his hands along your calves and thighs afterward as though he needed to reassure himself that nothing would hurt you.

When he climbed onto the mattress again, he straddled your hips without removing his clothes.

His mouth closed around one nipple while his palm covered the other. He sucked slowly at first, then bit down just hard enough to pull a sharp breath from you. Your back lifted from the mattress, the restraints drawing taut above your head.

Dean’s hand slid between your legs.

His fingers parted you, moving through the wetness already gathered there before finding your clit. He rubbed slow circles over it while his tongue moved across your breast, drawing out every small sound until you stopped trying to contain them.

Two fingers pressed inside you.

The sudden stretch made you clench around him, and the reaction pulled a rough breath from his chest. He began moving them steadily, curling forward with each stroke while his thumb returned to your clit.

Your hips tried to follow his hand.

Dean raised his head, his mouth damp and his eyes fixed on your face.

“Already this wet.”

The words sounded more strained than pleased, as though the evidence of how much you wanted him had cut through the control he was trying to hold.

He withdrew his fingers and brought them to your mouth.

“Open.”

You obeyed, closing your lips around them and tasting yourself as Dean watched. His jaw tightened when your tongue moved over his skin.

“Good girl.”

He pulled his hand away and climbed from the bed.

Your eyes followed him as he took your phone from the dresser and secured it in the stand at the foot of the mattress. He checked the framing once, making sure neither face would appear, then started the recording.

The small red light came on.

“Everything stays on this phone,” he reminded you, his attention returning to the bed. “But I want you to hear what you sound like when you stop pretending you don’t need this.”

Dean finally removed his clothes.

He dragged his shirt over his head, then opened his jeans and pushed them down with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard, the tip slick as he stepped out of the rest of his clothing and returned to the bed.

He settled between your spread thighs.

His mouth moved along the inside of one leg, then the other, leaving kisses and shallow bites that darkened against your skin. He stopped just short of where you wanted him and looked up at you, watching the frustration cross your face.

Then his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance to your clit.

Your wrists pulled against the restraints.

Dean repeated the motion, flatter and firmer this time, before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves. He sucked while sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them with every thrust.

Your thighs trembled against the ropes.

The pressure built quickly, your breathing turning shallow as your walls began tightening around his fingers.

Dean stopped.

His mouth lifted away. His fingers withdrew, leaving you empty and throbbing while he watched your body react to the loss.

You stared down at him in disbelief.

He pressed a kiss against your inner thigh.

The second time, he worked you more slowly. His tongue circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, drawing the pleasure out until every muscle in your body tightened in anticipation.

Then he stopped again.

A helpless sound escaped you.

Dean blew softly over your wet skin, the cool air making you jerk against the restraints.

He did it a third time, then a fourth, learning exactly how close he could bring you before withdrawing. Sometimes he moved his mouth away. Sometimes he left his fingers inside you but held them still until the pleasure began to recede. Once, he simply watched your clit pulse while you begged him to touch you again.

“Please,” you gasped.

Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not yet.”

He reached into the nightstand and removed the small vibrator you had told him about when you filled out the list.

The sight of it made your stomach tighten.

Dean switched it on at the lowest setting and pressed it against the inside of your thigh first. The vibration travelled through your skin, close enough to torment you without giving you what you needed.

“Dean.”

His eyes lifted to yours as he moved the toy to your clit.

The sudden sensation made your back arch from the mattress. Dean pushed three fingers inside you, working them against you while holding the vibrator firmly in place.

Your orgasm rose fast, sharper after everything he had already denied you. Your body tensed, breath breaking as you reached the edge.

Dean switched the toy off.

His fingers slid out of you at the same time.

A frustrated sob left your throat.

He kissed one thigh, then the other, leaving a darker mark behind with his teeth.

“You wanted me to make you beg.”

The vibrator came back on, higher this time.

Dean pressed it to your clit while lowering his mouth to your entrance. His tongue pushed inside you, then drew back, tracing around the sensitive opening while the vibration spread through your body.

He denied you again.

Then again.

By the time he stopped for the final time, your legs were shaking against the restraints and tears had begun gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Dean, please.” Your voice cracked around his name. “Please let me come.”

He set the vibrator beside you and climbed up your body.

Dean released one of your wrists, bringing your hand down between you. His fingers closed around yours as he wrapped them around his cock.

You stroked him while he kissed you, tasting yourself on his mouth. His hips moved into your hand despite his attempt to remain still, the control in him slipping every time your thumb passed over the head.

His fingers returned between your legs.

He pushed two inside you and moved them hard enough that wetness spread across his hand and the sheets beneath you.

“You feel how badly you need it?”

You nodded against his mouth.

