Doc

however, being a brat to logan has no effect on him at all. he’s got inexplicable amounts of love for you, beyond understanding. he wouldn’t be able to take your brattiness to heart. 

“got us some tea,” he places both mugs on his nightstand before slipping under the duvet. “your favourite.”

he notices the cute scowl on your face when he bows over your head to kiss your forehead. you have a tendency for dramatics when you just woke up from a nap. “what’s wrong, baby?”

you turn your face toward logan, the little dip in your forehead, the corners of your mouth slightly turned down. he knows exactly that a little softness and sweetness can turn your frown upside down.

“why did you leave me alone?” you grumble out while pressing your face into his side, the fresh laundry-smell wafting off of his hoodie and filling your nostrils. “don’t like it when you leave.”

your soft face glued to him makes logan melt. “d’awhh,” he laughs, soothingly carding his fingers through your hair. “i’m sorry, my baby. didn’t mean to upset you.”

“i mean— do you even love me?”

logan freezes. “oh honey, don’t say those things,” he says, pulling your body in his hold as he readjusts the duvet over your bodies. “don’t break my heart.”

you cast your eyes down. partly out of embarrassment, partly because you get jittery with logan so close to you. “you know i love you, baby.” logan says softly.

he kisses your lips once. he waits patiently until you're able to look at him, cheek resting in the column of his neck as you make yourself comfortable in his warm embrace.

“now, will you drink your tea with me?”

you do. you two end up watching your tv series in bed with burning fingertips. you lean against logan’s bicep as you sip your hot drink, sleep ready to take you under again.

Garrett Graham stood near the marble bar of the sprawling rooftop terrace, nursing a whiskey that had gone lukewarm in his grip. The NHL’s annual charity gala, hosted this year at a waterfront estate owned by one of the league’s biggest benefactors, hummed around him with crystal clinking, low laughter, and the occasional flash of cameras from the press still lingering near the main ballroom. Tuxedos and gowns glittered under strings of warm lights woven through the pergola, but none of it held his attention.

Not when she was standing twenty feet away in that dress.

The cream satin clung to every curve like it had been poured over her skin. The halter neckline plunged so deep between her breasts that Garrett’s mouth went dry just looking at it, the fabric draping and twisting around her waist before falling in liquid folds to the floor. A high slit sliced up one thigh, flashing smooth leg with every subtle shift of her weight. Her hair was swept up into a soft, elegant knot that left the long line of her neck bare, a few loose strands brushing her shoulders. Gold bangles caught the light on her wrist as she lifted a champagne flute to her lips.

Fuck.

He’d seen her get ready earlier in their hotel suite, but seeing her here, under the night sky, surrounded by tuxedoed teammates, sponsors, and WAGs, hit different. She looked like sin wrapped in silk. He wasn’t supposed to touch her in public but his mind decided to go to forbidden places, desperately wanted to ruin her.

Garrett’s eyes tracked the way the dress moved when she turned slightly to greet someone, the deep V shifting just enough to reveal the inner swell of her breast. His cock twitched against the zipper of his tailored pants. He adjusted his stance, trying to play it cool, but his gaze kept dragging back to her. The way the satin hugged her ass. The bare expanse of her back he knew was completely exposed. That slit that kept teasing him with the promise of easy access if he could just get his hands under it.

She caught him staring after a while. Her eyes met his across the terrace, and a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She tilted her head just slightly, the movement drawing his attention straight back to the plunging neckline. Heat flared low in his gut. Garrett didn’t smile back, he couldn’t. He was too busy imagining shoving that expensive fabric up around her waist and burying himself inside her.

She excused herself from the conversation with graceful ease and started toward him, hips swaying, the slit flashing with every step. The soft click of her heels on the stone tiles cut through the party noise like a siren call. When she reached him, she leaned in just enough that he caught the scent of her perfume, something expensive he bought her that made him want to bury his face in her neck.

“See something you like, hot shot?” she murmured, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Garrett’s hand flexed at his side, fighting the urge to grab her right there. His voice came out rough. “You’re killing me in that dress.”

Her smile widened, wicked. She glanced around at the glittering crowd, then back at him, eyes dark with the same hunger he felt. “Then maybe we should find somewhere a little more private before you do something reckless in front of all these cameras.”

Garrett’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, tracing the deep V of the dress again. His mind was already racing… coat check room off the main hall, the empty executive office he’d passed earlier on the second floor, or that shadowed corner of the massive wraparound balcony where the lights didn’t quite reach and the hedges gave just enough cover.

He set his whiskey down with a decisive clink. “Lead the way, baby.” His hand brushed the small of her bare back, thumb stroking along her spine. “Before I drag you into the nearest dark corner and fuck you in front of the entire league.”

His hand stayed glued to the small of her back as they slipped away from the main terrace, his palm burning against her bare skin. The silk of her dress was cool under his fingers, but the heat radiating from her body made his blood run hotter. Every step she took sent the high slit flashing open, revealing the smooth line of her thigh, and it was taking every ounce of his self-control not to push her against the nearest pillar and kiss her senseless.

They moved through the crowd with practiced casualness, nodding at a few teammates, avoiding eye contact with Rozanov who always seemed to know when Garrett was up to something, smiling politely at a sponsor’s wife, while the tension between them crackled like static. The moment they cleared the main gathering and stepped onto the quieter upper balcony walkway, Garrett couldn’t wait any longer.

He tugged her gently toward a shadowed alcove framed by tall potted hedges and dim string lights, turning her to face him. His free hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip as he leaned in, hungry for her mouth.

She turned her head at the last second, his lips catching only the soft skin of her cheek. “Not yet, Graham,” she whispered, a teasing lilt in her voice that made his cock throb.

Garrett let out a low, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping to rest against her temple. “Baby… you’re torturing me.” His hand slid down her neck, fingers tracing the delicate chain of her earring before drifting lower, skimming the edge of that sinful plunge in her dress. “I’ve been hard since the second I saw you in this thing.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and affectionate, but she still pulled back just enough to deny him. Her fingers curled into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, holding him close but keeping that maddening inch of distance. “You’ve never been good at patience. This is my way of teaching you.”

He tried again as they continued walking, ducking deeper into the semi-private stretch of the balcony where the party noise faded into a distant hum and the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. This time he caught her wrist, spinning her toward him beside a wide marble column. He dipped his head fast, aiming for her lips, desperate to taste her.

She tilted her chin up at the perfect angle so his mouth landed on the corner of hers instead. Her breath ghosted warm across his lips as she murmured, “Oh, my my. Just wait one more second!”

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough with need. He pressed his body closer anyway, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him through his pants. One arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the satin of her dress sliding deliciously against his suit. “I need you. Need to kiss you properly. Need to feel that pretty mouth while I…”

She placed two fingers over his lips, eyes sparkling with mischief and heat. The gold bangles on her wrist chimed softly. “Shh. You’ll get what you want when we’re somewhere no one can interrupt us.” Her voice dropped, softer, more intimate. “I’ve been thinking about you all night too, you know. How good you look in that tux. How much I want your hands on me.”

The words hit him like a spark to gasoline. Garrett’s grip tightened on her hips, and he tried one more time, backing her gently against the column, crowding her with his taller frame as he leaned in slow and deliberate.

This time she let him get close enough that their lips brushed, a ghost of a kiss that made his heart slam against his ribs… before she turned her face again, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to his jaw instead, right below his ear. “Almost there,” she promised, her voice husky now, the teasing edge melting into something sweeter, more loving. Her hand slid down his chest, nails lightly scraping over the fabric. “I want you just as badly. But I want you all to myself.”

Garrett exhaled shakily, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in. The affection in her tone, the way she was drawing this out, it only made the hunger sharper. He was completely gone for her. Not just the dress, not just the body underneath it, but her. The way she could unravel him with a look and a few teasing words.

“Next corner,” he growled against her skin, already steering them further down the secluded balcony path toward a small service alcove he’d noticed earlier, one with a heavy door that looked like it led to a private storage or coat room. “And if you deflect again, I swear I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

She laughed, low and delighted, threading her fingers through his as they moved. The promise in her eyes told him she was every bit as wound up as he was.

Garrett’s pulse hammered in his ears as he finally pushed open the heavy wooden door to the small private coat room off the upper balcony. It was dimly lit by a single wall sconce, lined with hanging garments and shelves of linens. Quiet, secluded, and blissfully empty. The second the door clicked shut behind them, he turned the lock with a decisive twist.

No more teasing. No more deflections.

He spun her toward him, backing her against the nearest wall between two rows of hanging coats. His hands framed her face this time, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as he finally, finally, captured her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. She melted into it with a soft moan that went straight to his cock, her fingers twisting into his tuxedo jacket as if she’d been waiting for this just as badly.

When he pulled back for air, his forehead rested against hers. “God, look at you,” he whispered, voice wrecked with awe. “You’re unreal in this dress.”

His hands slid down slowly, reverently, mapping every inch of her. He traced the delicate straps of the halter neck, then followed the plunging neckline with his fingertips, dipping into the warm valley between her breasts. The satin felt like liquid under his palms. He dipped his head and pressed open-mouthed kisses along the exposed skin, tasting her, breathing her in.

“You wore this knowing exactly what it would do to me, didn’t you?” he murmured against her collarbone, nipping gently before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Killing me all night. Every time you moved, that slit…” His hand dropped to her thigh, sliding up through the high cut of the dress until he was gripping bare skin, pushing the fabric aside.

She shivered under his touch, and it only made him more desperate to worship her properly.

Garrett sank to one knee in front of her like she was something sacred. His large hands smoothed up both of her legs, pushing the heavy satin higher and higher until the dress pooled around her waist. He pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, then trailed slow, deliberate kisses upward along her inner thigh, savoring the way her breath hitched.

“Fuck, baby… you’re perfect,” he groaned, voice thick with reverence. He looked up at her, eyes dark and adoring, as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder. “This dress should be illegal. The way it hugs you right here…” He kissed the crease where her thigh met her hip, then higher, nuzzling against the lace of her panties. “I’ve been thinking about this all night. About tasting you while you’re still wearing it.”

He didn’t rush. He worshipped her with slow, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric, then pulling it aside so he could drag his tongue along her folds in one long, reverent stroke. A low, satisfied sound rumbled from his chest as he savored her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady while he devoured her with patient, devoted focus: licking, sucking, circling her clit like he had all the time in the world, like nothing else existed except making her feel good.

Every soft gasp and whimper from her lips fueled him. He pulled back just enough to look up at her again, lips glistening, eyes burning with pure adoration. “I can’t get enough of you,” he breathed, pressing a tender kiss to her mound before diving back in. One hand slid up her body, palming her breast through the thin satin, thumb brushing over her hardened nipple. “So beautiful. So fucking mine.”

He could feel her trembling, her fingers threading into his hair, and it only made him more intent. He worshipped every inch, the soft skin of her thighs, the curve of her hips, the way the dress still clung to her waist like it was painted on. When she came undone with a broken moan, he held her through it, murmuring praises against her skin.

“That’s it, baby… let me hear you. So good for me.”

Garrett stayed on his knee like a man at prayer, eyes locked on her as he slowly pushed the cream satin higher up her hips until it bunched messily around her waist. The contrast of the elegant dress hiked up so indecently only made her look hotter. He ran his palms up the backs of her thighs, feeling the fine tremor already running through her muscles.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I’ve got you.”

He hooked her right leg over his shoulder, opening her to him once more, then leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue in one long, slow lick from her entrance up to her clit. Her sharp inhale and the way her fingers instantly tightened in his hair sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

He did it again, slower this time, savoring her taste, letting his tongue press firmer against her folds. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily. A soft, needy sound escaped her throat, half moan, half whimper, and Garrett groaned against her in response, the vibration making her thighs clench around his head.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. He alternated between broad, languid strokes of his tongue and teasing flicks right over her clit, learning exactly what made her breath hitch and her knees weaken. When her breathing grew ragged, he sealed his lips around her clit and sucked gently, then harder, flicking his tongue at the same time.

Her free hand flew to the wall behind her for balance, nails scraping against the paint. “Garrett… oh god…” Her voice cracked, thighs starting to shake around his ears. He could feel the tension coiling in her body, her hips rolling helplessly against his mouth as she chased the pleasure.

He didn’t let up. One of his big hands slid up to grip her ass, kneading the soft flesh and pulling her even closer while the other slipped between her legs. He teased her entrance with two thick fingers, circling, pressing just inside before sliding them deep in one smooth thrust. Her back arched hard off the wall, a broken moan spilling from her lips. The sound went straight to his groin, making his cock leak against the front of his tuxedo pants. He curled his fingers, searching for that spot inside her while his mouth stayed devoted to her clit. Sucking, licking, humming praises against her slick heat.

“Yes, G, right there,” she gasped, her grip in his hair bordering on painful now. Her hips were grinding against his face, chasing every stroke of his tongue and thrust of his fingers. He could feel her walls fluttering around his fingers, slick and hot and getting wetter by the second. Her breathing came in short, desperate pants, little whimpers escaping with every exhale.

Garrett looked up at her without stopping, eyes dark with lust and adoration. The sight of her, head tipped back, lips parted, chest heaving, that sinful dress still clinging to her breasts while the rest was shoved up around her waist, was almost enough to make him come untouched.

He doubled down, sucking her clit harder, fucking her steadily with his fingers, curling them with every thrust. Her thighs started trembling violently around his head. Her moans grew louder, less controlled, echoing softly in the small coat room.

“Garrett…fuck, fuck, I’m gonna…”

He growled against her, the sound vibrating through her core, and that was all it took. Her entire body seized, back bowing sharply as her orgasm crashed over her. Her walls clamped down rhythmically around his fingers, pulsing hard while she cried out his name in a broken, breathy moan. Her hips jerked against his mouth in erratic little thrusts as wave after wave rolled through her, thighs squeezing his head tight enough that he could barely hear anything except the pounding of his own heart and her desperate sounds.

He worked her through it, slowing but not stopping, gentle licks and soft thrusts of his fingers, drawing out every last tremor until she was whimpering, oversensitive, and weakly pushing at his head. Only then did Garrett ease her leg down and rise to his feet, kissing his way up her body as he went. His mouth was slick with her, chin glistening, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her steady as her legs trembled beneath her.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, voice full of raw emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come for me,” he whispered, thumb stroking her flushed cheek. “I could do that all night.”

She let out a soft, breathless laugh that turned into a needy whimper, her body still pulsing with aftershocks. Her hands framed his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as she stared straight into his eyes, her gaze dark and shining with love and raw desire. “I need you inside me, Garrett,” she whispered, voice trembling with urgency. “I want to feel you stretching me open. Please, baby, I’m so wet for you.”

Her fingers were already working open his belt and pants with impatient tugs. The second his thick, heavy cock sprang free, she wrapped her hand around the hot length, stroking him root to tip in firm, needy pulls. Garrett hissed through his teeth, hips jerking forward into her grip.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, but she was already guiding him, rising onto her toes and rubbing the swollen head of his cock through her soaked folds.

She was drenched, slick and dripping from his mouth and her orgasm, coating him instantly. She teased the head against her swollen clit, moaning softly at the contact, before lining him up at her entrance. “Inside me,” she begged, eyes locked on his. “I need to feel every inch of you filling me up while I’m still in this dress.”

Garrett gripped her hips, and with one powerful thrust he sank deep inside her in a single stroke, burying himself to the hilt. A guttural moan tore from his throat at the same time she cried out, her walls clenching tight and fluttering around his thick cock.

“Oh god… yes,” she gasped, her head falling back against the wall for a heartbeat before she forced her eyes back to his. “You’re so deep… I can feel you everywhere.” Her inner muscles squeezed him deliberately, rippling along his length as she adjusted to the stretch.

She pulled him into a messy, desperate kiss, tongues sliding hotly as she rolled her hips forward, fucking herself on his cock. Her hands roamed everywhere, tangling in his hair, clawing at his shoulders through his shirt, sliding down to grip his ass and pull him even deeper. “I love you,” she breathed against his lips between kisses, voice breaking on a moan as he started thrusting. “I love how you feel inside me. How you look at me like I’m yours.”

Garrett’s grip tightened on her hips, driving into her with slow, powerful strokes that made the satin of her dress bunch and slide between them. Every thrust pushed her back against the wall, the wet, filthy sound of her soaked pussy taking his cock echoing in the small coat room. “You are mine,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers again so they could share every breath. “All fucking mine. This tight, perfect pussy… wrapped around me like you were made for my cock.”

She whimpered at his words, clenching harder around him. One leg hooked higher around his waist, opening herself more as she met every thrust with eager rolls of her hips. Her hand slipped between them, fingers spreading herself wider so her clit ground against his pelvis with every deep stroke. “Harder, Garrett,” she moaned, eyes glassy with pleasure but never leaving his. “I want to feel you tomorrow.”

The emotional intensity between them crackled, raw love mixed with pure lust. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she kissed him like she needed him to breathe. Garrett fucked her deeper, grinding against her clit on every thrust, one hand sliding up to cup her breast through the plunging neckline, thumb teasing her stiff nipple. “I love you so fucking much,” he growled against her mouth. “You’re everything.”

She came again with a sharp cry, her walls spasming and milking his cock in rhythmic pulses, soaking him as her whole body shook in his arms. She kept her eyes on his the entire time, lips parted, moaning his name like a prayer while she rode out every wave.

Garrett held her through it, slowing just enough to savor the way she clenched and fluttered around him, kissing her tenderly even as his hips kept moving.

When she finally came down, still trembling and clinging to him, she smiled against his lips, voice soft and full of love. “Don’t stop, G… I want you to come inside me.”

A low, guttural groan tore from his chest. He gripped her hips harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drove into her with long, powerful strokes. The wet, obscene sound of her soaked pussy taking every thick inch of his cock filled the small coat room. “Fuck, baby,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” she moaned, eyes locked on his, completely open and vulnerable. She hooked one leg higher around his waist, opening herself even more as she met his thrusts with eager rolls of her hips. “I want to feel you come deep inside me. Want to be dripping with you while I’m still wearing this dress.”

Garrett’s rhythm faltered for a second at her filthy, loving words, then he fucked her harder, slamming against that perfect spot inside her with every thrust. The plunging neckline of her cream satin dress had slipped slightly, one breast nearly spilling out. He leaned down and captured her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he pounded into her.

She cried out, back arching, nails raking down his back through his half-open shirt. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically around his cock, milking him, pulling him impossibly deeper. “I love you,” she gasped between moans, one hand tangled tightly in his hair while the other gripped his ass, urging him on. “I love feeling you lose control inside me. Give it to me, G.”

He released her nipple with a wet pop and straightened so he could watch her face. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling as he fucked her with everything he had. The satin of her dress bunched around her waist rubbed against his skin with every thrust. Her pussy was so wet it was dripping down his balls, coating him completely.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, voice thick with emotion. “This perfect pussy is mine. I’m gonna fill you until you’re leaking my cum down your thighs for the rest of the night.”

Her eyes fluttered but stayed on his, glassy with overwhelming pleasure. “Yes, yours. All yours. Please, G… I need it.”

The coil at the base of his spine tightened unbearably. Garrett’s thrusts grew erratic, harder, chasing his release while still grinding against her clit every time he bottomed out. He could feel her getting close again, her walls fluttering wildly around his cock. “Come with me,” he demanded, voice breaking. “Want to feel you coming while I fill you up.”

She shattered first, her entire body seizing as a sharp, breathless cry of his name tore from her throat. Her pussy clamped down on him like a vice, pulsing and gushing around his cock in powerful waves.

The sensation pushed Garrett over the edge.

With a deep, broken groan, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard. Thick, hot spurts of cum flooded her pussy, pulse after pulse as he kept grinding into her, emptying himself completely. The pleasure was blinding, his hips jerking with every aftershock while she clung to him, moaning softly as she took everything he gave her.

They stayed locked together, foreheads pressed tight, breathing each other in as the intensity slowly ebbed. Garrett’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close while soft tremors still ran through both of them.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, voice raw and reverent. “So fucking much.”

A sharp knock on the door made them both freeze.

“Graham!” A familiar voice with a thick Russian accent called through the wood, sounding far too amused. “I know you are in there, you horny bastard. Whole party is missing the golden boy.” Garrett cursed under his breath, instinctively pressing closer to her as if he could shield her from the interruption. Another knock, followed by a low chuckle. “Come on, man. I can hear you breathing like bull. Did you at least last more than two minutes this time?”

Ilya Rozanov. Of course.

She bit her lip to stifle a laugh, eyes sparkling with mischief even as her cheeks burned darker. Garrett pressed a quick, possessive kiss to her lips before reluctantly easing out of her. He helped smooth the cream satin back down her thighs as best he could, though the dress was now deliciously rumpled and there was no hiding the flush on her skin or the way she was still glowing.

“Rozanov, fuck off,” Garrett growled toward the door, voice still rough.