Dean caught your lower lip between his teeth.

“Say it.”

“I need it.”

The answer seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, rougher now, before pulling his fingers free and releasing the restraint around your other wrist. He rubbed both wrists briefly, checking the skin before securing them together again above your head.

Then he untied your ankles.

Dean turned you onto your stomach and guided your knees beneath you, lifting your hips while your chest remained pressed to the mattress. Your bound hands stayed stretched above your head.

The camera at the foot of the bed captured the position perfectly.

Dean knelt behind you and spread your knees farther apart. His palm moved over your ass, then between your legs, gathering the wetness that coated your thighs.

The head of his cock dragged through your folds.

You pushed backward instinctively.

His hand tightened around your hip.

“Look how desperate you are.”

He rubbed himself against your clit once, then again, coating his cock in your wetness before lining himself up with your entrance.

Dean pushed inside slowly.

The stretch pulled a deep moan from you as he filled you inch by inch, his hands gripping your hips until he was seated completely inside you.

He remained still for a moment.

You could feel his chest rising behind you, hear the effort in every breath as your body tightened around him.

Then he began to move.

His first strokes were long and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back inside. One hand stayed anchored at your hip while the other reached beneath you and found your clit.

Your moans grew louder with each thrust.

Dean watched the camera screen only once, his attention immediately returning to the way your body moved beneath him.

Every time your walls began clenching around his cock, he slowed.

Once, he stopped completely, buried deep while his fingers continued circling your clit just enough to keep you suspended. Another time, he pulled out and slapped the length of his cock against your swollen clit, making you cry out before he pushed inside again.

His hips snapped harder against you.

“You think about me every time you touch yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The answer came out broken.

Dean cursed beneath his breath.

His hand slid from your hip to your hair, wrapping around it and drawing your head back enough to arch your spine. The angle drove him deeper, every thrust dragging over the place that made your thighs shake. His fingers moved faster over your clit.

“Look at you now. Tied to my bed, begging me to let you come.”

The pleasure became almost unbearable.

Your body started tightening again, but Dean changed his rhythm before you could fall over the edge, slowing his hips while keeping himself buried inside you.

You whimpered into the sheets.

He released your hair and leaned over you, his mouth brushing your shoulder.

“Not until I’m ready.”

Dean pulled out.

Your body clenched around nothing, wetness sliding down your thighs as he untied your wrists. He brought each one to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the faint marks before helping you turn onto your back.

For a moment, he only looked at you.

His hair was disordered, his chest damp with sweat, and whatever polished confidence he usually carried had disappeared. He looked hungry, but there was something else beneath it, something almost shaken by the sight of you spread across his bed and trusting him with every private thing you had written down.

Dean moved toward the headboard and sat back against it.

He guided you onto your knees between his legs.

Your hand wrapped around his cock again, stroking him as you lowered your mouth over the head. His breath left him sharply.

Dean’s fingers threaded into your hair, not forcing you deeper, only holding on as you took more of him. You worked him with your mouth and hand together, listening to the control break in his voice every time he said your name.

He watched you the entire time.

When his hips began lifting toward your mouth, Dean caught himself and pulled you away.

His thumb wiped the wetness from your lower lip.

“Come here.”

He drew you back onto the mattress and settled between your legs again.

Dean lifted both of your wrists above your head, pinning them against the pillows with one hand while the other guided his cock to your entrance.

He pushed inside your still-sensitive body in one deep thrust.

The sound that left you made his grip tighten.

His hips moved harder now, the controlled pace from earlier gone. Every thrust drove you higher across the bed while his free hand returned to your clit.

“You wanted to come so badly.”

His forehead lowered against yours.

“Now you’re going to take it.”

The orgasm tore through you almost immediately.

Your body locked beneath him, walls pulsing around his cock while your cry filled the room. Dean did not look toward the camera. He watched your face, breathing your name against your mouth as he worked you through every wave.

He kept moving after the first tremors began to fade.

The overstimulation struck quickly, pleasure sharpening until your thighs shook around his hips. Dean’s fingers never left your clit, the circles growing faster while his thrusts stayed deep and relentless.

You tried to twist away from the intensity.

His hand held your wrists in place.

“Don’t hide from me.”

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes.

Dean kissed them away without slowing.

The tenderness of the gesture made the second orgasm hit harder than the first. It was smaller but sharper, ripping through your already-sensitive body until your voice broke completely.

Dean stayed inside you, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against yours while your body continued clenching around him.

Dean stayed inside you, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressed against yours while your body continued clenching around him.

“Don’t make me fall in love with you,” he breathed, the words rough enough to sound almost like a warning.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. There was no joke waiting to take it back, no rule strong enough to make either of you pretend he had not said it.