Ilya’s laugh was loud and unrepentant. “Is that any way to speak to your captain? You’re lucky I find you. They want photos, big sponsors, all that boring crap. And you are hiding in the coat closet like a teenager with his girlfriend. Very classy, Graham. Very romantic.”

Garrett zipped himself up and adjusted his tuxedo jacket, running a hand through his messy hair while shooting her an apologetic but heated look. She stepped closer, fixing his bowtie with gentle fingers, her touch lingering.

Ilya banged on the door again, clearly enjoying himself. “You have thirty seconds before I open door and see things I cannot unsee. Unless you want me to tell everyone you are too busy fucking your beautiful woman in the coat room to do your job. I do not mind. Very funny.”

“Give us a minute, asshole!” Garrett called back.

A dramatic sigh from the other side. “One minute. Then I am dragging you out by your dick if I have to. And fix your hair.”

Garrett groaned, pressing one last deep kiss to her lips, his hand cupping her jaw tenderly. “I’ll find you as soon as this is over,” he promised, voice low and full of heat. “We’re not done tonight.”

She smiled, still a little breathless, and whispered, “Good. Because I can already feel you dripping down my thighs.”

Garrett nearly groaned again. He stole one more kiss before reluctantly stepping back. “Roz, you Russian prick, I’m coming,” he muttered, unlocking the door.

Everyone knew you were protected. Maybe a little too protected.

Growing up around hockey players meant you’d basically collected a handful of older brothers you never asked for. Everything—every rumor, every late-night ride home, every questionable decision you almost made—somehow circled back to Coach Jensen.

It was endearing to some people. Reassuring, even.

To you, it felt like a cage.

You were in college now. You were supposed to be figuring things out, making mistakes, having stories that didn’t end with your father being notified. Instead, you were still showing up to hockey practices like it was part of your degree.

Technically, it was. According to your dad, anyway.

“Assistant duties,” he called it. Which mostly meant water bottles, equipment runs, and standing around freezing in the rink while a group of overly confident guys pretended they weren’t trying to show off.

You didn’t even like hockey. It was loud, aggressive, and far too comfortable with chaos. But you still showed up. Every time.

Because you didn’t really get a choice.

“Hey, Coach Jr.”

The nickname pulled you out of your thoughts. You were sitting along the side boards, legs tucked in close as practice wrapped up on the ice below. Dean leant over the railing like he owned the place, already smirking before he even finished speaking.

“Could you be a good girl and grab me some electrolytes?”

The words weren’t even finished before an elbow hit his side.

Hard.

“Jesus,” Dean hissed, straightening up.

Garrett Graham stood beside him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Dean like he was one second away from being benched for life. His curls were damp with sweat, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his jersey hung loose in a way that made him look unfairly calm for someone who had just been skating like a maniac.

Then his gaze shifted to you.

Something in your chest tightened immediately.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Garrett said flatly.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back on the railing like he wasn’t about to behave any better. “Relax, Graham. I was just asking Coach Jr. for a favour.”

“I don’t mind,” you blurted out before you could think better of it.

Both of them looked at you.

Dean grinned like he’d just won something.

“See? She’s fine with it.”

Your face went warm instantly. “I—no, I didn’t mean—” You shook your head, scrambling for words that refused to form properly. “I just… I can get them, it’s not a big deal.”

You pushed yourself up from the bench before the embarrassment could settle in fully, avoiding Garrett’s eyes even though you could feel them on you.

“I’ll get the electrolytes, Dean,” you muttered, already walking away.

Behind you, Dean let out a quiet laugh, satisfied, amused, entirely too pleased with himself.

But you didn’t miss what came after.

Garrett’s voice again, lower this time, sharper with annoyance.

“Stop doing that to her.”

And for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, that made your heart beat a little faster too.

—

You’d had a crush on Garrett Graham for forever. Of course you had. Who wouldn’t?

He was a star player, one of those guys people looked at twice without meaning to. Charismatic in a way that didn’t feel like effort. The kind of charming that made everything look easy, like the world had just decided to go his way and never stopped.

And annoyingly, he was good with women. Everyone knew it. Everyone joked about it.

It should’ve made him less appealing. Somehow, it didn’t.

If anything, it made him worse.

Because when Garrett talked to you, it was never in a way that felt like a game. Never like he was trying to be impressive or funny or flirty. It was always careful. Measured. Like he was making sure he didn’t accidentally cross a line that only existed in your head.

Respectful. That was the word for it.

He was always nice to you in a way that felt like distance disguised as kindness.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because to you, he wasn’t just Garrett Graham, the star forward, the reputation, the noise everyone attached to his name.

To you, he was just… perfect. Which made it painfully obvious how impossible it was.

He’d been with girls who were prettier, louder, easier. Girls who fit into his world without hesitation. And even if that hadn’t been true, there was still the obvious problem, you were Coach Jensen’s daughter.

There were rules without anyone ever having to say them out loud. And Garrett Graham, for all his confidence on the ice, had never once looked like someone who broke rules he respected.

So you stayed exactly where you were.

Close enough to see him. Far enough to not matter.

—

That night, the invitation came almost too casually. A teammate had mentioned it first, some party, some drinking game, something stupid and loud that always ended the same way. Truth or Dare. Of course it was.

You almost said no. You should’ve said no.

But somehow you didn’t.

And now you were standing in front of your mirror, completely unsure what you were even supposed to wear to something like that.

It wasn’t like you fit in. Not really. Not there. Not with them.

You hesitated before grabbing your phone, already typing before you could overthink it.

Allie answered almost immediately.

—

“Okay, no,” Allie said the moment she saw you standing there. “That top is way too safe.”

You looked down at yourself. “It’s just a party.”

“That’s exactly why it’s not safe,” Allie replied, already pushing past you into your room like she lived there.

Hannah followed behind her, laughing softly as she dropped her bag onto your bed. “She’s right. It’s a hockey party. Safe is illegal.“

You blinked. “There are no rules about clothing.”

“There are unspoken ones,” Allie said, rifling through your closet like she had authority there.

“And you’re breaking them by not trying at all.”

You frowned. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

Hannah raised an eyebrow immediately. “That’s a lie.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Because it was.

Allie turned back around, holding up a different top now. “Okay. Question. Is this about blending in, or is this about someone specific?”

Your silence answered for you.

Hannah’s expression softened just a little. She knew you better than she pretended to sometimes, John had that effect on her, made her more observant than she probably realized.

“Garrett?” she asked gently.

You didn’t deny it.That was answer enough.

Allie made a small sound like she’d been expecting it the whole time. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not like that. It’s just, he’s there. And I’m going. That’s it.”

“Mm-hm,” Allie said, unconvinced, already swapping out your clothes like she was on a mission. “Then you’re definitely not wearing that.”

Hannah stepped closer, quieter now. “You don’t have to change who you are for a party, you know.”

You glanced up at her.

She smiled a little. “But if you want to feel like you belong there for once… we can help with that.”

And for the first time that night, the idea didn’t feel completely impossible.

—

The house was already loud before you even stepped inside.

Music thumped through the walls like it had nowhere else to go, laughter spilling out onto the porch where people stood half-in, half-out of the night air. Someone shouted your name as you followed Allie and Hannah inside, but it got swallowed almost immediately by the chaos.

It always felt like stepping into a different world.

A louder one. A looser one. One where nobody was watching you through the lens of your last name. Or at least, they weren’t supposed to be.

“Allie,” Hannah said over her shoulder, “if I lose her in here, I’m blaming you.”

“You won’t lose her,” Allie replied confidently, already scanning the room like she owned it.

“She’s with us.”

You weren’t sure that made it better.

The living room was packed, hockey guys, people from campus, strangers you definitely wouldn’t remember tomorrow. Red cups, loud voices, someone laughing too hard in the kitchen.

You hovered slightly behind Allie and Hannah.

Until you saw him.

Garrett was leaning against the counter, a drink in one hand, looking far more relaxed than he ever did at practice. He was talking to Dean, smiling at something he said.

Of course he looked like that. Of course he did.

You didn’t realize you’d stopped walking until Allie bumped your shoulder.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just crowded.”

Hannah followed your gaze and immediately understood.

“Oh.”

There was no teasing in it. Just recognition.

As if he felt it, Garrett glanced up.

For a second, the room kept moving around him. Dean was still talking, people were still laughing, but Garrett’s attention landed on you.

His expression shifted slightly. Not dramatic. Just softer somehow, more focused.

You lifted a small, awkward wave before you could stop yourself.

He nodded back. Simple. Familiar.

Your chest tightened anyway.

Dean noticed immediately.

His grin widened. “Oh, look who showed up.”

Garrett didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on you for another second before he finally looked away.

Dean leaned closer and muttered something you couldn’t hear.

Garrett’s response came instantly.

“Don’t start.”

Dean laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all night.

—

It started the way it always did, someone yelled, "Truth or Dare?" from across the room, and suddenly half the party was dragging chairs into a circle.

You ended up perched on the arm of a couch between Allie and Hannah, trying not to think about how many people were there. Garrett sat across the circle, talking to Dean and a few of the guys, though every so often you caught him glancing your way.

The game started harmlessly. A couple embarrassing truths, some ridiculous dares, enough laughter to keep everyone entertained.

Then Dean spun the bottle. It landed on you.

His grin appeared immediately.

"Coach Jr. Truth or dare?"

You rolled your eyes as a few people laughed.

"Truth."

"Of course."

Dean thought for a second before pointing at you.

"What's the most embarrassing thing you've done since starting college?"

The question shouldn't have been difficult, but the second everyone looked at you, your mind went blank.

You laughed nervously.

"I don't know."

"Come on."

You searched for an answer, any answer, and grabbed the first thing that came to mind.

"I hooked up with a guy during orientation week."

The room erupted immediately.

Someone whistled.

Dean nearly dropped his drink.

"Okay, that is not what I expected."

Heat rushed into your face.

"It wasn't a big deal."

"It sounds like a big deal."

"It wasn't."

The game moved on, but Dean clearly wasn't over it.

A few rounds later, he was still grinning whenever he looked at you.

"I still don't believe that answer."

You groaned.

"Can we please let it die?"

"I'm serious." He pointed his cup in your direction. "Coach Jensen's daughter gets to college and immediately starts causing problems?"

The group laughed.

You forced a smile.

"It was one guy."

"Sure it was."

More laughter followed, but it felt different this time. Less about the joke and more about you.

"Who was he?" someone asked.

You immediately shook your head.

"Absolutely not."

Dean sat up straighter.

"See? That's suspicious."

"Or maybe she just doesn't want to tell a room full of people," Hannah said, jumping to your defense.

Dean looked at her.

"We're literally playing Truth or Dare."

"We were twenty minutes ago." Hannah hissed.

A few people laughed into their drinks.

You hoped that would end it. Instead, Dean looked back at you.

"Come on. Was he at least worth all this secrecy?"

The attention settled on you again. Your stomach tightened.

It wasn't even the question anymore. It was knowing everyone was waiting for your answer.

Before you could think of one, John leaned forward.

"Dude, let it go."

Dean frowned. "What? I'm joking."

"I know." John shrugged. "But she's clearly done talking about it."

For a moment, Dean looked like he might actually listen. Then he glanced at you again.

"One hint. That's all I'm asking."

The room had gone noticeably quieter now.

Hannah looked annoyed.

John looked exhausted.

And before Dean could say anything else, another voice cut through the conversation.

"You're making her uncomfortable."

Silence settled over the circle.

Garrett hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't even moved much. He was still sitting where he'd been all night, one hand wrapped loosely around his cup.

Dean blinked.

"What?"

Garrett met his gaze.

"You heard me; you're making her uncomfortable."

The words landed harder the second time.

Because once he said them, everyone noticed it.

The way you'd gone quiet. The way you'd been trying to laugh off every question. The way the conversation kept finding its way back to you.

Dean looked around the circle and seemed to realize, a little too late, that nobody was really on his side anymore.

"I was joking."

"I know," Garrett said calmly. "I don't think you meant anything by it. But she's uncomfortable, so drop it."

No one spoke. John nodded first. "Yeah."

A couple other people murmured their agreement.

Dean exhaled and leaned back into the couch.

"Alright. Fine."

Someone immediately grabbed the bottle and spun again, grateful for the excuse to move on. Within minutes the conversation had shifted, laughter returning as the game continued.

But your pulse still hadn't settled.

Because Garrett hadn't made a scene.

He hadn't embarrassed Dean.

He'd just noticed.

And for some reason, that felt far more dangerous.

—

The party didn’t stop all at once. It just loosened.

Laughter drifted through the house in softer waves now, music turning into something distant and unfocused, like it had stopped demanding attention. People spilled in and out of rooms, voices overlapping but no longer sharp. The energy that had filled every corner earlier was thinning out, bleeding into the night outside.

You found yourself on the porch without really deciding to go there.

One moment you were still inside with Allie and Hannah, half-listening to them laugh at something someone had said, and the next you were stepping through the front door, letting the sound fall away behind you. The air outside was colder. Clearer. It settled into your lungs differently.

A few people sat on the steps talking quietly. Someone crossed the yard laughing before disappearing into the dark. No one paid you much attention.

You leaned against the railing and exhaled slowly.

For the first time all night, there wasn’t anything demanding your attention from every direction at once. The noise hadn’t disappeared, but it was no longer inside your head.

You reached into the bag at your side and pulled out a cigarette, technically Allie’s, technically not something you were supposed to be touching. You still lit it anyway. The flame flickered briefly against the dark before you took a drag, letting the quiet feel like it belonged to you for once.

That was when you heard footsteps behind you.

Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just steady.

You didn’t need to turn to know.

Garrett Graham stopped a few steps behind you.

There was a pause before he said anything. Not awkward, just deliberate, like he was deciding where he fit in this version of the night where there was no crowd to absorb everything.

Then his hand came down on your wrist.

Not rough. Firm enough that it wasn’t optional.

He took the cigarette from your fingers before you could properly react.

“Hey—” you started, turning toward him. “That’s mine.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He looked at it for a second like it had personally offended him, then dropped it to the ground and stepped on it, pressing it out with slow, almost mechanical certainty.

“I don’t care,” he said.

You huffed out a short breath. “That’s littering.”

His eyes flicked to you then, unimpressed.

“It’s already litter,” he replied simply. “The ground just gets it first.”

There was no satisfaction in it. No teasing. Just finality.

He stepped back slightly after that, like he wasn’t entirely sure what distance made sense anymore.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The house behind him kept moving, laughter, music, footsteps, but it all felt far away here.

Garrett’s gaze stayed on you longer than necessary, not intense in a way that pushed, but attentive in a way that didn’t let things slip by unnoticed.

“You left pretty quickly,” he said eventually.

Not accusing. Just observing.

You shrugged lightly, still leaning on the railing. “It got loud.”

“That’s part of it,” he said after a pause, “but I don’t think that’s the only reason you came out here.”

That made you glance at him properly. He wasn’t challenging you. That was the strange part. He just sounded certain that there was more, like he wasn’t interested in letting you reduce it to something convenient.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Garrett didn’t respond right away. Then he shook his head slightly.

“You don’t have to say that just because it’s easier,” he said. “I’m not asking you to explain yourself. I’m just telling you I can tell when you’re not fine.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

You pushed off the railing a little, turning more toward him. “You didn’t have to step in like that inside.”

“I did,” he said.

It wasn’t defensive. It was matter-of-fact, like it was already decided in his head.

You frowned slightly. “You didn’t have to handle it for me.”

“I wasn’t handling it for you,” he replied.

That made you pause.

He exhaled slowly, glancing briefly toward the house before looking back at you.

“I was telling him to stop because he was pushing something that didn’t need to be pushed in front of everyone,” he said more evenly. “It wasn’t about proving a point or making him look bad. It was just… enough had been said.”

There was a beat where he shifted his weight, leaning lightly against the railing across from you, finally settling instead of hovering.

Then, quieter, almost like he was thinking out loud:

“And you didn’t look like you were having a good time anymore.”

That was what stayed in the air. Not dramatic. Not accusatory. Just honest.

You looked away for a second, jaw tightening like that made things harder to hold onto.

“It was a stupid question,” you said. “I answered it. That’s it.”

Garrett watched you for a moment.

Then, carefully, he said, “Did you actually hook up with someone during orientation week?”

The question didn’t come out sharp. It didn’t feel like part of an interrogation.

It felt like he was circling back to something that had already bothered him and trying to understand it properly now that there was no audience for it.

You hesitated. Your fingers tightened slightly around the railing behind you.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said finally.

Garrett didn’t push.

He just nodded once, like he accepted that answer for what it was,not complete, but real enough.

“It matters a little,” he said, quieter. “Because you said it like it was something you needed to make up on the spot. And that doesn’t sound like you.”

That made your chest tighten in a different way. Not discomfort exactly. Something more exposed than that.

“I didn’t make anything up,” you said, but it came out less certain than you meant it to.

Garrett didn’t react to the contradiction.

He just stayed where he was, giving you space instead of filling it.

“I’m not judging you,” he said after a moment. “I don’t care what you did during orientation. That’s not the point.”

A pause.

“The point is just that you don’t have to perform anything in there,” he added, nodding slightly toward the house. “Not for them. Not for anyone.”

The words settled slowly. Not heavy in a dramatic way. Just quiet enough that you couldn’t easily brush them off.

And for the first time since you’d come outside, the silence didn’t feel like escape.

It felt like he was actually staying in it with you.

—

The party didn’t really stop, it just softened at the edges.

Music blurred into everything else, voices folding over each other instead of cutting through. It felt easier now, like the room had finally stopped expecting anything from you. Or maybe you’d just stopped noticing when it did.

You were a little drunk. Not gone, just loose around the edges. Everything slightly warmer, slightly funnier than it needed to be. And you liked it that way.

It was easier to stay in it like this. Easier not to think about earlier. Easier not to think about Garrett outside, or the way your name had sounded in his voice when he said it. So you didn’t.

You stayed.

You laughed when things weren’t that funny. You leaned into conversations without overthinking them. You let yourself drift instead of standing still.

Dean found you again somewhere in the movement of the room.

“You’re still here,” he said, like it was a good thing.

You smiled, a little too easily. “Where else would I be?”

That got him laughing, like that was exactly the answer he wanted.

The music shifted again, louder now, and the room started turning into motion more than conversation. People stopped talking so much and started moving instead, filling space just because it was there.

Someone grabbed your hand, pulling you into the middle before you had time to decide not to go.

You went anyway.

At first you were stiff about it, half-laughing at yourself, but it didn’t take long before it got easier. Everything did. The more you moved, the less you thought.

Dean stayed close.Not touching at first, just matching your movement like it was natural. Like you were already doing this together.

“You’re actually really good at this,” he said, leaning in so you could hear him over the music.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m literally just moving.”

“You’re doing more than that,” he said, like it was obvious.

You rolled your eyes, still smiling.

The room felt warmer now. Closer. People bumping into each other without caring, laughter spilling into the music.

Dean’s hand brushed your waist again when you swayed, steadying you for a second too long to feel like nothing, but not long enough to feel like something you had to question.

You didn’t pull away.Not really thinking about it. Not really thinking at all.

He leaned in again, like he was going to say something, but it got lost in the noise between you.

And then-

“Dean.”

Garrett’s voice cut through the music without needing to be loud. It still made everything shift.

You blinked, slower than you meant to, turning your head like it took effort.

Dean straightened, like he’d just been reminded there was more than the two of you in the world.

Garrett was a few steps away. Still. Not part of the movement. Not caught in it like everyone else.

Just watching.

“You’re good,” Garrett said.

Calm. Even. Not asking.

Dean let out a short laugh, trying to keep it light. “It’s just dancing, man.”

Garrett didn’t react to that.

“I said you’re good.”

The second time, it didn’t sound like part of the music anymore.

Dean hesitated. You could feel the shift even if you weren’t fully tracking it. The way the room wasn’t really watching anymore, but also wasn’t not watching.

He exhaled and stepped back a little, lifting his hands like he was dropping it.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Relax.”

The space opened again. Music filled it back in fast, like nothing had happened. People started moving again like it was easy. Like it hadn’t mattered.

You laughed a little under your breath, like you were supposed to. Like it was still fun. Like you were still in it. But your body felt slightly off now, like you’d stepped out of rhythm without noticing when it happened.

Garrett’s attention shifted to you.

Not intense. Just steady.

Like he was checking something he didn’t trust the room to notice.

You gave him a small smile automatically, light and a bit too quick, like you were proving something without meaning to.

“I’m fine,” you mouthed, even though he hadn’t asked.

It sounded normal in your head.

It didn’t feel as normal as you wanted it to.

You stayed for a few more seconds anyway, swaying back into the music, trying to catch the feeling again.

But it didn’t quite come back the same. So eventually, you just slipped out of the circle, still smiling a little, like nothing had happened at all.

So you slipped into the kitchen for a minute and ended up taking a couple more shots without really thinking about it, chasing the buzz until everything felt lighter again.

—

“Y/N?” Garrett called after you, his voice cutting through the bass-heavy music spilling out of the house. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You didn’t stop right away. Just kept walking down the driveway, steps a little too loose, a little too unsteady, like the night was slightly out of sync with you. The cold air hit your face and for a second it almost helped.

Almost.

You slowed, then turned back. Your expression was annoyed more than anything else, annoyed at him, at the situation, at the fact that he was even asking.

“Home.”

Garrett let out a short laugh, not unkind, just disbelieving. He was still on the porch, half in the glow from inside, arms folded across his chest like he had all the time in the world.

“And how,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “are you planning on doing that?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Walk. Taxi. Vibes.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t fully smile.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you shot back immediately.

That made him exhale through his nose, shaking his head a little.

“Yeah,” he said. “No, you’re not.”

You crossed your arms tighter, like that would somehow fix your balance and your pride at the same time. “I don’t need you babysitting me, Graham.”

There it was again, that pause from him. Like he was deciding whether to argue, tease, or just let it go.

“I know you don’t,” he said finally. His voice was quieter now. “Just… don’t be stupid about it.”

You huffed. “I’m not being stupid. I’m going home.”

“You’re not getting home like this,” he replied simply.

Not mocking. Not challenging. Just certain. That made you pause.

Garrett stepped off the porch then, closing the distance a little, but not crowding you. Just there. Steady in a way the rest of the night wasn’t.

“Come inside,” he said. “Seriously.”

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he said again, softer but firmer at the same time. “Stay here. You can sleep it off. Take my bed.”

That made you look at him properly for the first time in a few seconds, like you were actually trying to decide if he meant it.

“I’ll take the couch,” he added. “Or I’ll steal Logan’s room. I don’t care. Just don’t walk home like this.”

Inside, the house kept going without you, music, laughter, life continuing like nothing mattered except the next song.

You were quiet for a moment, the stubbornness still there, but weaker now, like it had been worn down.

Finally, you exhaled.

“Fine.”

Garrett nodded once. “Good.”

You brushed past him up the steps, trying to ignore how unsteady they felt.

He followed close enough to notice if you slipped, far enough not to make it obvious.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” he said, like it didn’t bother him at all. “You’ll live.”

And somehow, you did walk inside.

—

The room had gone quiet in that heavy, final way, like the house had finally run out of energy to keep pretending.

You were on your back in Garrett’s bed, his pillow soft under your cheek, everything slightly out of reach in that warm, drunk haze where your thoughts didn’t always arrive in order. The room slightly spinning.

On the floor, Garrett shifted once. The mattress creaked faintly above him.

“Is it fine if I sleep on the floor?” he asked, voice low.

You turned your head lazily. “I actually don’t care.”

A quiet laugh came immediately.

“Wow,” he muttered. “Mean drunk. Noted.”

You heard him settle beside the bed like it wasn’t strange at all that he was just… there. The light clicked off. Darkness filled the room.

A few seconds passed before you spoke again, softer now.

“If you told me yesterday I’d be sleeping in Garrett Graham’s bed,” you murmured, “I would’ve had a whole personality crisis.”

“Yeah?” he said from the floor. “And now?”

You exhaled.

“Now it kind of sucks.”

That got a pause.

“…That’s hurtful,” Garrett said.

You let out a small laugh. “Not you. The situation.”

“Good. I was about to take that personally.”

A beat.

“Why does it suck?” he asked, quieter.

Your fingers tightened slightly in the blanket.

“Because I ruined it,” you said. “Truth or Dare. I lied about something stupid and now I look like an idiot.”

Silence. Then Garrett, immediately:

“I was there.”

You paused.

“I know you lied.”

That made you go quiet for a second longer.

“…Yeah,” you admitted.

From the floor, his tone stayed calm. Almost factual.

“So what’s the problem.”

You turned your face slightly into the pillow.

“The problem is I said I hooked up with someone. And I haven’t. Ever. And now I just, look weird.”

A short silence.

Then Garrett exhaled like he was trying to understand something that didn’t add up.

“You’re embarrassed because you don’t have experience?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then, blunt, immediate:

“That’s stupid.”

You lifted your head slightly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m serious,” he said, still calm. “That’s not a thing to be embarrassed about.”

You frowned into the dark.

“It is when everyone thinks you’re not.”

“No one important thinks about it that much,” he said.

That made you scoff.

“Dean literally does.”

At that, Garrett went quiet for half a beat. Then:

“Dean De Laurentis is not who you should be basing anything on.”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it.

“He’s just, he’s confident. People like him.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said. “People like loud. It’s not the same thing as worth listening to.”

A pause. Then, a little sharper:

“And he’s definitely not the guy you just hook up with because you felt weird at a party.”

That landed differently. You turned your head toward the ceiling again.

“I didn’t say I was going to.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I’m saying don’t start making decisions like that just to fix a moment you didn’t even need to fix.”

Silence. That one stuck a little. Not harsh. Just steady. Certain.

After a beat, you muttered:

“It still feels embarrassing.”

From the floor, Garrett shifted slightly.

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s only embarrassing if you think it says something about you. It doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer right away. Then quieter:

“You don’t think it’s weird?”

A pause. Then, like it was obvious:

“No.”

Another beat. Then he added, softer, almost lightly:

“I think it’s weird you tried to invent a whole backstory under pressure, but that’s more funny than tragic.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. “Wow.”

“I’m trying to be supportive.”

“You’re terrible at it.” you chuckled.

“I’m actually great at it.”

Silence again, easier now. The room settled. Then Garrett, like he couldn’t quite let it go:

“And for the record, Dean still isn’t the standard.”

You sighed.

“I know you hate him.” you joked.

“I don’t hate him,” Garrett said. “I just think you’re overestimating what he is.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“He’s not the guy you should be trying to match yourself to.”

That one didn’t sound like judgment. Just certainty. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, quieter now.

“Okay,” you said, finally.

Not fully agreeing. But not fighting it either.

The conversation drifted after that, slower, softer. Until your voice started to blur at the edges again.

“He plays hockey too,” you mumbled „The guy I like.“

From the floor:

“That narrows it down to a lot of problems.”

You smiled faintly.

“He’s funny.”

“Dangerous trait.”

“You’re funny.” you mumble half asleep.

“I’m aware.”

“He’s nice.”

“That’s worse.”

That made you breathe out a small laugh.

“He makes me feel safe,” you said quietly.

The room went still for a second.

Then Garrett, a little softer:

“Good.”

You didn’t respond. Sleep was already pulling at you.

A few seconds passed. Then, quieter:

“…Does he know you like him?”

You were barely awake now.

“No,” you whispered.

A pause.

Then Garrett, almost to himself:

“Of course he doesn’t.”

Another beat.

“Most guys don’t notice things like that.”

You didn’t hear the rest. You were asleep.

And Garrett stayed still in the dark for a long time after that. Then, like he was thinking out loud, not performing anything:

“Dean De Laurentis is just the kind of guy people assume is important because he talks first.”

A pause.

“He’s not complicated. He’s just… obvious.”

Silence. Then Garrett shifted slightly on the floor.

“And your mystery guy sounds like he’s not doing anything at all.”

A beat.

“That’s usually where people get stuck,” he added. “Not the wrong guy. Just the one who doesn’t move.”

Another pause. Then, quieter:

“You don’t need to figure it out drunk in someone else’s bed anyway.”

—

If he were anything like Dean, he would've approached you already and figured out your deal.

Why did you smile politely when partygoers pushed past you?

He watched as a dude fully grabbed your hip. Your body jolted at his touch, and he could read your lips as the word sorry left them.

Sorry.

To the guy who'd touched you.

Your eyes lit up when a tall redheaded girl in an impossibly short black dress approached you. She stood in stark contrast to your mom jeans and light pink tube top.

Your friend, Garrett assumed.

She leaned down to whisper something into your ear. Your face fell for only a moment before you nodded.

He was almost sure your response was:

"Okay, that's fine."

He understood your disappointment moments later when Dean made his appearance, shirtless and drunk off his ass. He swept up your redheaded friend and started carrying her toward the back hallway.

Garrett had no excuse for not approaching you now.

If you were waiting for your friend to finish hooking up with Dean, you'd be waiting a long while.

Garrett took a swig from the one beer he was allowing himself on a night before a game.

Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea.

He recognized the guy immediately. Tall. Lanky. One of Beau's fraternity brothers. A senior on the swim team.

Mark.

Or Mateo.

Probably not Michael.

Whatever his name was, he wanted to fuck you.

Curious, Garrett decided to keep his distance. He watched from across the room as he approached the speaker blasting '80s rock music. He grabbed Logan's phone from the table and changed the song, all while keeping one eye on you.

It was almost offensive how forward the guy was being.

He had a hand on your shoulder, and he was standing so close that you were forced to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Yeah... we talked upstairs. Remember?"

You politely shook your head.

"I don't think it was me."

Your voice was sweet.

Garrett could tell that much.

Wanting to hear more of the conversation, he lowered the volume of the music.

"I know I'm so fucking drunk right now, but we ran into each other outside the bathroom. I remember. You're so hot I know I'd remember you. You don't want to kiss me again?"

He grabbed your hand.

"Uhm, no, thank you. B-but... I really don't... uhm—"

The guy started pulling.

And your feet followed.

Your eyes were panicked, but your body moved anyway.

Jesus Christ.

He wasn't getting the hint.

It didn't help that you still had that polite smile on your face.

Fuck.

Were you seriously so polite that you were going to let this idiot drag you away even though you'd clearly never met him before?

Absolutely fucking not.

Garrett's feet moved before his brain really registered what he was doing.

He shoved himself between you and Swim Team Whatever-His-Name-Was and forced your hands apart.

He wasn't trying to embarrass the guy.

He shoved his shoulder just hard enough to make him stumble.

"She said no."

"What the fuck?"

Bold and clearly running on liquid courage, the guy took a step toward Garrett.

The standoff lasted all of three seconds.

Then recognition dawned.

Because Garrett Graham was standing in front of him.

"Are you dumb?" Garrett asked. "Can't you tell she doesn't want to talk to you?"

The guy gritted his teeth.

"I was just..." He looked at you. Then back at Garrett. "She's all yours, man."

And just like that, he stumbled away in search of another vulnerable girl.

Your eyes looked just as panicked when Garrett turned back toward you.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause a scene."

Garrett savored the chance to finally look at you up close.

Your makeup was soft. A light dusting of blush colored your cheeks. Your lips were glossy and glittered faintly under the kitchen lights.

Your hair was pulled back with a floral headband.

Worst of all, you smelled like lavender and vanilla.

Garrett stepped closer.

Shielding you from the crowd.

Blocking you in until your back met the kitchen counter.

He wasn't sure how subtle it was when he leaned closer just to breathe you in.

"I know it's your party..." you whispered.

Your voice trailed off.

You stared up at him as if he were a wolf and you were prey.

Honestly?

The comparison wasn't far off.

If Garrett had to compare you to an animal, it would be a baby deer.

Wide-eyed, nervous and completely unaware of how vulnerable you were.

"You're..."

"Garrett," he finished for you. "What's your name?"

"Y/N."

The answer came out almost too quickly.

Too trusting.

Y/N.

It bounced around inside his head while his imagination immediately started building a picture of who you were.

A picture he already suspected he'd be thinking about later tonight.

"You're not really sorry, right?" he asked. "Because that asshole was the one trying to trick you into hooking up with him."

"I don't think he was..."

Garrett stared.

You genuinely seemed to be considering it.

As if you'd only just realized the guy had been hitting on you.

"I think he was just confused."

All Garrett really knew about you was your name.

But he'd already decided you were perfect.

Seriously lacking in street smarts.

But perfect nonetheless.

His jaw ticked.

He regretted not putting the guy through the floor.

"I think he's lucky I'm a nice guy."

You completely missed the meaning behind that statement.

He could tell because you immediately replied:

"Your house is really nice too. Thank you for having me. I mean, you didn't really invite me. Dean invited my roommate, but—"

You stopped yourself.

Realizing you were rambling.

"I mean, it's a good party."

Garrett grinned.

"Thank you. Your roommate is the redhead?"

You nodded.

"She just disappeared with Dean."

"Is she your ride?"

Garrett planted a hand on either side of you.

Close enough to feel your breathing change.

Close enough to know he was overwhelming your senses.

"Yeah. I was just gonna wait for her to... you know. Get done."

"You might be waiting a while."

Your mouth parted.

Then closed.

Had that possibility genuinely not occurred to you?

"Well, that's okay." Your smile was small. "If it gets too late, I can call someone. There's this guy in my Instructional Tech class who said he'd give me a ride if I ever needed one."

Garrett's brows immediately knitted together.

"A random guy in your class?"

"He's not random. We have class together."

"Have you ever hung out with him outside of class?"

"Well, no. But he's nice. And I can't really afford an Uber all the way back to my apartment."

Another guy who wanted to fuck you.

And you had absolutely no idea.

Garrett was beginning to notice a pattern.

He was already starting to hate the idea of letting you leave this house and return to your own devices.

"Your friend kinda sucks for bringing you here and then abandoning you."

The words came out before he could stop them.

Instantly, he regretted it.

Your face fell.

"I-I wanted to come."

"You like parties?"

"I like parties."

You practically struggled to force the words out.

A terrible lie.

Your discomfort was written all over your face.

"And she's a good friend."

"Hmm."

Garrett pushed away from the counter, finally giving you room to breathe.

"There's a good chance they're going to fuck all night, Y/N. If you want to crash here, there's a spare bedroom. If not, I can drive you home. I've only had one beer."

"You don't have to do that, Garrett. It's so out of the way. I'll find a ride."

Say my name again.

Please.

"You're adorable, you know that?"

You smiled immediately.

Embarrassed.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Never," Garrett replied sincerely. "Let me drive you home."

Because an adorable little bunny like you wasn't getting into a car with some random loser from class.

"I..."

You pressed your lips together under the weight of his stare.

Had you ever told anyone no before?

"I should check in with my friend first—"

Garrett's hand found the small of your back.

"Sure."

He guided you toward the hallway.

"If my predictions are correct, they're probably in the laundry room."

Not a single word of protest left your mouth.

The irony of the situation dawned on him. He didn’t want someone else to take advantage of you, and yet he was practically doing the same, but Garrett was nothing like the guys who only wanted to fuck you. He actually had substance that backed up his bravado. Everyone at Briar knew that, and Garrett was watching as you came to the same revelation. Hockey captain. Six-foot-whatever. He was someone not to be fucked with. Maybe that’s why your body relaxed under his touch, and you let him lead you to the end of the downstairs hallway. 

Garrett would bet a million dollars that his best friend Dean was fucking your red-headed friend with the door wide open. He pushed you ahead of him, his other hand finding the other side of your hip, holding you as you peeked into the doorway. As if you’d seen a ghost, Garrett watches as your hands slap against your own eyes. 

Garrett couldn’t hold back the deep rumbling in his throat as he laughed. He took his own peek and found your red-headed friend bent over the running dryer as Dean pounded into her from behind. You turned around quickly, practically pressing your face into his chest, “Oh my goodness. Why did they leave the door open?”

“As you can see, your friend is occupied. Are you ready to go now, princess?” Garrett grabbed you by your chin, forcing your frightened eyes to look up at his. 

You nodded, long eyelashes batting up at him. He takes another mental picture for later. He imagined his cock down your throat, that same look of fear and wonder in your eyes. He clears his throat, pushing the lewd thought out of his mind, “Then let’s get you home.” 

Your apartment building might as well have been condemned.

It was a rude thought born from privilege, but Garrett couldn't suppress the uneasy feeling creeping up the back of his neck.

Of course you lived on the worst side of town.

During the twenty-minute drive, he'd learned how you'd ended up at Briar and, subsequently, at the hockey house.

You'd transferred in January and had been forced to find housing at the last minute.

That's how you'd met Paige, the redheaded puck bunny.

Apparently, she was renting out her couch and charging you half the rent.

“It pulls out.”

“What?”

“The couch.” You glanced over at him. “I'm not just sleeping on her couch. It pulls out and turns into a bed.”

Garrett shot you an incredulous look, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

“Where do you keep all your shit?”

“We turned the coat closet into my personal closet.” You smiled proudly. “It's actually more convenient than you'd think. And I don't have that much stuff anyway.”

You paused before adding softly,

“The important thing is that I'm here. You have no idea how long I've wanted to go to school here.”

Your eyes were bright and hopeful, standing in sharp contrast to the darkness outside the Jeep.

“And you're an education major?”

“Yeah.” You answered quickly, pleased that he'd remembered. “Elementary education.”

“That's cool.”

Garrett pulled into a parking space in front of your building and shifted the Jeep into park. The engine died and silence crept inside the vehicle. 

He tucked his keys into the pocket of his sweatpants before leaning across the center console and unclipping your seatbelt.

His face ended up a little closer to yours than necessary.

“I'll walk you up.”

“You don't have to, really.” You offered him a small smile. “This is already too much.”

Too much.

The phrase irritated him more than it should have.

Was basic kindness really that foreign to you?

“I'm a gentleman, princess. Of course I have to.”

You laughed softly.

“Paige talks all the time about how hockey players are the exact opposite of gentlemen.”

Your roommate is an idiot, princess.

“Then let me prove her wrong.”

The words came out low and certain.

Garrett realized, as he climbed out of the Jeep and rounded the front of the vehicle to open your door, that he'd never meant anything more.

“Oh, I get it now. This is the same girl from the party.”

Garrett watched as Dean dug into the huge pile of food on his plate. The dining hall was bustling at lunchtime, and the conversation his friends were having was almost loud enough to cloud his thoughts of you.

Almost.

Until Dean brought up Garrett's new favorite subject.

You.

“Maybe you can invite her friend over again tomorrow since Tuck has people coming over?”

“Who’s her friend?” Dean asked, and Garrett stared back at him, forcing his gaze to remain steady to prevent his eyes from rolling.

“The redhead? Kinda moans like a goat?”

Dean’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile.

“Ah, I see. Freaky Paige. She said her roommate was, like, a super religious virgin and then something else about her growing up in a cult. Which kinda tracks. She just stood there alone smiling at everyone the whole night.”

“What the fuck? Y/N did not. And Paige is full of shit.”

Dean chuckled.

“It doesn’t matter. Paige said that was the last time we were hooking up because she’s getting back with her boyfriend.”

Your roommate really sucks, Bunny.

“Here’s your opportunity, G,” Logan spoke up, abandoning whatever conversation he'd been having with Tucker. He jerked his head toward one of the double doors.

You walked through alone, your hair thrown up in a high ponytail and a pink backpack slung over your shoulder. Although you weren’t smiling, you looked happy, and Garrett could only assume you’d just gotten out of class.

You headed toward the salad bar.

Garrett stood immediately.

He patted Logan on the back in gratitude before making his way over to you.

Your eyes widened in surprise before quickly brightening with unmistakable joy.

You were happy to see him.

“Hey,” he said, even though there was so much more on his mind.

You almost forgot you were filling your tray.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Good.”

Amazing, actually. More like it, now that you’re here.

“What about you?”

“I’m really good. I love Mondays. No afternoon classes.”

“So you’re free the rest of the day?”

Your lips parted in surprise.

You glanced down nervously as you added more toppings to your salad. Garrett followed alongside you.

“Well, yeah. I was gonna do some homework and then... start a new book.”

Jesus.

He even found the idea of you reading alone in your apartment adorable.

“I, uh, wanted to get your number. Totally forgot to ask when I dropped you off the other night.”

“My number?”

“For chauffeuring reasons, of course. Don’t want you getting stranded and having to call Instructional Tech Guy.”

That made you giggle.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You reached the end of the salad bar and started toward the register.

Garrett grabbed the tray from your hands.

“Let me get this.”

“I-I have dining dollars, Garrett. You don’t have to—”

“Save ’em.”

He’d do any small thing he could to take care of you.

At least until he figured out how to have all of you.

Garrett could practically feel his friends’ stares as he carried your tray away and abandoned them completely.

They knew this was more than him trying to score.

Girls threw themselves at Garrett.

In all his years at Briar, he’d never had to chase one.

“Let me see your phone.”

Garrett was already reaching for it before it was halfway out of your pocket.

Your lock screen was a collage of pink aesthetic photos and an orange cat.

“You have a cat?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s Mouse. I’ve had him since middle school, but it didn’t feel right bringing him here. Taking him away from his home.”

“He’s cute,” Garrett commented as he held the phone in front of your face and unlocked it. “Hey, are you religious?”

You blinked up at him.

Up.

Because Garrett was sitting beside you and was still massive even while seated.

“No. Uhm, not really. Wh-why do you ask?”

Stupid, freaky Paige.

“I was, uh, just wondering where you’re from.”

Garrett quickly learned you were from a small town in upstate New York.

From what he gathered, your home life was far from cultish. Nothing toxic.

You just seemed sheltered.

An only child.

He took the opportunity to enter his number into your phone and send himself a text.

“I’m serious about calling me if you need a ride somewhere.”

“You make it seem like Briar is a scary place. Everyone I’ve met is very nice. Including you.”

“I’m flattered, princess. And I agree that most people are nice. But this place has freaks and weirdos, and I’d prefer it if you weren’t anywhere near them.”

He was entitled.

What did it matter what he wanted for you?

He didn’t own you.

He’d met you two nights ago.

And yet you didn’t argue.

Almost as if you already trusted him.

“I’m working to save up enough money for a car, so hopefully I won’t have to bother you or Paige.”

“Where do you work?”

The question came out a little too quickly.

Garrett reminded himself he might scare you off if he didn’t pace himself.

And you did look a little nervous.

But you were an open book.

“I always work game days at the campus bookstore, so I’ve never gone to a game. And then I nanny during the week.”

“Well, if you’re free tonight, let me take you out.”

“Take me out?”

“To dinner.”

“Oh.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and beautiful.

“Why?”

“Why dinner?”

“A dinner date?”

“Yeah.”

“As friends?”

“The opposite, actually.”

Your lips parted, then closed again.

Garrett watched as you intentionally took a deep breath.

In through your nose.

Out through your mouth.

“I’m really trying to keep up here, Garrett.”

Too much.

Too fast.

He was pretty sure that’s what you wanted to say.

You just didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Hey. Relax, okay?”

His tone softened immediately.

The deep quality of his voice remained, but there was something undeniably gentle underneath it.

“It’s not a big deal. Just dinner. If you want, you could come over to my place and we could order something. Watch a movie.”

Another deep breath.

“Uhm... and then what?”

And then he’d probably kiss you. And touch you as much as he could before you became a bundle of nerves. So you weren’t completely innocent. Part of you, deep down, knew what dinner and a movie often lead to. 

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. I like you, Y/N.”

“I like you too. I mean, I think you’re nice and...”

“And...?” Garrett prompted.

“Handsome.”

You winced as soon as the word left your mouth.

Not because you didn’t mean it.

Because you were worried it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’m sorry. If I’m being honest, I haven’t really been on a date since high school. And I’m a little confused that, out of all the boys at Briar, you—”

Garrett immediately shook his head.

“Are you questioning my taste?”

“Of course not!” you whisper-shouted.

“You’re pretty. You’re sweet. And I haven’t met anyone like you.”

His gaze settled on yours.

“I’d like to keep seeing you. So, I’m gonna drop you off at your apartment. You can read your book and do your homework. Then I’ll come back tonight and pick you up for our date.”

“Are you sure?”

Garrett gave you a look that was just stern enough to make you squirm.

“Okay, okay. That sounds... good.”

You waited until his expression softened before taking another breath.

“Now finish your lunch, baby.”

You nodded quickly and picked up your fork, finally beginning to eat.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

pls reblog with your thoughts to be added to my off campus taglist :)

“Yes, ma’am.” He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and desperate all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.

“Clean sweep,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Show off,” you whisper and he lets out a low laugh against your lips.

“Cashin’ in on that bet.” His hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.

Your head swims as you kiss your way to his bed; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist.

Your hands come up, settling around the back of his neck, your fingers drifting into the hair at his nape. Dean lets out a quiet breath and closes his eyes for a second.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You got any idea how pretty you are?” A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m so serious.”

“So sweet when you want to be, Di Laurentis,” you chuckle tiredly.

“Got a little crazy back there, huh, bun?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mumble. “You did.”

“You spent two hours makin' me watch Hunter Davenport touch you,” he mumbles.

“Nobody made you watch—”

“Couldn’t help it.” His gaze drops from your face, lingering for a second before making its way back up again. “You drive me insane,” he sighs before he kisses you again, your hand coming down to reach for the hem of his shirt.

Your fingers hook into the fabric, pulling upward, and he laughs softly against your mouth when he realizes what you’re doing, lifting his arms automatically so you can drag the shirt over his head.

His hands settle right back on you the second the shirt’s gone, leaning in to deepen the kiss.

“You know what the problem is?” He asks.

“What?”

“I don’t even care if you wanna be casual or not,” he mutters half-serious, half-laughing against your mouth.

“Dean—”

“M’serious,” he hums, the zipper of your jeans gliding down slowly beneath his fingers. “Just wanna end as many nights as I can exactly like this. Don’t even care if you make me place stupid bets and I gotta dust his ass every goddamn weekend. I’m in.”

“You’re in?”

“Mhmm.”

“Funny. Took Hunter Davenport talking to me to figure that out.”

“Damn,” he mutters, letting out a weak laugh like those words actually stung. “That’s what you think, huh?”

Your lips draw to the side, eyebrow arching, challenging him to give you a response instead of a question, and he nods like he’s accepting the challenge.

“You’re right… Shoulda told you a while ago. I deserved everything I got tonight.”

“You did,” you remind him.

Dean shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “Yeah. I did.”

He peels your shirt over your head next, leaving you in nothing but soft mesh, and whatever he was about to say disappears completely. His chin drops as he blows out a heavy breath. “What did I do to deserve you—”

“Just fucking kiss me,” you giggle and he lifts you easily off the floor, tossing you back onto the bed.

Your body bounces against the mattress, and before you can settle he’s helping you the rest of the way out of your jeans, tugging them down your thighs impatiently.

By the time you try to prop yourself up on your elbows, he’s already climbing over you, bracing his weight above you while his hands catch your wrists and press them into the mattress on either side of your head.

He looks down at you with a tilted smile, hair falling into his eyes, his chest still rising a little harder than normal.

His shoulders flex every time he shifts closer, his tanned skin warm against yours, his chain dangling off his neck, landing cool against your hot skin.

“Playin’ after you agreed to come up here was impossible?”

“You were winning.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a second, your lips barely brushing. “Still would’ve rather been up here.”

You keep lifting your head off the pillow to follow him when he pulls back even slightly, leaving you chasing his mouth. Each time you do it he lets out the faintest laugh against your lips, the sound making a steady pulse beat between your thighs.

His hands slide up your arms, gathering your wrists above your head in one hand. His body grinds at the same time, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against your panties.

The chill of his belt buckle brushes against your skin, pulling a quiet breath out of you. Your back arches instinctively, fingers tightening into fists, his fingers curling a little tighter to keep you in place.

His stomach tightens, abs going hard every time his hips rock, every little movement making you react.

His free hand drops between you to work at his belt as you kiss him through it, smiling against his lips when he finally manages to shove his jeans down far enough to give himself room to kick them off.

The whole time he keeps finding you again between breaths, refusing to lose you for longer than he has to.

You moan against his mouth when his hand cups your pussy, clicking his tongue like he knew this is exactly how he’d find you—soaking wet. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Thinkin’ about this all night?”

“Maybe,” you whisper.

“Too wet for maybe’s, bunny,” he mumbles.

You giggle, bratty and breathless, before his tongue slips into your mouth, rolling slowly as his fingers do the same, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“Laughin’ at me, huh?” He asks. “Still think this shit’s funny?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper then gasp against his lips as he pinches your clit between his fingers, his lips sucking and biting down on your bottom lip just enough to pinch.

“Brat,” he mumbles, not sounding bothered by it in the slightest. A grin pulls at his mouth when your hips betray you, bucking into his hand.

Dean slowly rises up onto his knees above you, his eyes never leaving your face as he pulls down his boxers, his cock slapping against his bare skin with a snap. His eyes drop from your face, lingering for a second before making their way back up again.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

Your hands shift instinctively and he catches the movement, snatching your wrists again to push them into the bed with a little more muscle.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he whispers against your lips.

The mesh fabric between your thighs is already clinging to your skin, practically opaque from how wet you already are. He exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head as he takes his dick in his fist.

“Pink?” He mutters under his breath, tapping the wet fabric with his tip, the precum gathered on his hard skin mixed with your arousal on the slick material separating the two of you. “You wore my favorite color.”

“Is it?” You ask—but you did.

“You wore this for me, huh?” He breathes. “Could’ve told me before I started throwing shit, huh?”

“Unfortunately that was hot,” you whisper.

Dean’s head drops immediately.

“I knew you’d like that shit, bun,” he chuckles. “Damn, we’re a fucking problem, huh?” He laughs against your lips as he traces his dick along your slit. The fabric drags against his sensitive skin, rubbing along you with every slow pass.

He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pressing there, and warmth spreads through your body despite the thin barrier still between you.

The pressure alone is enough to pull a moan from both of you. You bite down on your lip, both of your hands clawing into the sheets beside your head, twisting the fabric between your fingers as his cock rubs over your clit again and again.

Your eyes roll back as he spits on the place where the two of you meet, his hard cock slicking through the wetness, stroking in a rough, steady rhythm.

Your tongue runs along your bottom lip and the knot in your stomach tightens. Your pleasure builds, the sight of his strong body rolling into you without penetration doing nothing but teasing just how deep his cock would go, pre cum dripping off his tip as it drags across your skin.

“Yeah?” He pants. “C’mon, bunny—”

“Shit,” you whimper, matching his movements with a swivel of your hips.

Dean keeps talking you through it, his voice low and warm as the praise slips out between sharp breaths. “Fightin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he tells you, looking up at your hands as you white-knuckle the bedsheets; looking down at your thighs to watch them quake. “You gonna cum for me? I know you want to,” He grunts and you whimper a ‘yes’.

You cum with his name on your lips and your pussy pulsing around nothing as he continues to stroke. Your eyes pinch shut and your hands reach for him quickly, grabbing him by the hair and the neck to pull him to your lips.

He swallows your moans, not letting up his movement until you're melting underneath him, your mind doing the same.

He grips you firmly and shifts your body in one smooth motion, guiding you forward and turning you until you are on your hands and knees, his big body pressing flush behind you, hard cock swinging between your thighs.

Dean’s hands settle on your hips first, sliding a little higher until his palms are full, squeezing and kneading your ass in his hands. His thumbs drag slow circles over your skin while you glance back over your shoulder at him, and the smugness painted all over his face starts to bleed out of him.

“Probably shouldn’t have told me you liked that,” he murmurs quietly, his thumbs tracing along the hem of your panties like he’s deciding whether to move them aside or make you wait, choosing the latter, snapping the fabric against your skin with a smirk. “Gave me way too much information, sweetheart.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “And what information did I give you, Di Laurentis?” You mumble as his hand leaves your body and his fingers curl beneath your chin.

He guides you back toward him so your spine arches and your shoulders dip, bringing your mouth close enough that he can lean forward and kiss you over your shoulder.

“That you like me jealous. That you like me losin’ my mind over you. Were you trying to make me jealous, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.

You smile softly at that, catching his mouth for a second, sucking and tugging before you pull away. “I’d never,” you whisper and he laughs against your lips.

“I don’t share real well.” He smiles playfully, spanking your thigh, making you press your ass into him further. His eyes lock onto yours. “And then you’re gonna tell me that's what turned you on?”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” you mumble and he just smiles, still toying with you.

“Bullshit.” The words come out through a tight laugh as his hands return to your hips, sliding lower again as he shifts behind you. His palms spread over you while he adjusts his position slightly.

Every inch of his body gives him away—you can see it all over his face, feel how painfully hard he is when he slaps his dick against your ass but still he resists.

You reach down instinctively, your fingers brushing the edge of your panties as you start to shift them aside.

“Hands on the bed, bunny.”

“Dean,” you scold, but all he does is snicker, his hand cupped below your lips for spit.

“Put that mouth to good use—been causin’ enough problems with it all night,” he taunts as you spit in his hand. “Knew you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

He rubs the spit over his stiff cock, eyes unwavering on your body. His hands settle on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart as he glides his dick through the narrow space between them.

Stroke after stroke, tease after tease, his heavy balls slap against your clit with each push of his hips, making the muscles in your body jump with sensitivity.

You look over your shoulder with a pout. A quiet chuckle slips out of him. “You think poutin’ is gonna help?” He murmurs, his voice softer now. “Like I’m gonna feel bad for you?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

A laugh slips out of him. “S’fuckin’ adorable,” he breathes and just when you think you won, he grips your panties and thrusts, his thick dick tracing between your ass, tip pushing against the rough mesh of your panties, still not giving you what you want.

“So damn wet,” he groans as his balls finally slap against your pussy, skin against skin, the wet smack filling the room along with his moans as you whimper and whine. “Shit, I could probably get off just like this—”

You scoff through a sharp breath, feeling yourself getting closer and closer from the smacking of his balls against your clit alone, but you want more.

“Where the fuck are you goin’?” He laughs, catching you as you crawl forward like you've finally had enough, yanking you back, grabbing your panties in his fist, just to wrap them around the base of his cock, binding you together before he pushes deep in your pussy.

Your moans blend together, your head falling forward and his throwing back as he bottoms out completely.

“Oh—Oh shit, baby,” he groans, stalling out for a moment as your wet warmth surrounds him, your body squeezing him tight. So wet he’s pinching his eyes shut, thinking about anything else but the moment to keep from cumming on the spot.

His hips draw back, the panties tightening around his cock the farther he pulls away. The delicate stitching strains with it, sounding like it might snap.

He presses forward slow, watching his dick dip deep. The panties wrapped around him make his cock redder, the veins mapping each inch standing higher—until his body is flush with your ass.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan, rolling your hips a little, his blunt fingernails digging into your ass at the feeling.

The air knocks out of your chest as he pounds into you, the wet mess that he made squelching through the room, both of you sure you aren’t going to last much longer like this.

“Feels so damn good,” he grits out, one hand landing against your shoulder before dragging down your arm, searching for your hand. His fingers wrap tightly around yours, pinned against your back, your face coming down to press against the mattress as he cracks you at the perfect angle.

You whimper that you’re close, the words barely making it out of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m cumming,” Dean stammers, and his grip tightens around your hand, your pleasure enough for him to break, jaw tightening, brows furrowing, filling you up but refusing to stop until you finish.

You follow close behind him, pussy fluttering around his cock as it throbs inside you, leaving him sucking in a breath as you milk him dry.

Dean’s grip is still locked with yours when he finally shifts. The room around you is heavy with heat and sex, but the weight that had been sitting on your shoulders all night is gone.

He pulls you back against his chest, the two of you still on your knees, his skin damp and his heart thundering against your back as you both try to catch your breaths. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder and then another against the side of your neck, adrenaline leaving his lips trembling against your hot skin.

His arms wrap around you a little tighter, nuzzling into your neck like he can’t help himself.

“Good thing you wore these for me,” he mutters. “M’sorry, pretty. I’ll buy you a new pair, yeah?” You whimper as he pulls out, the loose panties tumbling uselessly off your hips.

Dean grabs for you, rolling you on top of him. Your hands rest on his chest while his big arms wrap around your body, keeping you close.

He looks up at you and sighs, brushing your hair out of your face, amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before he speaks.

“Fuck, that was incredible”—ding!

Your phone lights up in the pocket of your jeans half-hanging off the mattress. You blow out a shaky breath, muscles trembling, reaching over for it.

“A deal’s a deal,” he murmurs, warm against your skin, chuckling through the exhaustion. You pull your phone out and look back at it, a message telling you to come find him later, despite knowing full well where you are and who you’re with.

His palm rests solid on your hip, tracing slow circles over your skin absentmindedly.

Dean rolls his eyes and takes the phone from your hand, jaw tightening for half a second before he drops it onto the mattress.

“I don’t give a shit,” he murmurs quietly.

“You don’t care?” you whisper, and a little panic sets in. You can see it on his face. He cups your cheeks in his hands, guiding your gaze to him.

“Woah, bun. Just—no. ‘Bout you? Absolutely. About him? No. I don’t give a fuck. I mean, look at where I am, huh?” He mumbles, pulling you down into a kiss.

You let out a little sigh against his lips, relief and satisfaction mellowing you out.

You melt into him as his rough fingers trace lower, moving down your spine and back up. He smiles up at you before pulling you down into another kiss.

“I’m in,” you breathe and he hums out a satisfied groan that buzzes all the way to your toes. His grip on you tightens and you gasp when he rolls you beneath him.

“You serious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Dean stares at you for a second before dropping his head with a laugh, chain swinging loosely off his neck.

“Thank God.”

“What?” You ask curiously as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his messy hair.

“Would’ve been real fuckin’ awkward if I went downstairs and lost that bet to Logan.”

Your lips fall open in disgust, nose scrunching up. “You were betting on me?” And again, his eyes go wide as he scrambles to explain himself.

“Bunny—Baby, c’mon now,” he chuckles, his voice raspy and deep. “On us, alright?” He corrects himself. “And I’m just kiddin’, alright?”

You roll your eyes away and he grabs your cheeks with a single hand, turning your face back toward him.

“Besides,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly across your cheek.

“Besides what?”

“Shit wasn’t exactly a fair competition.”

“Why not?”

Your hand drifts down his arm, fingers tracing over the hard curve of his bicep before settling on his skin, squeezing and feeling the muscle tighten underneath when he leans closer.

The corner of his mouth lifts as his lips brush softly against yours.

“Hunter never stood a chance.”

never in your life you thought that you would end up on the porch of the hockey house. with dean and john. smoking weed. but here you are, pouring your soul out, while both guys listened.

“wait,” dean interrupted her, “so you guys did like… only missionary? nothing new, nothing exploring ?”

you sighed and shook your head, “he was like one of those guys who believed that sex is not necessary. i mean— it is not necessary for some people, we all have different levels of libido, that’s fine. i just haven’t met someone who could match my level, yet.”

logan nodded knowingly, “on what level is your libido? i mean how much crazy are we talking?”

you stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, “well… i’m pretty kinky.”

“oh”, dean smiled mischievously and leaned closer, “so what is it ? dirty talks ? praising ? choking ? roleplays ?”

“uh… everything, i guess.”

“shit, fuck that guy, use me.”

you froze for a second and then bursted out of laughter.

“god, you’re so fucking crazy, di laurentis.”

“can’t judge him, though,” logan said lazily, “it’s not every day when you meet someone who could match your wants.”

“do you think about what i think…?”

“dean, she’s not gonna agree.”

“come on, we didn’t even ask yet.”

“um… asked about what..?”

dean smiled charmingly before fully turning to face you, “did you ever tried to do threesome?”

your jaw dropped. logan looked away, as if already regretting what dean said, but dean didn’t look away, didn’t move. just waited.

“oh shit, you’re serious.”

“i’m always serious when it comes to threesomes.”

“idiot.”

“yeah, i’ve been told before.”

you sighed heavily, deciding whenever it’s good idea or not. i mean, college years are for trying something new and exploring things, right ?

“i didn’t. i mean threesome. never tried that shit.”

“it’s not that scary, though. me and dean had it like… many times.”

“wait, you two fucked the same girl countless times?”

“oh god, no!” dean immediately stepped forward, “we had like two girls at the same time. and for a while we thought about having one girl together. it’s just exploring new stuff, call it whatever you want. we promise to make you feel as comfortable as possible, we set whatever boundaries you need, just say yes.”

you were silent for a good 13 seconds and then raised your head, looking at both of them, “when i say stop — we’re stopping, no pressing further. and we ask before doing something crazy.”

“deal.” dean nodded enthusiastically and threw you over his shoulder, “now bedroom”

you laughed and hit his back, “i’m gonna kill you!”

“you wish, sweetheart.”

dean’s bedroom was large, bed was king size, big enough for three of them. logan smiled and turned off main lights, leaving only soft dim light from bedside lamp. dean behind you already took off his shirt and wrapped his arms around you from behind, nuzzling his nose against your neck. you melted immediately. logan’s smile softened and he walked closer to you. hands are resting on your hips as he leaned closer and pressed his lips against yours. logan tasted like apples and something spicy, you weren’t sure, but you never wanted to stop kissing him. your hands moving under his t-shirt, fingers slowly dancing over his skin, and when he sucked in air sharply? you smirked into kiss and pulled him closer.

dean’s hands working on the button of your jeans, pulling them down slowly, his fingers leaving hot trails on their way. your knees gets weak when he parted your thighs with his fingers.

“you good?”

“y-yeah…” you nodded shakily and bit down logan’s neck, making him hiss.

one by one, logan’s thumb and forefinger worked the clasp open, each hook letting go like a held breath. he didn’t rush.

“relax, gorgeous… i’ve got you.”

meanwhile dean’s tongue flicked on your inner thigh, making you cling onto logan’s shoulder like on a lifeline. dean knew exactly what he was doing, he’d done that countless times before, but this time feels special. dean's fingers hooked into the damp fabric at your hip, not pulling it down, just tugging it gently to one side — enough to bare your pussy, enough to let his breath fall hot against sensitive skin before he started eating you out.

you moaned loudly, hands clenching against logan’s chest. the air left your lungs, you felt so surreal right now. logan’s strong hands held you still, pressing soft kisses over your shoulder.

“shhh, gorgeous, you’re doing so good.”

dean ate you out like he was starving, son of a bitch, he was a way too good at it, “that’s it… ride my face, sweetheart.”

your hands wandered lower logan’s stomach, one hand pulling inside of his jeans. he groaned at the sudden touch and quickly took his jeans with boxers off.

“come here,” he whispered, making her stand on all the four. dean kept eating her from behind, but on the front ? logan gently moved the tip of his cock over her lips, before slowly pushing inside. you immediately sucked him in deep and gagged.

“shh, easy there. you’re doing so good, i’m so proud.”

you’re close, but you want him first. your rhythm shifts — tighter, quicker, your jaw relaxing as you take him deeper. his fingers tangle in your hair. your cheeks hollow. and then you feel it: the way he stops breathing entirely. logan’s hips jerked once, twice, and then his hand fisted your hair tightly, riding his orgasm.

“fuck… such a good little girl.”

dean picked up his pace, now one finger joined his tongue. then another one. he finger-fucked you thoroughly, paying attention to the every shiver, every shaky breath. when your walls started clenching around him ? he suddenly pulled away, making you whine.

“sorry, princess, be patient.”

he quickly rolled condom onto his cock and pushed inside you, making you both groan. logan kissed all over your face, comforting you.

“fuck, baby… you’re so tight.”

dean wasn’t the type who fucked fast, but he was the type who fucked hard. you know that he will probably leave bruises on your hips from how hard he’s gripping them. he slowly picked up his pace, when he found the exact spot that made you gasp.

you whined and wobbled uncontrollably, feeling too good right now, right on the edge, “dean… i’m gonna—”

“that’s it baby… squeeze me…”

dean thrusted exactly three times more, before you screamed, arching your back. you milked down every drop out of him and leaned against logan, feeling completely wasted. dean kissed you back before pulling out slowly and getting rid of used condom.

logan helped you to lay down on the bed and tucked you under the blanket. dean looked at them with quiet awe and lied down behind you. logan kissed your forehead softly before picking up his clothes and walking out of dean’s room.

“how is my baby feeling?” dean asked, his voice low and calm.

“good… finds out i love being praised.”

“i’ll make a note.”

“you should.”

he chuckled softly and kissed the top of your head.

The bass from the crowded party downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of Beau’s off-campus house, but up here in his bedroom the sound was muffled and intimate. You’d dressed for one purpose tonight: to drive Dean Di Laurentis and Beau Maxwell absolutely insane. The costume was pure sin: a tiny black pleated skirt that barely skimmed the bottom curve of your ass, a sheer crop top that clung to your breasts with a plunging neckline and no bra underneath, fishnet thigh-highs, and strappy heels that made your legs look endless. Every time you moved, the fabric shifted, flashing skin and promising more. You’d caught them staring all night: Dean’s hungry, loud stares and Beau’s quieter, smoldering ones.

You’d danced with both of them at once on the makeshift dance floor in the living room. Sandwiched between their hard bodies, Dean’s broad chest at your front, his hands gripping your hips possessively as he ground against you, and Beau behind you, steady and warm, one palm splayed across your stomach while his breath ghosted your neck. The three of you moved like one unit, sweat slick and heated. The unspoken tension that had been building for weeks finally crackled into something electric.

When the song ended, you didn’t step away. Instead, you laced your fingers with each of theirs and tugged them toward the stairs. “Come with me,” you said, voice low and sweet. They followed without hesitation.

Beau’s room was dimly lit by a single lamp. You locked the door behind you with a soft click, then leaned against it, smiling. “Happy birthday, Beau.”

Beau’s calm blue eyes raked over your body, slow and appreciative. A small, knowing smirk curved his lips. “If this is my present, I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

Dean let out a loud, shameless laugh, dragging a hand through his messy dark hair. “Jesus fucking Christ, look at you. I’ve been walking around with a semi all night because of that outfit. Is it embarrassing that I’m admitting it? Yeah. Do I care? Not even a little. You’re a goddamn tease, baby.”

Heat pooled between your thighs at their words. “Truth or Dare?” you suggested, tilting your head.

Both men agreed instantly, eyes gleaming.

You all settled on Beau’s large bed: Dean sprawled on one side, Beau leaning back against the headboard on the other, with you in the middle.

It started innocent.

Truth: Beau asked first, voice steady. “How long have you been thinking about us like this? Together.”

You bit your lip, cheeks warming. “A while. Months, probably. Watching you two on the ice, then off it… yeah. More than once.”

Dean grinned, loud and cocky. “My turn. Truth. I jerked off thinking about you in that exact fucking costume two nights ago. Came so hard I saw stars. No shame.”

You laughed, but the image made your nipples tighten visibly against the thin top.

Dare: You dared Dean to give Beau a ridiculous birthday lap dance. He hammed it up, climbing onto Beau’s lap and grinding dramatically while moaning exaggeratedly: “Oh yeah, big boy, you like that?” until all three of you were cracking up. Beau dared you next: sit between them and let them each kiss your neck for a full minute. Dean was eager and messy, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear, groaning against you. Beau was slower, more controlled: his lips soft at first, then teeth grazing, tongue soothing the sting. By the end, you were squirming, arousal slicking your thighs.

The game shifted fast.

“Truth,” you breathed, now sitting cross-legged, skirt riding high enough to show the lace edge of your thong.

Beau’s gaze dropped shamelessly between your legs before returning to your eyes. “Are you wet right now?”

“Yes,” you answered, voice husky. “Soaked.”

Dean groaned loudly, palming the obvious bulge in his jeans. “Fuck, babe. You’re killing me. My dick is throbbing. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.”

Beau’s voice stayed calm but roughened at the edges. “Your turn.”

You smirked. “I dare both of you to take your shirts off.”

Dean ripped his off immediately, revealing his athletic, hockey-toned torso. He flexed shamelessly, smirking. “Like what you see?”

Beau pulled his over his head more deliberately, exposing lean, defined muscle and smooth skin. Both of them were gorgeous: Dean all broad shoulders and chaotic energy, Beau with that quiet intensity.

“Dare,” Dean said immediately, eyes locked on your chest.

You stood up on the bed, heart pounding. “Take my top off, Dean.”

He was on his knees in front of you in a heartbeat, big hands sliding up your sides. “Goddamn,” he muttered, voice reverent as he peeled the sheer fabric over your head. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already hard. Dean cursed loudly. “Look at these perfect tits. So fucking pretty. Been dying to get my mouth on them.”

Beau’s eyes darkened. “My turn. Lose the skirt, baby. Slowly.”

You made a show of it, turning slightly and shimmying the tiny pleated skirt down your legs, stepping out of it in just your fishnets, heels, and black lace thong. The cool air kissed your skin.

“Fuck me,” Dean breathed, staring at the wet spot visible on your thong. “You’re drenched.”

“Truth,” Beau said, voice low. “Have you touched yourself thinking about both of us fucking you at the same time?”

Your breath hitched. “Yes. A lot. I’ve come to the thought more times than I can count.”

Dean’s hand pressed harder against his cock. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“Dare,” you whispered.

Beau’s command was calm but devastating. “Take the thong off. Sit back, spread your legs, and show us that pretty pussy.”

Heart hammering, you hooked your thumbs in the lace and slid it down, kicking it aside. Naked except for the thigh-highs and heels, you leaned back against the pillows and slowly parted your thighs. Your folds were glistening, swollen, and exposed under their heated stares.

Dean’s eyes were wide, shameless. “Holy shit. Look how wet you are. All shiny and ready for us. You’re dripping down your thighs, baby.”

Beau moved first, crawling between your spread legs with deliberate grace. “So beautiful,” he murmured, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss directly over your clit. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, and you moaned, hips bucking. Dean leaned in on your other side, capturing a nipple in his hot mouth and sucking hard while his hand kneaded your other breast, pinching lightly.

The game dissolved completely.

Beau ate you out with focused hunger: long, slow licks followed by tight circles around your clit, two thick fingers curling inside you, stroking that perfect spot. Dean was loud and filthy the whole time, murmuring praises against your skin: “That’s it, moan for us. You taste so fucking good, don’t you? Look at you falling apart already.” You came hard, thighs clamping around Beau’s head, crying out their names as pleasure crashed through you.

They switched. Dean dove in messily, enthusiastic and starved: sucking your clit, fucking you with his tongue, moaning vibrations into your core while his fingers pumped. Beau kissed you deeply, swallowing every whimper, his hand rolling your nipples. You came again, shaking, soaking Dean’s chin.

You needed more. Pushing them onto their backs, you stripped their remaining clothes. Dean’s cock was thick and flushed, curving up proudly; Beau’s was long, veined, and leaking at the tip. You stroked them both, alternating kisses and licks until they were groaning: Dean loud and begging, Beau gripping the sheets with white knuckles.

You straddled Beau first, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands settled on your waist, steady and guiding, thumbs stroking your skin as you hovered over him. You wrapped your fingers around his thick length, stroking him slowly while lining him up with your entrance. The broad head nudged against your soaked folds, teasing both of you.

“Fuck, baby,” Beau breathed, voice low and rough, eyes locked on where your bodies were about to join. “Take me. Want to feel every inch of you.”

You sank down inch by inch, gasping at the delicious stretch. Beau filled you completely: long and hard, pressing against every sensitive spot inside. When your ass finally met his thighs, you both moaned. You paused, adjusting to his size, rolling your hips experimentally. The friction made sparks shoot up your spine.

Dean knelt beside you, one hand cupping your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, the other sliding down to rub slow circles over your swollen clit. “Ride him, sweetheart. Let us watch you take his cock like the good girl you are.”

You started moving, rising and falling in a slow, deep rhythm. Beau’s grip tightened on your hips, helping guide you, thrusting up to meet you every time you sank down. The wet, obscene sounds of your pussy sliding along his shaft filled the room. Your breasts bounced with every movement, and Dean leaned in to suck one nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing lightly.

Beau’s calm exterior cracked just enough for low, guttural groans to escape. “So fucking tight… so wet… you feel incredible,” he praised, one hand sliding up to squeeze your breast while the other stayed on your hip. His abs flexed beneath you with every thrust, eyes heavy-lidded but never leaving your face.

You rode him harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis on every downstroke, chasing that perfect angle. Dean’s fingers on your clit sped up, and soon you were trembling, inner walls clenching rhythmically around Beau’s cock as another orgasm ripped through you. Beau cursed softly, hips snapping up to prolong it, fucking you through the waves until you were breathless and shaking.

After you came down, Dean’s patience snapped. He pulled you off Beau with a playful growl and flipped you onto your hands and knees in one smooth motion. “My turn, baby. Been dying to fuck this pretty pussy from behind all night.”

You arched your back instinctively, presenting yourself to him. Dean knelt behind you, hands spreading your cheeks so he could watch as he dragged his thick cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. Then he thrust in deep in one powerful stroke, bottoming out with a loud groan. “Holy fuck: so warm, so fucking tight. Gripping me like you were made for this.”

He set a hard, punishing pace immediately, hips slapping against your ass with every deep thrust. The angle let him hit that sweet spot inside you relentlessly. One of his hands tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you moan louder, while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave marks. Dean was shamelessly vocal the entire time: “That’s it, take my cock. You love getting fucked like this, don’t you? Look at you: ass up, pussy dripping down my balls. So goddamn perfect.”

Beau shifted in front of you, kneeling so his cock was level with your mouth. You eagerly took him in, sucking him deep while Dean railed you from behind. The dual sensation was overwhelming: Dean’s relentless thrusts pushing you forward onto Beau’s length. The room filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin, your muffled moans, and Dean’s filthy commentary.

“Fuck, watching you suck him while I pound you… I’m not gonna last,” Dean grunted, slamming into you harder, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke. Beau’s hand stroked your hair gently, even as his hips rocked forward, fucking your mouth with controlled thrusts. “Good girl… just like that.”

The pressure built fast. Dean reached around to rub your clit again, and you shattered, coming hard around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing him. Dean followed with a loud, broken shout, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, hips jerking with every pulse. Beau pulled out of your mouth just in time, stroking himself and painting your tongue and chest with hot ropes of cum.

You lost count of how many times they made you come: switching positions, hands and mouths everywhere, until exhaustion finally claimed you.

Dean’s smirk deepened as he pinned you against the wall, one strong arm braced beside your head, his body crowding close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him. His eyes flicked to your mouth. “Heard all about the warning the first day. Every guy on the team got the same lecture, lay a hand on you and I’m benched for the season.” He chuckled quietly. “Makes me want to see just how far he’ll actually go to stop me.”

You shoved him off hard, chest heaving. “Keep dreaming. It’s not worth the risk for you.”

“Risk makes it more fun,” he shot back, stepping in again before you slipped away.

But Dean didn’t stop pushing boundaries.

The next weekend at the crowded campus club, the bass thumped through the dim lights and flashing strobes. You were dancing with friends when strong hands settled on your hips from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him, his scent, the familiar press of his letterman jacket, the way his fingers splayed possessively over your dress.

Dean leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he moved with you to the rhythm. “Can’t take my eyes off you tonight,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “This dress should be illegal.” His hands slid lower, gripping just below the curve of your ass, guiding your hips back against his in a slow, filthy grind that matched the heavy beat. Your bodies were pressed flush, every roll of his hips letting you feel the growing hardness straining against his jeans.

“Dean, back off,” you warned, even as your body betrayed you by moving with him.

“Why? You feel too damn good like this,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe. “Bet you’d feel even better in my bed.”

You tried to step away, but the crowd and his hold kept you close. He spun you to face him, one hand staying on your lower back while the other tilted your chin up. His face hovered inches from yours, eyes dark and locked on your lips, breath mingling hot and sweet from the drink he’d been nursing. “C’mon, just one taste,” he breathed. For a heartbeat, it felt inevitable, he leaned in, so close you could almost taste him, the tension crackling between you like static. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Then he pulled back at the last second, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth as he brushed his thumb across your bottom lip. “Still gonna make me wait?” he teased, voice husky. “Your loss, baby.” Before melting back into the crowd like he hadn’t just left you aching and furious.

It happened again two nights later at another club. This time he found you at the bar, crowding you against the counter, his thigh slipping between yours as he reached past you for a drink. His body pinned you there, chest to chest. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said with a grin. “But I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you muttered, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.

He leaned closer, lips grazing your jaw. “Your dress is riding up those thighs again. Can’t stop imagining sliding my hands under it… or what you’d sound like moaning my name.” Each time you pushed, he backed off just enough to keep it from crossing the final line, always testing, always leaving you flushed and breathless with one last whispered taunt: “Next time you won’t stop me.”

It all came to a head one night when you were walking home and the sky opened up in a sudden downpour. Headlights cut through the rain, and Dean’s car pulled up beside you. He jumped out without hesitation, shrugging off his letterman jacket and draping it over your shoulders before guiding you into the passenger seat. The heater blasted warm air as he climbed back in, soaking wet himself, and the two of you sat in tense silence until your fingers brushed when you both reached for the thermostat at the same time.

“Didn’t mean to crowd you there,” he muttered.

“It’s fine. You’re the one who’s soaked, go ahead and adjust it.”

He turned the heat up higher, then glanced over at you. “What were you doing walking out here in this mess?”

You shrugged, staring out at the rain-streaked window. “Thought I had plans with a guy, but he ghosted me right when the storm hit.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Guy’s a complete moron.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “You’re stunning. That body… I’ve been fantasizing about it for weeks. Can’t stop picturing how perfect it would look underneath me, all flushed and needy.”

Your pulse hammered. “Take that backroad and pull over.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You sure?” he asked, already steering toward it. The car rolled to a stop on the quiet, tree-lined road. The second the engine cut, you climbed over the console and straddled his lap, crashing your mouth to his. Dean kissed you back instantly, deep and hungry, tongue sliding against yours as his hands gripped your hips.

“Fuck, finally,” he groaned against your lips, rocking you down against the hard bulge of his cock. The thick ridge pressed right against your core through your soaked panties and his damp jeans. The friction was immediate and intense, rough denim grinding up against your clit with every deliberate roll of his hips. You gasped into his mouth as he tightened his hold, guiding you in slow, filthy circles that dragged your aching pussy along his length again and again. The wet fabric between you made everything slick and hotter, the seam of his jeans catching perfectly with each thrust upward.

“Dean…” you breathed.

“We’re stopping right here. Nothing past this,” you managed to gasp, pulling back just enough.

He nodded, eyes dark with raw need, breathing ragged. “Understood… shit, you feel too good. Just like this, baby. Ride me through our clothes.” Then he captured your lips again, devouring you as his hands stayed firm on your hips, pulling you down harder. “That’s it,” he murmured between kisses, voice wrecked. “Grind on my cock just like that. You’re so fucking wet I can feel it.”

He ground you against him relentlessly now, hips snapping up to meet every roll, the pressure building fast and merciless. The car filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, soft moans, and the wet drag of fabric on fabric. “Come on, let go for me,” he urged, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. His cock throbbed beneath you, rock-hard and twitching as you rode the rigid length through his clothes, your clit pulsing with every rough stroke.

Neither of you stopped. Dean’s grip turned bruising, pace turning desperate as he rutted up into you, chasing the friction. “Fuck, gonna come just from this,” he growled. Your thighs started to tremble, heat coiling tight and sharp in your belly until it shattered, you came hard with a broken cry against his mouth, hips jerking as waves of pleasure pulsed through you, soaking your panties even more. Dean groaned deep in his chest, hips stuttering as he ground you down one last time. “Yes, shit, me too,” he panted, spilling hot in his jeans, pulsing against you through the layers while he held you tight, riding it out together until you both slumped, panting and spent. “Goddamn… worth every risk,” he whispered against your neck.

The following Saturday, you showed up to the big home game wearing Dean’s oversized jersey, his number 44 boldly painted on your cheek in team colors. The fabric smelled faintly of him, clean laundry and that woodsy cologne he always wore. You slipped into the private box where your dad was already seated with a few boosters and alumni.

Your dad did a double take when he saw you, eyes narrowing first at the jersey, then at the painted number on your face. He gave you a long, hard look, jaw tight, but said nothing. The silence stretched for a beat before he turned back to the field, though you could feel his disapproval radiating off him.

Down on the rink, Dean was in the middle of warm-ups. His head snapped up mid-throw when he spotted you in the box. Even from a distance, you saw his grin widen, eyes darkening with heat as they raked over you in his number. He played like a man possessed after that, sharp passes, brutal tackles, and a cocky swagger every time he glanced your way.

Right after the final whistle blew on their win, your phone buzzed with a text from Dean: Locker room. Come after everyone clears out. Need to see you.

Your heart raced as you waited until the crowds thinned, then made your way down. The locker room was quiet and empty, the scent of sweat and soap lingering in the air. Dean emerged from the showers in a black hoodie and sweats, hair still damp. The second he saw you, he backed you into a shadowed corner, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head.

You reached up, fingers playing with the drawstrings of his hoodie, tugging lightly as you looked up at him through your lashes. “You played dirty out there… showing off for me?”

“Couldn’t help it when I saw you wearing my number like that,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Fuck, you look good in it. Makes me want to mark you up even more.” His gaze dropped to your painted cheek, thumb brushing over the 44. “Your dad see this?”

“He noticed. Gave me the look, but didn’t say a word.”

Dean smirked, leaning in closer. “Good. Let him wonder.” Then his mouth was on yours, hungry and demanding. The makeout session turned heated fast, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, his body pressing you harder into the wall as you melted into him. Your hands slid under his hoodie, nails grazing his bare skin while he groaned into your mouth.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you in the stands,” he rasped between kisses, hands sliding down to grip your waist. He pulled you flush against him, him slipping between thighs. “Grind on me again, baby. Just like in the car.”

You didn’t hesitate, rolling your hips against the growing bulge in his sweats. The friction built quickly, his hard cock pressing right against your core through the thin layers. Dean rocked up to meet you, guiding your movements with firm hands on your ass as you ground down in slow, needy circles.

“Shit, just like that,” he groaned against your neck, sucking a mark there. “You’re soaked already, aren’t you? Wearing my jersey does that to you?” His hips snapped up harder, the ridge of his cock dragging perfectly over your clit with every thrust. You whimpered, fingers tightening on his hoodie strings as the heat coiled tighter.

“Dean… we shouldn’t, not here,” you gasped, even as you kept moving with him.

“Yeah? Then why are you riding me like you can’t get enough?” He captured your lips again, deeper this time, tongue stroking yours in time with the relentless grind. The wet drag of fabric, your shared heavy breathing, and the occasional creak of the locker room benches filled the quiet space. He rutted against you desperately, hands kneading your ass as the pressure mounted.

You came first with a muffled cry into his mouth, thighs clamping around his leg as pleasure crashed through you. Dean followed right after, groaning low and wrecked as he spilled in his sweats, hips jerking against yours while he held you tight through it.

“Fuck… you’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, forehead resting against yours, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips. “But I’m nowhere near done testing those boundaries.”

The following week, the whole team and their families were invited to the annual hockey banquet dinner at the upscale downtown hall. As the coach’s daughter, you were expected to attend, seated among the players and boosters. You deliberately chose the seat between Tucker and Dean, the long emerald-green dress hugging your curves before flowing down with a daring slit that exposed one toned thigh up to mid-height. The color made your skin glow under the warm chandeliers.

Dean’s eyes had lingered on you from the moment you walked in, darkening with heat every time the slit shifted and revealed more leg. The moment the salads were served and your dad stood up to give his opening speech at the head table, Dean’s large hand slid under the tablecloth and rested possessively on your exposed thigh. His palm was warm, calloused from years on the ice, and he kept it there through the entire dinner, thumb stroking lazy circles at first while he pretended to listen attentively to your father’s words about teamwork and discipline.

You tried to focus on the conversation, nodding along as your dad talked about the season’s successes, but Dean’s touch was distracting. His hand slowly crept higher, inch by inch, fingers tracing the soft skin beneath the dress. Your breath hitched sharply when he reached your inner thigh, the side of his pinky brushing teasingly against your clothed pussy.

“Dean,” you whispered urgently under your breath, thighs pressing together instinctively. “What do you think you’re doing right now?”

He didn’t even glance at you at first, keeping his expression neutral for anyone watching. Then he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, voice low and rough with arousal, “Just enjoying the view under the table. You look too tempting in this dress, especially with that slit begging for my hand.” His pinky continued rubbing slow, firm strokes along your slit through the thin fabric of your panties, pressing just enough to make your clit throb.

You bit your lip hard, gripping your fork tighter. “We’re in public… my dad is right there,” you breathed, voice barely audible.

“Exactly why you’re going to stay quiet for me, baby,” Dean murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t want Coach noticing how flushed you are.” As he spoke, two of his fingers boldly slipped beneath the edge of your panties, finding your slick folds. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles over your clit, then dipped lower to tease your entrance, spreading your wetness as he worked you open.

Tucker glanced over briefly, oblivious, and made a casual comment about the upcoming playoffs. You forced a small smile and nodded, murmuring something vague in agreement while Dean’s fingers never stopped.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” Dean whispered again, lips curving into a smirk against your ear. “Been thinking about my jersey on you all week? Or was it the locker room that got you like this?” His middle finger pushed inside you just enough to curl teasingly, thumb taking over on your clit with steady pressure that had your hips twitching subtly under the table.

“Dean… please,” you whispered shakily, fighting the moan rising in your throat. “Someone’s going to see.”

“Then you’d better keep that pretty mouth quiet,” he replied softly, adding a second finger and pumping them slowly, deep and rhythmic while his thumb circled faster. “Or do you want me to stop?” His tone was cocky, knowing you wouldn’t ask him to.

You shook your head slightly, eyes fluttering as pleasure built despite the risk. Across the room, your dad continued his speech, completely unaware that his star player was fingering his daughter under the banquet table. Dean kept the pace torturously steady, whispering filthy praises between bites of food. “That’s my girl… clench around my fingers just like that” until your thighs trembled and you came silently, biting down on your lip to stay quiet, waves of heat crashing through you while Dean milked every last pulse with his skilled hand.

He finally eased his fingers out, casually wiping them on his napkin before flashing you a satisfied smirk. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Save the rest for later.”

A few minutes passed. Your dad finished his speech to polite applause, and a new speaker took the podium to discuss upcoming playoff strategies. The room settled back into quiet attention. Dean’s hand had returned to your thigh, tracing lazy patterns under the tablecloth, when you deliberately shifted and “accidentally” knocked your spoon off the table. It clattered softly to the floor.

You murmured a quiet excuse, slipped out of your chair, and ducked beneath the long tablecloth. The heavy fabric fell around you, concealing you completely. Dean’s legs were spread slightly in his seat. You didn’t waste a second. Your hands moved quickly, unzipping his pants and freeing his hard cock from his boxers. He was already thick and aching from teasing you earlier.

The moment your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, Dean’s hand slapped the table. “Fuck,” he hissed sharply.

A few heads turned nearby. He cleared his throat, forcing a casual tone. “Sorry about that. I hurt my back last practice and just moved the wrong way. Sorry again.”

You smiled around his shaft and took him deeper into your mouth, swirling your tongue along the underside. The new speaker continued at the podium, voice steady and professional.

Garrett, seated on the other side of Dean, leaned in slightly with a concerned frown. “You good, man? That back still bothering you from the last scrimmage?”

Dean’s fingers threaded through your hair under the table as you bobbed steadily, hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper. He kept his expression mostly neutral, but his voice came out a little rougher than usual. “Yeah… it’s nothing serious. Just tweaked it again when I sat down.” His thighs tensed hard beneath your hands as you sucked harder. “I’ll ice it after this thing’s over.”

You pressed forward, taking more of him until he bumped the back of your throat. Dean’s breath hitched sharply. He masked it with a short cough and shifted in his seat, jaw clenched tight.

Garrett chuckled quietly, oblivious. “You better. Coach will lose his mind if you’re not one hundred percent for the playoffs. Remember that hit you took in the third period last game? Looked brutal.”

Dean’s grip tightened in your hair, guiding you with subtle pressure as you worked him with wet, rhythmic strokes. A bead of sweat formed at his temple. “Tell me about it,” he replied, voice strained. He swallowed hard before continuing. “Felt worse than it looked… but I’m fine. Just need to stay loose.”

You hollowed your cheeks even more and increased your pace, sucking him with filthy enthusiasm. Dean’s free hand clenched into a fist on the table, knuckles whitening. His breathing grew heavier, though he fought to keep it steady.

“You see the new defensive schemes they’re running?” he managed, forcing the words out. “Might actually shut down Riverside this time.”

“Hope so,” Garrett replied, reaching for his water glass. “Their forward line is no joke. Hey, you catch the scout from the pros in the back? He’s been watching you all night.”

Dean’s cock throbbed heavily in your mouth as you took him deep again. Right then, Garrett asked for the bread. Dean had to lean forward and half-stand to reach the basket across the table. The movement pushed his hips up, driving his cock further into your mouth and straight into the back of your throat.

You gagged softly around his thick length, eyes watering, but didn’t pull away. Dean froze for a split second, a low, choked sound escaping him before he covered it with a grunt. “Here,” he said tightly, handing the basket over while remaining partially lifted. His cock pulsed against your tongue, buried deep as you struggled to relax your throat around him.

“Thanks, man.” Garrett took a piece and turned his attention back to the speaker.

Dean dropped back into his seat with a barely controlled exhale. His hand stayed buried in your hair, fingers flexing as he guided your head with more urgency. You resumed bobbing steadily, swirling your tongue and swallowing around him whenever he pushed deeper. His thighs trembled slightly under your palms. He fought hard to keep his face composed for the rest of the table, jaw locked and eyes fixed forward on the speaker, even as his cock throbbed hot and heavy on your tongue.

His control finally started to slip. His hips gave small, shallow thrusts up into your mouth, and his fingers tightened almost painfully in your hair. “Fuck,” he breathed so quietly only you could hear it. His cock swelled thicker against your tongue, pulsing hard. With a final, desperate push, he came. Hot, thick spurts flooded your mouth as he held you down, forcing you to swallow every drop while he rode out the intense orgasm in complete silence above the table.

When the last twitch faded, Dean exhaled shakily. He reached for his napkin with his free hand and dropped it under the table for you. You wiped your mouth and chin quickly, cleaning up any evidence. His hand then slid down to grip your shoulder, holding you in place for a few extra seconds while he scanned the room to make sure no one was looking your way. Once the coast was clear, he gave you a gentle push, helping guide you back toward your seat.

You slipped out from under the tablecloth and quickly scanned the room yourself. No one seemed to be paying any attention. You smoothed your dress and slid back into your chair as casually as possible.

Dean leaned over immediately, his lips brushing your ear. “That was fucking hot,” he whispered, voice still rough with satisfaction. His hand found your thigh again under the table, giving it a possessive squeeze.

The arena lights cast long shadows across the nearly empty parking lot as the post-game crowd had mostly dispersed. You stood near the side exit, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the biting cold, waiting for the guys to finish changing inside. The rival team had played dirty all night, and the tension still hung heavy in the air.

A tall, broad-shouldered defenseman from their tea, built like a tank with a fresh black eye and a menacing sneer, spotted you and stalked over, his boots crunching aggressively on the pavement. “Hey, sweetheart. All alone out here? I saw you watching me during the game. Bet you’re looking for a real man to warm you up.”

You took a quick step back, heart already picking up speed. “I’m waiting for friends. Please leave me alone.”

He ignored you completely. In two strides he had you backed against the cold brick wall, his massive frame trapping you. One hand clamped hard around your waist, fingers digging in painfully, while the other pinned your shoulder to the wall. “Friends? Fuck that. A pretty little thing like you needs someone who takes what he wants.” His breath was hot and foul against your cheek as he pressed closer, his body crushing you. When you shoved desperately at his chest, he laughed darkly and squeezed tighter, one hand sliding roughly up your side toward your chest. “Stop squirming. You’re not going anywhere…”

Pure fear flooded you. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you realized how completely isolated and overpowered you were. “Let go! No! Stop!” Your voice cracked with panic.

Dean came flying out of the exit and slammed into the rival like a freight train, ripping him off you. “Get the fuck off her!”

The guy recovered fast and swung wildly. His fist connected with Dean’s jaw in a heavy crack, snapping Dean’s head back. But Dean didn’t falter, he drove forward with a brutal punch to the rival’s face, then another to his ribs. The bigger man landed a solid hit to Dean’s side, grunting as they crashed into a parked car, fists flying in a vicious brawl. Dean was clearly winning, landing heavier, faster blows that had the rival staggering and bleeding from his nose and mouth.

“Dean!” you cried, legs shaky.

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker burst out seconds later. They rushed in, grabbing Dean’s arms and yanking him backward with effort as he kept swinging.

“Enough, man! He’s done!” Logan grunted, locking both arms around Dean’s chest.

Tucker helped haul him back. “You’re winning, but stop before this gets worse!”

The rival slumped against the car, spitting blood and clutching his face, but he didn’t try to come back, not with three guys holding Dean back.

“What the hell is going on out here?” Your dad’s voice boomed as he stormed out of the exit, eyes scanning the bloody scene: the rival battered against the car, Dean still breathing hard and straining against his teammates, and you pressed against the wall looking shaken.

You stepped forward on unsteady legs, voice trembling. “Dad… this guy cornered me against the wall. He wouldn’t stop. He pinned me, grabbed me hard, and kept touching me even when I begged him to let go. He was scaring the hell out of me. Dean pulled him off and… things got out of hand.”

Your dad’s face darkened with protective anger as he looked at the injured rival, then at you, and finally at Dean. He clearly understood, but the coach in him stayed in control. “I see exactly what happened.” He turned to Dean, jaw tight. “You and I need to go to my office right now to discuss this. Garrett..” he looked over, “..take her home. Make sure she gets there safe.”

Garrett nodded immediately, moving to your side and gently wrapping a supportive arm around your shoulders. “You got it, Coach.”

As Garrett guided you toward his car, you glanced back. Your dad was already steering Dean toward the arena entrance, voice low and serious, while Logan and Tucker stayed close. The rival slunk away with his own teammates.

“You okay?” Garrett asked quietly once you were inside the warm car, engine running.

You nodded, still rattled and shivering from adrenaline. “Yeah… thanks to Dean. He didn’t even hesitate.”

Dean had thrown himself into that fight without a second thought, even knowing there would be consequences.

The arena parking lot faded behind you as you sat in Garrett’s car, still wired from everything that had happened. “Can you take me to the hockey house instead?” you asked quietly. “I want to wait for Dean there… in his room.”

Garrett glanced over, then nodded without argument. “Yeah, no problem.”

On the short drive, he cleared his throat. “Just so you know… the whole house already knows you and Dean have been hooking up. Nobody cares. We’re not gonna say shit to your dad. For once it’s not us pulling used condoms out of the shower drain, so we’re calling it a win.”

You let out a surprised laugh despite the night’s chaos, cheeks warming as you hugged your arms around yourself.

–

Inside Dean’s room at the hockey house, you’d changed into one of his oversized team shirts. The fabric swallowed you, his last name stretched across your back, and you kept only your panties underneath. You sat on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up, waiting.

The door finally opened. Dean stepped in, shoulders rigid with leftover tension, jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t noticed you yet, his mind clearly still replaying the fight. But the second his eyes landed on you, curled up in his shirt, waiting for him in his space, all that tightness melted away. His expression softened, the fight draining out of him in an instant.

He had a fresh cut on his forehead still oozing blood, a darkening bruise blooming across his cheek, and a split lip. He looked rough, but alive.

You slid off the bed and crossed to him without hesitation. Gently, you pushed his messy hair back behind his ear, then let your thumb trace slowly along his bruised jawline. You leaned in and kissed him softly, careful of his injuries.

He caught the back of your neck before you could pull away. “If you’re gonna kiss me,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “kiss me like you mean it.”

“But your lip..”

Dean didn’t let you finish. He pulled you in and kissed you hard, ignoring the pain. He winced against your mouth but didn’t stop, pouring everything left in him into it, relief, hunger, possession. You melted into him for a long moment before finally drawing back.

You glanced down and saw his knuckles: raw, bloody, and already swelling. Without a word, you took both his hands and led him into the small attached bathroom. You pushed him gently down onto the closed toilet seat, then ran a clean rag under warm water.

Carefully, you washed the blood from his knuckles, then dabbed softly at the cut on his forehead and the mess on his face. When your eyes met his, Dean was staring up at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth, like you were a goddamn miracle.

“Garrett, Logan, and Tucker know,” you said quietly, rinsing the rag.

He nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his split lip. “Yeah… figured they would.”

He hesitated, then added, “And my dad knows too.”

Your gaze stayed steady on his. “What?”

“He had suspicions for a while,” Dean explained, voice calm but tired. “Especially after you showed up to that game with my number on your cheek and wearing my jersey. You’d never done that before. Then you started hanging around me more, and tonight sealed it. He put it together.”

Your heart beat faster. “What did he say?”

Dean let out a slow breath as you continued cleaning his face. “He was wary at first. Told me straight up he was planning to bench me for a few games because he knows my history with girls. But then he admitted he’s seen the change in me since we started this. And after tonight… after seeing me ready to risk everything to keep you safe… he changed his mind. Said he’s okay with it. But if I ever break your heart, I’m off the team. No discussion.”

You paused, rag hovering near his cheek. Dean reached up, gently catching your wrist, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

“I’m not planning on breaking anything,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Not when it comes to you.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, still careful, but this time with a little more heat, a silent promise of your own. Outside the room, the distant sounds of the house carried on, but in here it was just the two of you, bruises and all.

Dean caught your wrist gently, his thumb stroking over your pulse point as you finished wiping the last traces of blood from his split lip and bruised cheek. The tension in the small bathroom had shifted, no longer just care and concern, but something hotter, heavier. His eyes darkened as they held yours, the air thick with everything unsaid from the night: the fear in the parking lot, the fight, the relief of being here together.

He stood, still holding your hand, and pulled you back into the bedroom without a word. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the two of you in the quiet glow of the bedside lamp. His room smelled like him, clean soap, faint sweat from the game, and something uniquely Dean that made your stomach flutter.

He stopped at the edge of the bed and turned to you, his big hands framing your face for a moment. “Been thinking about this for weeks,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Not just tonight. Every time you looked at me. Every time you wore my number. I need you.”

His fingers found the hem of the oversized shirt you were wearing, his shirt, his last name across your back, and he slowly peeled it up and off your body. You stood there in nothing but your panties as his gaze raked over you, hungry and reverent. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down your legs, dropping them aside. Then he guided you onto the bed, easing you back against the pillows.

Dean knelt between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider. He looked up at you one last time, eyes intense. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Before you could answer, he leaned in. The first slow, broad lick of his tongue along your slit pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. He groaned at your taste, the vibration traveling straight through you. “Fuck, you’re soaked for me already.”

He devoured you like a man starved, messy, relentless, and completely focused. His split lip brushed against your sensitive folds, but he didn’t flinch at the sting. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking in tight, perfect circles while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling against that spot that made your hips jerk. You fisted the sheets, back arching as pleasure coiled tight and fast in your core. He added a third finger, stretching you, pumping steadily while his mouth worked your clit without mercy.

Your thighs started to tremble around his head. “Dean, oh god!”

He hummed against you, doubling down until the orgasm crashed over you hard. You came with a broken cry of his name, clenching around his fingers as waves of heat rolled through your body. He licked you through every pulse, gentler now, drawing it out until you were panting and boneless beneath him.

Dean rose up, stripping off his shirt and shoving his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang free, thick, hard, and flushed. He reached into the nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom. You watched as he tore the packet open with his teeth and rolled it down his length with steady hands, even as his bruised knuckles protested.

He climbed over you, bracing on his forearms so he could look down at your face. Bruises and all, he had never looked more beautiful.

“You sure?” he asked, voice strained with need but still checking in. His thumb brushed your bottom lip. “This is your first time with me… I want it right.”

“Yes,” you whispered, reaching up to touch the bruise on his cheek. “I want you, Dean. All of you. Please.”

He kissed you deeply, wincing once at the pull on his split lip but not stopping. Then he reached down, lining the thick head of his sheathed cock against your entrance, slick from your orgasm. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open with a delicious burn. You both moaned as he sank deeper, the fullness overwhelming in the best way. When he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, he buried his face in your neck, breathing hard.

“Shit… so fucking tight,” he rasped. “You feel perfect.”

He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, his body trembling with restraint. Then he started moving,deep, rolling thrusts that built gradually. Every snap of his hips dragged against that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks up your spine. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure mounted again.

Dean fucked you harder, more desperate now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room along with your gasps and his low, guttural groans. He reached between your bodies, thumb circling your swollen clit in time with his thrusts. Your second orgasm hit even stronger than the first, ripping through you as you clenched tight around his cock, crying out his name.

That was all it took. With a deep, broken moan, Dean thrust into you as far as he could go and came hard, hips jerking as he spilled inside the condom, pulsing with every wave. He stayed buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing raggedly in the quiet aftermath.

After a long moment, he carefully pulled out, disposed of the condom, and rolled to the side, pulling you against his chest. His arms wrapped around you protectively, one hand stroking down your back as he pressed soft kisses to your temple, careful of his injuries.

“Worth every single bruise,” he whispered against your skin. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“

“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”

“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.

The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.

“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”

“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”

“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.

Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.

“See? This isn’t so bad.”

You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.

There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.

“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”

“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.

You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.

You fail.

***

Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.

Except.

Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.

She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.

And Dean can’t look away.

“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”

But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.

Huh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”

“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.

Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”

“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.

“That depends on your definition of good.”

Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”

You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.

“Are you having fun?” He tries again.

“Not particularly.”

“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”

“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”

Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.

“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“So why are you here?”

You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”

“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.

“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”

You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.

“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.

And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.

“Dude,” Logan says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“She just …”

“Yeah.”

“That never happens to you.”

“I know.”

Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”

“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”

“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”

“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking nicely?”

Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”

“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”

Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”

“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”

“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.

Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”

Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.

“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”

“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”

“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”

Logan and Maggie exchange a look.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.

“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.

But Dean’s already moving.

***

You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.

“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.

“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”

“We will. Thank you so much.”

You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.

You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.

“You’re good at that,” Dean says.

You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”

“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.

“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.

“But you know of me.”

“Everyone knows of you.”

“And what does everyone say?”

You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.

“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.

“True.”

“That you’re charming.”

“Also true.”

“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”

“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”

“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.

“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”

“You are just some guy.”

“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”

“I don’t need hyping up.”

“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.

“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”

“It’s Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So don’t you ever take a break?”

“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?”

“So I can text you.”

“Why would you text me?”

“To ask you out.”

You blink. “No.”

“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”

“You think that’s all this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”

“Let me at least walk you to the front-”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”

You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. I’m Ubering.”

“Already? We just got here!”

“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”

Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”

“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”

“Dean was talking to you.”

“Dean talks to everyone.”

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”

“He asked for my number.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Is that really so shocking?”

“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”

“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I really am.”

Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Be safe.”

You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.

And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.

***

“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”

“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.

“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”

“Correct.”

“And then she called an Uber and left.”

“You’ve got it.”

Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”

“This girl Dean’s obsessed with,” Garrett says cheerfully.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”

“I have not.”

“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”

Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”

“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”

“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.

Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.

The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.

“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”

“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”

“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.

He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.

He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.

He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.

And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.

“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.

“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”

Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.

He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.

A future that apparently doesn’t include him.

Well.

Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

***

You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.

(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)

You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.

(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)

By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.

“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”

“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”

“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”

“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”

“Maggie.”

“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”

“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”

“You sound like a robot.”

“I sound focused.”

“You sound scared.”

That stops you. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”

“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”

“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.

You stare at the screen.

“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”

“You gave him my number?”

“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”

You read the text again. And again.

You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Three dots appear immediately.

Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks

You: That’s not how libraries work

Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author

Despite yourself, you smile.

You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl

Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking

Dean: what if we were friends?

You blink at the screen.

You: Friends?

Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do

You: You want to study with me

Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win

You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?

Dean: scout’s honor

You: Were you even a scout?

Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?

You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.

You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-

Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?

You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm

Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends

You: You’re ridiculous

Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you

You are. You don’t respond.

Dean: see you tuesday, friend

You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“We are!”

“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.

And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.

“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.

“Friends,” Dean confirms.

“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”

“It will.”

“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

Because Garrett’s probably right.

But as far as Dean’s concerned?

This is only the beginning.

***

Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.

One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.

Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.

Three: He’s a terrible liar.

“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”

You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”

“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”

“There’s a handbook?”

“Absolutely. Chapter three, section two: Thou shalt attend thy friend’s athletic events and cheer loudly.”

“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”

“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”

“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”

“You sound like Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”

Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”

“Is it working?”

You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”

“I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”

“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.

***

Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.

“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”

They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.

“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.

“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.

“She said she would.”

“And you believe her?”

Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.

“She’ll be here,” he says.

And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.

You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.

Then you see him looking, and you wave.

It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.

“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.

Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.

He can think about you later.

***

Hockey is violent.

This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.

“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.

“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”

“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”

“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”

You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.

“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.

Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.

“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was totally for you!”

“We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.

The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.

“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.

“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”

This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.

Right?

With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.

***

Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.

His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.

“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”

“That was Tucker’s idea.”

“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”

“I’ve tried that. She said no.”

“So try again!”

“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”

But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.

He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.

Is it manipulative? Maybe.

Is it ridiculous? Definitely.

Is he going to do it anyway?

Absolutely.

He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-

CRACK.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.

“ON PURPOSE?”

“Keep your voice down-”

“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”

So much for subtlety.

Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.

“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”

“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”

“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”

“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.

***

You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.

“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”

“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”

You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”

“Uh-”

“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.

Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.

“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-

“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”

“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”

He opens his mouth obediently.

“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”

“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.

“Show me.”

Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.

“This is going to sting,” you warn.

“I can handle—OW.”

“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”

He stays still.

“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”

“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”

“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”

“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”

“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”

“Ouch.”

“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”

“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.

Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”

“Sorry. Friends. I know.”

“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”

You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”

“I’m good at hockey.”

“You just got hit in the face.”

“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”

“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”

“You’re really worried about me.”

“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”

“But especially me.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”

The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.

“Y/N-”

“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”

“Will you be there?”

“Dean.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”

“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”

“But you handled this one.”

“Because Garrett came and got me.”

“Lucky me.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”

“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”

“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”

“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”

“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”

“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”

You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.

“You should stay here and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.

“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

“That’s fair.”

He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.

“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”

“I need to take you home first.”

“We have an Uber-”

“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re-”

“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”

“Maggie!” You elbow her.

But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.

His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.

“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.

“You missed the turn,” you point out.

“Did I?”

“Dean.”

“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”

“You’re not concussed!”

But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.

When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.

“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”

He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.

But he’s tired of pretending.

“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”

You’re staring at him.

“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”

“Dean-”

“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”

The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.

Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Your lip,” you say.

“What about it?”

“I said no kissing for a week.”

“You did say that.”

“So this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“It could get infected.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

“We’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is-”

He kisses you.

Or you kiss him.

Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.

You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.

“Your lip,” you gasp.

“Don’t care.”

“It’s going to start bleeding again.”

“Still don’t care.”

You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.

When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.

“I should go,” you say, not moving.

“Probably.”

“Maggie’s waiting.”

“Definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

“This was a one-time thing,” you say.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it.”

You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.

“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”

“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.

He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.

Worth it.

Completely, absolutely worth it.

His phone buzzes.

Garrett: so did your insane plan work?

Dean: better than i could have imagined

Garrett: you’re an idiot

Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n

Garrett: WHAT

Tucker: WHAT

Logan: FINALLY

Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.

And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.

Trying.

Failing.

“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.

The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.

Your phone buzzes.

Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had

You: I told you it was a terrible idea

Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty

You: I’ve noticed

Dean: so … still friends?

You stare at the message for a long time.

You: we’ll see

Dean: i’ll take it

Dean: sweet dreams, friend

You: goodnight Dean

You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.

What have you gotten yourself into?

And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?

***

The shift from library to living room happens gradually.

First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.

Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.

“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.

“We’re studying.”

“In his bedroom.”

“It’s more comfortable than the library.”

“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”

“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.

“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.

“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can I?”

Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.

***

Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.

“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.

“I’m just cleaning.”

“You never clean.”

“I clean.”

“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”

Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.

But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.

Even if it’s killing him.

The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.

You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.

You look perfect.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”

“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”

“Want to reschedule?”

“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.

***

Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.

Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.

“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Sure it is. I just used it.”

You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.

Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.

Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.

He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.

He should really wake you.

Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.

Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.

He’s in love with you.

The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.

But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.

He’s in love with you.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You sleep on, oblivious.

Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.

So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.

He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.

***

You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-

Your eyes fly open.

Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-

Oh god.

Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.

He’s still asleep.

You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.

But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?

“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”

“So?”

“So that’s not … we’re not …”

“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“We should talk about this.”

“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”

“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”

“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s consistently true.”

He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.

“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”

“I don’t snore!”

“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”

Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”

“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.

“We’re in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”

Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”

“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”

“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.

When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Last night … it was really nice.”

He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” he confirms.

You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”

You smile. “Good to know.”

And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.

Definitely not.

***

Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll turn around. I promise.”

He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.

Until you wake up tangled together anyway.

It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.

“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.

“Come here,” he says, and you do.

You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.

“This okay?” He murmurs into your hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is okay.”

And it is. It’s more than okay.

It’s perfect.

“look what I found” you say holding up the ribbon in your hands

“what are you going to do with that” he says barley looking up

“you” you say teasingly with a big grin across your face

that grabs his attention finally looking up at you

“wdym me” he says laughing gently

“I’m going to tie you up” you responded walking towards him

“and fuck you till you beg me to stop” you continue as you strap his lap

you slowly begin to kiss him. he wraps his hands around your waist intensifying the kiss. you take you shirt off and reach the hem of his. once his shirt is off you get up tossing your jeans some where in the room. he begins doing the same. after your both left in your underwear. he climbs in the bed again closet to the headboard now.

“so you going to tie me up or what” he says

“you’re going to regret it baby” you respond

you sit on him grabbing the satin pink ribbon and wrap it around his wrists and the headboard.

“is it to tight?” you ask with genuine concern

“not as tight as you” he says teasingly

“you’re disgusting” you respond laughing

you get off him. you slowly start to remove his boxers palming his dick in the process. a small groan escapes his lips. you fully remove the boxers his dick springing up. you noticed how hard he is the angry red tip pulsing.

“ so hard from me tying your hands” you say smiling

“you’re just so beautiful baby” he responds

you begin grabbing his dick in your hand plaming him slowly. your thumb spending the precum on it. your hand starts to speed up.

“ ughhh” an eruption of moans fall from his mouth

“faster baby” he says his face in pure bliss

“I’m almost there” he continues

that’s all you need to stop and remove you hand.

“ why’d you do that” he whimpers at the lost touch of your hand

“ because I promised to have you begging, you really thought I’d let you cum so easily” you say

you start to strip first you bra. he stares intensely at your boobs wishing he could touch them. you turn around and start stripping your underwear you do this slowly, bending over slightly. giving him a perfect view of your ass.

he’s painfully hard now. your soaking wet as you see him in this state.

“you ready” you say hovering over his dick

“yesss im so ready please i need you” he says between whimpers

you slowly hump him spreading your wetness over his dick, the friction alone has you moaning. you can’t take it anymore and slowly drop down on his dick. you feel ever inch fill you up. “ omg I forgot how big you are” you say in between moans. youre eyes roll back as he hits your sweet spot. you get use to him and slowly push your self up. you start slowly bouncing up and down him. both a moaning mess

“ omg your perfect baby” he says looking at you

the sight alone could make him cum you moaning his name, boobs bouncing, a mess just from his dick

“ fuckkk” you yell as his dick hits you sweet spot once more

“ughhhh baby faster please” he barely says his eyes rolling back

“I love hearing you beg” you say riding him faster

“fuck I’m almost there ohh yesssss” he says barly containing himself

“just a bit more baby” you respond fucking him harder

“please, pleaseeee let me cumm” he moans

“Okay cumm baby” you say coming close to release yourself

“omggg fuckkkkk” he says releasing his milky cum all over your thighs and in you

“fuckkkk” you say cumming with him

you’re both a mess. You ride your high off and get of him. a moan escaping you as that empty feeling fills you.

“you did so good baby” you say catching your breath

Quinn Hughes is a man of few words.

You are a woman of seventeen side quests before breakfast.

It works. Mostly because he lets you be unhinged and you let him have quiet moments to recharge.

---

You first met at a charity event. He was standing by the snack table, quietly debating whether eating a third granola bar would be frowned upon.

You, meanwhile, were in the middle of passionately explaining to a Canucks media intern why every NHL team should have a mascot fight night.

You talked for ten straight minutes. Quinn said maybe six words.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy acting out a hypothetical scenario where Gritty suplexes Carlton the Bear.

He asked for your number anyway.

You told your friends: *“He’s mysterious. I like it.”*

He told his friends: *“She’s kind of terrifying. I also like it.”*

---

Now, six months in, you’re somehow still functioning as a couple — despite the fact that you treat life like an improv show and he treats it like a silent meditation retreat.

---

Example A: The Morning Routine.

You:

Wake up at 6:37AM. Play music. Do a 3-minute dance workout. Text Quinn TikToks while he's still in the bathroom. Sing the *Succession* theme song into a hairbrush. Tell the cat your plans for the day. Forget what you were saying mid-sentence. Start again with something new.

Quinn:

Wakes up. Blinks. Sits on the edge of the bed while you narrate the weather, your dream from last night, and the fact that “we should get a trampoline, babe. For cardio.”

“Trampoline?” he repeats.

“Mini one,” you say, doing jumping jacks. “Very urban. Very compact. Very me.”

He just nods. “Okay.”

You kiss him on the forehead and sprint into the kitchen like you’re being chased. He hears a crash and a “don’t worry!!” from the other room.

He worries. But only a little.

---

Example B: Game Nights.

You’re not a chill WAG.

You scream when Quinn scores. You do the “W” arms. You bring homemade signs that say “HUGHESY OR BUST.” You once got gently scolded by Rogers Arena staff for throwing confetti. It was biodegradable.

After the game, Quinn finds you bouncing on your toes outside the locker room.

“I MADE A FRIEND,” you announce. “Her name is Bethany and she said I have ‘excited golden retriever energy,’ so obviously we’re going to start a book club.”

Quinn, towel around his neck, just smiles and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You’re sweating,” he says.

“I WAS YELLING.”

“I could tell.”

---

Example C: Living Together.

You narrate everything. Every thought. Every passing idea. Every weird Twitter thread you read that day. Sometimes in accents. Sometimes mid-pilates.

You also:

* Jump-scare him with songs from musicals

* Collect mugs you’ll never use

* Give the cat a new middle name every week

Quinn just… lets you.

He grounds you.

---

“You’re so calm,” you say one night, flopping dramatically across his lap as he scrolls on his phone.

“You’re so loud,” he replies, grinning as you poke his ribs.

“Admit it,” you say. “You like that I keep things interesting.”

“You climbed the fridge yesterday.”

“I was getting the peanut butter. That’s just resourceful.”

“You also told a delivery guy he had ‘good aura’ and then gave him a banana.”

“THE VIBE WAS RIGHT,” you say defensively.

He laughs. “I know. I love it.”

You pause. “Wait, really?”

He kisses your forehead. “You’re fun. Like, once-in-a-lifetime fun. You make life loud — in a good way.”

You blink.

Then: “You’re getting laid tonight.”

---

Quinn’s POV, Later That Week:

You’ve dragged him to a candle-making class. He’s not entirely sure how. You’re wearing a headband that says “FIRE STARTER 🔥” and explaining wick placement like it’s rocket science.

He looks at you across the table flour on your cheek, eyes lit up with caffeine and ambition and thinks, *I’d follow her anywhere. Even into a Michaels craft store.*

You glance at him mid-rant. “Wait, are you paying attention?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. You said… pour the wax with love?”

You gasp. “YOU WERE LISTENING.”

Of course he was. He always is.

You bring the noise. He brings the peace.

Brendon scoffs slightly, “you’re ridiculous; my hands are masculine”

“They absolutely are, breakin bones every day, pushing your daughter on the swing, teaching her how to swim”

Brendon reaches over to you, pushing your hair out of your face, “you’re soft too y’know” he murmurs, “said motherhood never would suit you, said I’d find better”

You roll your eyes. Because what he’d said is true, when the topic of kids got brought up you’d said he’d be better off with a different woman. That there wasn’t much soft about you. And he’d changed your mind, patiently waiting, reminding you that he chose you, not something in the future. You. Now. Forever.

“I was wrong” you whisper, “I love being a mommy, I love being yours, I love the life we built”

Brendon pulls you closer, pressing kisses against your lips, cheeks and eyelids, only stopping when you pull away, “what?” He whispers.

“She’s up” you murmur, Brendon lifts his head up at that, and moments later a wide eyed toddler waddles into the master bedroom, “hi baby”

“Mama” She smiles, reaching her arms up in a signal that she wants up onto the bed. You pull her into the bed, letting her curl up in the middle of you and Brendon, “g’morn”

“Hi princess” you smile, she wiggles up against Brendon, pressing her entire body length against his chest, “oh you just want daddy huh?”

She grins as she sucks her thumb, “uh huh”

Brendon can only smile, “did you sleep good princess?”

Edith nods.

The morning continues like that, soft. Sweet. Feeding your three year old her pancakes, trying to wipe the syrup off her face, “you’re not on call until later right?” You ask Brendon, watching as he swallows his coffee.

“Yeah, until ten- so I’ll be home around eleven”

You nod, “was thinking of going to the farmers market”

By mid morning Brendon has Edith wrapped against his chest, ball cap pulled low as you wander through the vendors, picking up strawberries and pastries for the week.

His family is something Brendon rarely mentions, mostly because he likes the privacy. And because it’s relatively looked down upon that the woman he used to do knee reconstructions and acl and mcl surgery on is now his wife.

“Are you married?” Emma Nolan asks as she looks up from the charts, “today- was that you. The farmers market on fifth and ninth?”

Brendon nods, “yeah. Been together for about six years, had our daughter three years ago”

He doesn’t explain much, doesn’t feel the need to do more than confirm or deny.

When he comes home you’re curled in bed, on his side of the bed. You say it’s because it smells like him and you miss him in your sleep. He gently lifts you, easily placing you back to where you usually sleep, but you grunt a little. Eyes fluttering open, “you’re home” you whisper, “baby keeps” you wave your arm, “wiggling”

Brendon smiles, body soft and pliant as you curl back up to him, “night wifey”

―Hey, hey, gentle with the volume, big guy. You're in a hospital, not the rink,― you said, your voice soft, sweet, and completely relaxed. You didn't sound like a stern doctor or an older nurse; you sounded exactly like what you were—a fellow student who was completely unbothered by their imposing size. You gave them a reassuring, gentle smile. ―Bring him right into cubicle three. Let's get him off his feet.―

The four hockey players stopped in their tracks, their eyes locking onto you simultaneously. Logan let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for miles and immediately nodded, guiding Tucker through the privacy curtains of the cubicle you had pointed out.

You quickly snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves, moving into the small space with an easy grace. Tucker was sitting on the edge of the examination cot, staring blankly at the floor, his breathing shallow and rapid. He was trembling. Classic early-stage shock.

You stepped right into his line of sight, bending down slightly so you were eye-level with him, and placed a gentle, comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder.

―Hey,― you said softly, your tone incredibly sweet and soothing, a perfect contrast to the sterile chaos around you. ―I'm the psychology intern on duty tonight. I know everything feels super overwhelming right now and it hurts like crazy, but you're totally safe. We're going to get you sorted out, okay? Can you tell me your name and let me know exactly what happened?―

Tucker blinked, his eyes slowly focusing on your face. His lips parted, but his throat clicked; the shock had completely locked him up. He couldn't form a coherent sentence, his gaze drifting back down to the blood-soaked towel in his lap.

―He's completely checked out, he hasn't said a word since the car,― Logan said, stepping closer to the cot. He was watching you closely, his brow furrowing as he studied your face under the harsh lights. Suddenly, a spark of pure recognition lit up his eyes. ―Wait... hey, I know you. You're in the psychology department, right? We're literally in the same neuroanatomy lecture this semester. You sit a few rows ahead of me on the left.―

You glanced up at Logan, offering him a quick, genuinely bright smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. ―Oh, yeah! With Professor Hayes, right? His slides are absolute torture. It's really nice to officially meet you, even if the vibes in here are a little messy tonight. What's your friend's name?―

―John Tucker,― Logan answered instantly, his posture visibly relaxing just from the casual, friendly way you were talking to him. ―And I'm Logan. We were back at the house, and Tuck here was trying to be a chef. The knife handle was super greasy, his hand slipped, and he basically sliced his palm wide open. There was a ridiculous amount of blood. He freaked out, and honestly, we did too.―

―Okay, John, it's nice to meet you too,― you murmured, turning your attention back to the pale boy on the cot. ―I'm just going to take a little look, okay? I promise I'll be super gentle.―

With agonizing care, you began to peel away the layers of the bloody towel. You didn't flinch or make a face when the deep, clean laceration across his palm was revealed. It was definitely a nasty cut that was going to need a handful of stitches from the attending surgeon, but the bleeding had already started to slow down. You grabbed a thick, sterile pad from the counter, placed it firmly over the wound, and applied steady pressure, keeping your movements incredibly calm.

―Look at me for a second, John,― you said, your voice dropping to a warm, cozy whisper that felt like a safety blanket. Tucker raised his eyes to yours, completely captivated by how soft you were being with him. ―The cut looks scary, I know, but it’s actually really clean. You didn't ruin your hand, I promise. But you're breathing way too fast, and that's making you feel dizzy. Let's do a little teamwork, okay? Just mirror me. Inhale nice and slow... and let it out. There you go. Just like that. You're doing awesome.―

As Tucker began to synchronize his breathing with yours, the tight knot of panic in his chest began to unravel. The sheer sweetness of your demeanor was doing more to stabilize him than any medical monitor could.

But behind Logan, the entire atmosphere of the cubicle had taken a massive, absurd turn.

Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis had been standing by the curtain, fully prepared to pace around like caged animals. But the moment you had started talking, the moment that sweet, melodic voice of yours had filled the small space, both of them had completely frozen.

Garrett was staring at you with his mouth slightly open, his dark eyes locked onto your face with an intensity that could have melted ice. He had never seen anyone like you. On campus, girls practically tripped over themselves to get his attention, putting on acts or trying way too hard to impress the hockey captain. But here you were, a girl exactly his age, wearing oversized scrubs, completely ignoring the fact that he was a campus celebrity, and speaking with a gentleness that was making his chest ache in a way he couldn't explain. He watched the way a few stray hairs fell across your cheek, the soft curve of your lips as you comforted Tucker, and the absolute focus in your eyes. He was completely, utterly floored.

Next to him, Dean Di Laurentis was having an identical internal meltdown. His usual lazy, arrogant smirk had completely vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated wonder. Dean prided himself on being smooth, on always having the perfect line, but his brain had just short-circuited. Hearing you call Tucker ―John― in that soft, caring voice made a wave of intense possessive jealousy hit him so hard it left him breathless. He didn't want you looking at Tucker like that. He wanted those soft eyes on him. He wanted that beautiful, comforting voice directed entirely at his own ears.

―Hey... uh,― Dean stammered, actually stumbling over his words as he took a step closer into your personal space, his massive frame towering over the side of the cot. He tried to summon an ounce of his usual charm, but it came out completely dorky and helpless. ―Hey, so... I think I'm having a literal medical crisis right now. My chest feels crazy tight, and my heart is doing this weird, fast thing. Don't you think you should check my pulse? Like, right now? I might pass out if you don't talk to me like that.―

You stopped guiding Tucker's breathing for a fraction of a second, tilting your head back to look up at Dean. You blinked your big eyes, completely amused but keeping your tone sweet and light.

―Oh, wow, an immediate heart issue? That sounds super serious,― you said, a playful little smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you looked at his perfectly healthy, flushed face. ―But since we're the same age, I can tell you classmate-to-classmate that you look like you have way too much energy to be fainting. If your chest hurts, it's probably just the cold air from outside, but you can always ask the triage nurse at the front desk for an EKG if you're really worried.―

Garrett immediately shoved Dean out of the way with his elbow, stepping forward to take his place. He leaned over the cot a little, his broad shoulders blocking Dean entirely, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a desperate need to make you look at him the same way you were looking at Tucker.

―Don't listen to him, he's just an idiot,― Garrett said, his voice dropping to a low, husky register that he definitely thought sounded smooth, though his ears were slightly pink. ―I'm Garrett, by the way. Garrett Graham. I just... I wanted to say you're doing an amazing job. Seriously. You're like, incredibly good at this. And you have a really, really pretty voice. If you need someone to help you hold anything... or if your hands get tired from holding that gauze, I'm right here. I have great grip strength. Just let me know.―

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a groan of pure secondary embarrassment. ―Oh my god. Are you two seriously trying to hit on the psych intern while Tucker is literally bleeding out on a gurney? You are being actual embarrassments to the entire athletic department right now.―

The sudden influx of loud, competitive energy from Garrett and Dean immediately ruined the quiet bubble of safety you had built for the patient. John Tucker, who had just managed to get his breathing under control, looked up at his two teammates. Seeing them flexing their shoulders and competing for your attention in the middle of his medical emergency made his anxiety spike all over again. His chest began to heave, and his face twisted in frustration and pain.

―Guys... oh my god, please stop,― Tucker groaned, closing his eyes and pressing his uninjured hand against his forehead. ―You're making my head pound... you're literally making me feel more sick. Just shut up.―

You saw the immediate negative shift in Tucker's psychological state, and your protective intern instincts flared up. You weren't going to let a couple of boyish egos mess with a patient's recovery, no matter how attractive or famous they were on campus.

You stood up straight, making sure your hand remained firmly and securely pressed against the sterile gauze on Tucker's hand. You turned your full attention to Garrett and Dean, looking at them with a soft but completely unyielding expression. You didn't scold them like an old professor; you spoke to them with the direct, easy authority of a peer who had simply had enough of their antics.

―Alright, boys, that's enough,― you said, your voice still incredibly sweet, but carrying a very clear, firm boundary that left absolutely no room for argument. ―Look at your friend. You're totally stressing him out. This is a super small cubicle, your voices are way too loud, and all this extra energy is making his blood pressure go up. I need this room to be completely quiet for him right now.―

Dean opened his mouth, looking like a teenager who had just been caught breaking curfew, his hands flying up in a defensive gesture. ―Wait, no, we didn't mean to—―

―I know you didn't mean to, but you're doing it anyway,― you interrupted gently, giving him a look that was both incredibly cute and entirely unyielding. ―So, I'm going to need you two to do me a massive favor and step outside. Go find the blue plastic chairs in the waiting room and hang out there for a little bit.―

Garrett looked absolutely devastated, his broad shoulders slumping as if he had just been benched during the finals. ―Come on, let us just stay in the corner. We won't say a single word, I swear. We'll be like statues.―

―No statues allowed tonight, Garrett,― you replied, using his name with an easy familiarity that sent a literal jolt of electricity straight down his spine. You gave them both a sweet, reassuring nod toward the curtain. ―The doctor is going to be in here any second to do the stitches, and it's already too crowded. Go wait outside like good guys. I promise I'll come out and give you a full update the second we're done here, okay? Do it for John.―

Dean swallowed hard, completely neutralized by the combination of your sweetness and your absolute firmness. ―Yeah... okay. If you promise you'll come find us, we'll go.―

―I promise,― you smiled angelically.

Logan chuckled, grabbing Dean by the shoulder and swatting the back of Garrett's jacket to get them moving. ―Move it, you two. You just got completely shut down by a psych major. Go sit in the penalty box.―

As Logan guided the two star players out of the cubicle, both Garrett and Dean turned around one last time before the curtain pulled shut. They looked like two giant, lovesick puppies, completely dazed and utterly captivated by you. The fact that you had just kicked them out with a smile and a soft voice had left them ten times more obsessed than if you had screamed at them.

You let out a soft, amused breath, shaking your head as the curtain finally closed, and turned back to the cot. Tucker was looking at you, his breathing rapidly returning to normal, a look of profound gratitude on his pale face.

―Thank you so much,― Tucker whispered, letting out a genuine sigh of relief. ―Seriously. If they stayed in here any longer trying to flex for you, I think I would have passed out from pure annoyance.―

―Don't worry about it at all, John,― you said softly, your sweet voice returning to that comforting, relaxed rhythm as you checked the gauze. ―Managing rowdy hockey players isn't exactly in my job description, but your peace of mind definitely is. Now, let's just keep taking those nice, slow breaths. The hard part is over, and you're doing so good.―

Meanwhile, out in the corridor, Garrett and Dean dropped heavily into the uncomfortable plastic chairs, staring blankly at the floor with matching, completely bewildered expressions, their hearts racing for a reason that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey.

A couple of weeks had passed since that chaotic Friday night in the emergency room. After making sure the surgeon took care of John Tucker's hand and giving the status report to Garrett and Dean in the waiting room—who practically melted in their seats when you stepped out to talk to them with your usual sweetness—you had gone right back to your university routine. Between third-year psychology classes, exams with Professor Hayes, and your internship hours at the hospital, you had barely found any time to think about the hockey team's star players.

However, they definitely hadn't forgotten about you. Logan had been looking for you in neuroanatomy class, and according to the rumors floating down the faculty hallways, Garrett and Dean had spent the last two weeks asking half the campus about ―the prettiest psych student in the hospital.―

That Saturday night, you decided it was finally time to take a breather. Your best friend, Gracie, had practically dragged you out of your room.

―I don't care how many case studies you have to read,― Gracie had declared while helping you pick out an outfit. ―We are going to Malone’s. You need a beer, loud music, and a reminder of what it's like to have fun with twenty-one-year-olds who aren't actively bleeding.―

Malone’s Pub was packed to the brim, as always. The air was thick with laughter, the smell of draft beer, old wood, and the shouts of students celebrating Briar’s latest victory. You were wearing dark jeans, a soft, pastel-colored knit sweater that fit a little oversized and draped casually off one shoulder, and you left your hair down, looking completely relaxed, fresh, and incredibly cute.

―I’ll grab the drinks, stay close to the bar so we don't lose each other in the crowd,― Gracie yelled over the music before sliding into the thick of the crowd.

You leaned against one of the bar's wooden pillars, taking in the atmosphere with a quiet smile. As a psychology student, you loved analyzing people, and tonight the bar was a goldmine of interesting college dynamics. In fact, you knew exactly where things stood with the guys on the team. Sharing a campus and being the same age meant gossip traveled fast: you knew all about Garrett’s romance with Hannah Wells—which had been the talk of the entire university—and you were also well aware of the intense, recent history between Dean and Allie Hayes. You were a silent observer, completely detached from their love lives, which gave you a very relaxed perspective on the whole scene.

Suddenly, a tense murmur rippled through the back area of the pub, near the pool tables. The laughter faded, and the festive vibe cut out instantly.

―What the hell is your problem, Davenport?!― Dean Di Laurentis’s deep, furious voice boomed through the space, instantly drawing everyone's attention.

You stood on your tiptoes to peer over the students' heads and saw everything. In the center of the pool hall stood Dean and Hunter Davenport, the star player from the rival university. Tension between Briar and opposing teams was always high, but Davenport seemed to especially enjoy provoking the guys.

You didn't know exactly what Hunter had said to Dean—probably something stupid and baiting about the team or about Allie—but Dean no longer had his usual lazy, amused look. He was livid. Davenport gave him a hard shove to the chest, and that was all it took for chaos to break out.

Dean launched forward like lightning, landing a clean right hook square on Hunter's jaw. The bar erupted into shouts. A classic college bar brawl ensued: shoves, glass cups shattering against the floor, and friends from both sides jumping in to tear them apart before the police or the pub's bouncers could show up. Garrett Graham appeared out of nowhere, using his massive frame to yank Dean back by his jacket, while Logan and other players held back the rival university guys.

―Let me go, Garrett! I’m gonna break his face!― Dean roared, his knuckles bloody and his adrenaline running a mile a minute, as Malone’s security finally pushed Davenport and his group toward the back exit to keep things from escalating any further.

The fight dissolved in a couple of minutes, leaving behind a trail of broken glass and a room heavy with whispers. Garrett and Logan dragged Dean toward one of the booths in the most secluded, darkest corner of the pub, trying to get him to calm down before the owner of Malone's decided to kick them out too.

You walked at an easy pace back toward the bar, where Gracie had just returned with two glasses of beer and eyes as wide as saucers.

―Well, welcome to Malone's...― your friend said, still processing the fight. ―Those hockey guys are actual lunatics.―

―They just have way too much pent-up energy,― you said with a soft, sweet little laugh, shaking your head. ―Hey, watch my glass for a second, will you? I think one of them needs a quick check before he infects those knuckles on the bar floor.―

You asked the bartender—who knew you from your shifts—for a couple of clean napkins and some ice wrapped in a towel, and he handed them over right away. With your supplies in hand, you wove through the tables toward the dim corner where the three athletes were gathered.

Dean was sitting on the leather sofa, breathing heavily, his bottom lip subtly split and the knuckles of his right hand scraped and dripping a bit of blood. Garrett stood right in front of him, lecturing him in a low voice with his arms crossed.

―I told you, Dean, you can't take the bait that easily. We're gonna get suspended if—―

―Hey, boys,― you interrupted softly, your melodic, super relaxed voice cutting right through the tense masculine conversation.

All three of them turned at the exact same time, as if they had rehearsed the movement. The moment Garrett and Dean saw you under the pub's dim, warm lighting, with your pastel sweater and your angelic smile, their expressions changed completely. Dean's fury vanished in a blink; his eyes widened, and a mix of total surprise and absolute devotion flooded his face. Garrett went completely speechless mid-sentence, totally disarmed by the sight of the girl he had been hunting for all over campus for the last two weeks.

―...You?― Garrett managed to say, his tough tone suddenly turning soft and self-conscious as he scratched the back of his neck. ―Hey. I... I didn't think I'd run into you here.―

―It's a college bar, Garrett. I'm twenty-one, I like to go out for a drink every now and then,― you replied in a playful, incredibly sweet voice, highly amused by how quickly they got nervous around you. ―Hey, Logan.―

―Hey,― Logan smiled, crossing his arms with a look of pure amusement, knowing exactly the kind of effect you had on his friends. ―What a miracle to see you without a lab coat.―

―I know, it's nice to be on the civilian side for one night,― you laughed softly. Then, you took another step toward the table and looked directly at Dean, who was gazing up at you from the sofa with a goofy smile, completely ignoring the pain of his injuries. ―But I see you guys can't seem to have a quiet weekend, can you?―

You sat down with total ease on the edge of the sofa, right next to Dean. The boy caught his breath as your proximity enveloped him in a soft scent of vanilla. You took his right hand with extreme gentleness, turning it over carefully to inspect his scraped knuckles.

―Let's see, let me take a look at that hand,― you said in a very cute, nurturing tone, using one of the clean napkins to gently wipe away the surface blood. ―Oh, Dean... you really are a piece of work. Every single time I see you, one of you ends up injured. Is this like a hockey team hobby, or is it just bad luck?―

Dean let out a husky laugh, completely infatuated by the touch of your soft hands against his rough skin. He felt his heart pounding right out of his chest because of how playful and cute you were being with him.

―I think from now on I'm gonna pick a fight every Friday night if it means you'll magically show up to heal me, beautiful,― Dean answered in his signature drawl, staring straight into your eyes, completely captivated. ―I swear it doesn't even hurt anymore.―

You pressed the ice pack against his knuckles with a tiny bit more firmness, making him let out a soft wince, though he didn't break eye contact with you for a single second.

―Don't talk nonsense, don't push your luck,― you shot back with a playful smile, blinking innocently. ―I'm not your personal nurse, I'm just a friendly intern who happened to be passing by. Besides, Davenport has huge hands, you could have walked away with something way worse than a few scrapes.―

Garrett, feeling entirely ignored and consumed by jealousy at seeing how sweet you were being to Dean, took a step closer to the table, leaning his hands on the back of the sofa to tilt in toward you.

―I jumped into the fight too,― Garrett said, dropping his voice to a lower register to catch your attention, flashing a smile he clearly thought was charming. ―I took a couple of shoves saving this idiot. Don't you think I deserve a little attention from Briar's best psychology student too? I've been looking for you all over campus, by the way.―

You turned slightly toward Garrett, adjusting the stray lock of hair falling over your bare shoulder, and gave him a highly mischievous, relaxed side-eye.

―Oh, Garrett, please. You're the team captain, you have the entire campus looking after you,― you said in a soft, teasing little voice, making him smile instantly. ―Besides, I heard Hannah Wells takes pretty good care of you these days, doesn't she? I don't think you need a hospital intern to coddle you over a few shoves.―

Garrett froze for a second, his cheeks flushing a sweet shade of pink as he realized you knew about Hannah. He absolutely loved that you were so well-informed and that you brought it up with such effortless ease, without a hint of awkwardness.

―Well... yeah, Hannah is awesome,― Garrett admitted with a shy grin, scratching his neck. ―But that doesn't mean your voice doesn't still sound like the prettiest thing in this entire university.―

Dean snorted, trying to move his hand to entrelace his uninjured fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him. ―Forget about Garrett, he's retired from the game. I'm the one who's single and wounded here. I need more ice... and maybe your phone number to report if my knuckles turn purple tomorrow.―

You let out a clear, melodic, and incredibly sweet laugh that made all three boys' hearts skip a beat. You finished wiping his split lip with a napkin, brushing against his skin so softly that Dean closed his eyes for a second, completely hypnotized.

―Nice try, Di Laurentis,― you told him coquetishly, leaning in just a fraction with an intelligent look in your eyes. ―But as far as I know from campus gossip, Allie Hayes has you breathless pretty often. I don't think she'd appreciate you using your injuries as an excuse to get numbers at bars.―

Dean blinked, completely disarmed, a guilty but absolutely fascinated smirk spreading across his face. The fact that you were so laid-back, that you knew exactly where everyone stood, and that you still maintained this light, sweet, and zero-pretension flirtation was driving both of them insane. You looked so beautiful under the bar lights, so confident and speaking with such natural sweetness, that they felt utterly defenseless against you.

―Wow... you're dangerous,― Dean admitted in a breath, his eyes never leaving your lips. ―You know everything.―

―I study psychology, Dean. My job is to observe and listen,― you replied with a sweet wink as you stood up, leaving the used napkins on the table. ―Alright, your knuckles are officially done bleeding and the ice will take the swelling down. My job as a civilian for the night is done.―

Garrett reached out instinctively, as if to keep you from leaving. ―Are you leaving already? Stay with us for a bit, we'll buy you whatever you want to drink.―

―My friend Gracie is waiting for me with some beers at the bar,― you said with an angelic smile, taking a step backward but keeping your eyes on them with that playful aura. ―Plus, I have to make sure you guys don't break anything else in this pub. Take care of yourselves, okay? And please... try to go at least one full week without ending up in the ER or in a bar fight. My internship schedule is pretty booked.―

You threw one last coquettish glance at Dean, a bright smile at Garrett, and a friendly nod to Logan before turning around and walking back toward the bar with a light, confident stride, your pastel pink sweater shifting softly with your movements.

The three athletes sat in total silence at the table, watching your back as you walked away. Dean ran his good hand over his face, letting out a long sigh of pure defeat.

―My god...― Dean muttered, completely spaced out. ―That girl is absolutely perfect. She talks so sweetly it makes me want to get my other hand broken just so she'll come back.―

―Shut up, Dean,― Garrett said, his eyes glued to the bar, his heart racing a mile a minute. ―But you're right. She's incredible. Next time I see her on campus, I don't care who's watching, I'm making her stay and talk to me for a whole hour.―

Logan took a sip of his beer, laughing at the completely lovesick faces his friends were making. ―I told you guys, you idiots. You play a lot of hockey, but that psych girl has you right in the palm of her hand, and she didn't even have to try.―

You stood up from the leather sofa with an enviable lightness, leaving Dean and Garrett with dilated pupils and a silly grin that would take hours to wipe off their faces. You adjusted your oversized, pastel knit sweater as it slipped slightly off your shoulder, shifting your purse strap with total calmness.

However, before taking more than three steps toward your best friend Gracie, you noticed that the hockey boys' dark corner wasn't as isolated as you thought.

Just a few yards away, near the edge of the dance floor, two girls were watching the scene with a mix of absolute surprise and very obvious flashes of jealousy in their eyes. It was Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes. Both had noticed the fight with Davenport and were heading toward the table to check on the guys, but they had frozen halfway through upon witnessing your entire interaction with them.

Hannah stared at the napkin you had used with such sweetness and playfulness to clean Dean's knuckles. Her arms were crossed, and her eyebrows were slightly raised, astonished to see the usually untamable and arrogant Garrett Graham behaving like a scolded puppy, blushing and stammering at your relaxed comments. For her part, Allie Hayes had an expression of pure bewilderment; she knew all too well Dean Di Laurentis's bad-boy, smooth-talker persona, and seeing her guy looking at another college girl their own age with eyes of total devotion—completely hypnotized by how sweetly you spoke—gave her an inevitable twist in her stomach.

As a psychology student, you read their body language instantly. But far from taking it badly or getting defensive, your nature was simply too sweet and mature to fall into absurd tensions. You flashed them a radiant, genuine, and super friendly smile as you walked toward them.

―Hey, girls,― you said in your soft voice, stopping by their side with total freshness. ―Don't worry, the guys are totally fine. It was just a little scare with Davenport, but the adrenaline is already wearing off.―

Hannah blinked, caught a bit off guard by how incredibly polite and sweet you were being, and slowly lowered her arms.

―Hey...― Hannah replied, softening her expression. ―Thanks for checking on him. Garrett usually acts like an impulsive idiot when it comes to defending the team.―

―Oh, not at all, they just look out for each other,― you said with a sweet little laugh, glancing at Allie, who was still processing the scene. ―And I already cleaned up Dean's knuckles and left him some ice, Allie. It's going to be a bit swollen tomorrow, but he'll survive. Just try to make sure he doesn't use his right hand to lift anything heavy tonight, okay?―

Allie cleared her throat, feeling her jealousy dissolve under your empathetic and charming tone. It was impossible to dislike someone who spoke with so much warmth.

―Thanks... really,― Allie managed to say, flashing a more sincere smile. ―Good thing you were close by.―

Just then, a towering figure appeared behind Hannah and Allie. It was Beau Maxwell, the star wide receiver for the Briar football team. Beau sported his usual broad shoulders, a relaxed grin, and the classic magnetic energy of the athletes from his department.

The moment his eyes met yours, his face lit up with pure joy and recognition.

―Hey! Look who we have here!― Beau exclaimed in his deep voice, stepping past the two hockey girls without ceremony.

You stepped a bit closer, and Beau didn't hesitate: he leaned down and planted a super affectionate kiss on your cheek, wrapping an arm around your shoulders for a second in a gesture full of long-standing trust and warmth.

―It's a miracle to see you out at Malone's, little one,― Beau told you with a massive smile, leaving his arm casually draped over your shoulders. ―I thought you had officially moved into the hospital's emergency room.―

―Hey, Beau,― you laughed, a clean, melodic laugh, giving him a playful little nudge in the ribs. ―You know perfectly well my internship shifts are insane, but they forced me to go out and breathe a little tonight.―

Hannah and Allie widened their eyes, completely speechless. They looked back at the table in the corner and noticed that Garrett and Dean had gone rigid as statues in their seats. If they were smitten before, seeing Beau Maxwell—one of the campus's football legends—greeting you with such intimacy, kissing your cheek, and hugging you with that natural ease made the two hockey guys' jaws drop completely. Garrett had his eyes narrowed, taking in the scene, and Dean was gripping his ice pack so hard his knuckles turned white, consumed by a new, massive wave of college sports jealousy.

What they didn't know, of course, was that your connection to the sports world went way beyond the ice rink. You were the sister of one of the star players on the Briar football team; Beau had been playing on the same offense as your brother for years, spent entire weekends at your house, and had known you since you were practically teenagers. To Beau, you were a mix between a spoiled little sister and one of his favorite people on campus, with zero hidden intentions. But the visual effect in the bar was simply devastating to the hockey team's ego.

―Didn't your brother come with you?― Beau asked, looking over the crowd. ―That slacker promised me he'd come to Malone's after practice today.―

―No, he stayed back at the apartment sorting out some moving stuff, you know how he is,― you answered in a completely relaxed, sweet manner, waving it off. ―He left me in Gracie's care for tonight.―

―Wow, then I guess I'll have to take over the honors of looking after you,― Beau teased, winking at you before looking at Hannah and Allie, who were still a bit astonished by your campus network. ―Do you guys already know the star doctor of the family? She's the only one of us who actually has a brain in this school.―

―Yeah... we were just talking to her,― Hannah commented, glancing back toward the corner table, where Garrett was still glaring daggers at Beau. ―Seems like she knows half the world at Briar.―

―It's impossible not to love her,― Beau stated proudly, giving your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ―Well, go find Gracie before she drinks your shots. See you Monday for lunch, alright? Tell your brother I said hey.―

―Of course, Beau. Behave yourself, and don't let the hockey guys break anything else,― you said with a playful, teasing tone that echoed down the space.

You said goodbye to the girls with a highly polite and sweet gesture. ―It was so nice talking to you both, seriously. Enjoy your night.―