down bad & well-read

The thought of him sneaking away simply to see you makes your heart jump with joy.

“Does my brother know you're in here?”

"Of course not. He'd murder me himself if he found out." He smirks as the door lock clicks beneath his fingers. "But, I wouldn't come all this way just to hang out with your brother."

"Yeah because going three streets over is so far."

You roll your eyes before moving over, creating a spot for him. The blanket falls as you shift, revealing more. His eyes linger on the pink glow caressing your cheeks but as they move down his cock twitches in his pants. Your nipples are poking through the sheer fabric, hardly serving a purpose. His breath shallows as he thinks about how they felt around his tongue and the sounds you made as he—

“Earth to Dean. Are you just going to stand there staring at me all night?” You giggle and he walks over, throwing the blankets off completely.

A gasp overtakes the giggling as his hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you to the end of the bed.

"Has anyone ever told you how effortlessly sexy you are?”

You smile, head falling back onto the sheets. His lips place reverent kisses up your legs, starting at your ankles and it all feels so familiar. Your eyes close, mind flashing back to the night you and Dean had gotten drunk together. He spent the entire night with you—not just at the party, but also in his bed after.

Every party after that night, you tried to hook up with other people—but you couldn't. You lied in bed wondering how he had ruined everyone else for you and if he even remembered it. By the 7th party, you finally worked up the courage to ask him, but he was shit-faced and couldn't even say 'hello' coherently. So, you swore to yourself in the bathroom mirror that you would never think about him again. But then he shows up at your house, and you're the one he wants.

Fuck.

Your mouth opens, but all that comes out is his name. He repeats yours back between whispered compliments that remind you why moving on from him was impossible. He sucks harshly on your inner thighs, leaving red marks that'll bruise purple tomorrow. You wish he could stay here forever—especially if keeps him from being with anyone else.

Has he been with anyone else?

The scent of your arousal floods his senses, making his mouth water. "Can I taste you?" He kisses your underwear. "Please."

Your shiver as his breath tickles your skin. "You don't even have to ask."

His tongue clicks on the roof of his mouth as one finger pulls the fabric aside. "I always ask."

"Dean." You lift your head to look at down at him and his eyes drink you in. "Take them off please."

"Yes ma'am." His fingers slide down the underwear, tossing them into the pile of dirty clothes.

"You're such a gentleman sometimes. You know that?"

"Only for you." He licks a stripe up to your clit and you let out a breathy moan. "Stay quiet for me. We don't need your brother waking up and catching us."

"Please, don't talk about my brother while you're between my legs."

He chuckles before devouring you. His tongue doesn't miss a spot. It circles your clit before diving in deep and massaging your walls, searching for the spot that makes you slip. He knows he's close but it's been so long since he's gone down on you, let alone anyone else.

His body stills and you whine. His eyes peer up at you quickly before his mouth returns to work. It had been two months since he had slept with you and in those two months, he hadn't slept with anyone.

Have you slept with anyone else since then?

His tongue drifts less than a centimeter down and your thighs squeezing his head so tight, it muffles any sounds. Your other hand pulls his hair causing his hips to instinctively hump the mattress, making it creak. He continues on that spot not aware of the sounds you, or the bed, are making.

The hand you had covering your mouth left, grasping onto the pillows behind you. You'd given up on being quiet and were now doing everything in your power to keep yourself from riding his face.

His hips continue humping the mattress, he feels like a pathetic virgin again but it's too good to stop. Something about the way your thighs squeeze his head, the taste of you on his tongue, the softness of your skin on his lips, and the thought doing this forever—especially if keeps you from being with anyone else.

Fuck.

His balls tighten, orgasm approaching too fast. He slides two fingers into you and pump them to the rhythm of his thrusts. The mattress shifts back causing the tip of his cock to hit the seam in his boxers just right. He groans loudly into you, tongue pressing hard against your clit.

You scream, hips rolling up as your orgasm overrides your senses.

On the other side of the house, the noise had woken up your brother. At first, he thought it was some stupid movie. He had texted you to turn it down but no reply came. As he lies there trying to fall back to sleep, a faint scream sends him on high alert.

He musters up all the courage he can and takes it upon himself to make sure you're okay. An old baseball bat hangs on his shoulder and the floorboards creak with each step he takes.

He reaches your room and all he can hear is heavy breathing. His hands tremble as he slowly pulls down the doorknob but it doesn't open. He takes a deep breath, walking backwards until he hits the opposing wall. One foot stands in front of the other as he talks himself up to what needs to do.

The hinges of the door give way as he batters through it and you scream for real this time. Dean scrambles to his feet, hands awkwardly covering the front of his pants.

Your brothers face turns from scared to angry faster than you can process.

"DEAN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY SISTERS ROOM?"

He turns and faces you, eyes widening before he covers them.

"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU NAKED WITH DEAN IN YOUR ROOM?"

You grasp around frantically trying to grab the blanket but Dean had pushed them too far away. You snap at him to give you a blanket but he doesn't budge. Instead, his face grows red and an annoyed grin leaves his chest.

"DEAN SEBASTIAN KEN—"

"OKAY!"

He reaches over grabbing one from the floor and your eyes travel to the spot he was hiding. It's damp and aligned perfectly to where his cock would sit. It's almost as if he—your jaw drops. He looks at you, eyebrows furrowing.

"How do you know my middle name?"

"Dean, are you seriously trying to distract from the fact you came in—"

"I'M LITERALLY RIGHT HERE!" Your brother yells.

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.

This feels different.

You’d spent years imagining what it might feel like to hear Dean Di Laurentis confess his feelings to you. You just never imagined you’d be the one he practiced them on before saying them to somebody else.

You weren’t jealous of Allie. You were jealous of the version of Dean she’d gotten to meet.

You didn’t want her life. You wanted the words he’d chosen for it.

The worst part was that the words sounded just as beautiful as you’d always imagined, but they weren’t yours. They were Allie’s.

“I get it now. You love love.” Dean smiles as he admits it, watching her closely. Allie stands almost perfectly still in front of him, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag before loosening again.

She glances up at him, biting her cheek, her eyes going wide before they dart away. He mistakes the color rising into her cheeks for something sweet—like maybe he finally understands what she’d been trying to tell him all along.

“That’s what you said you wanted, right? That night at the fire pit.”

He moves closer to her, the confidence he’d carried out of the house still holding despite his nerves. His hand rests on her hip and her shoulders turn away slightly.

“So, I came here to tell you that, uh… I didn’t complete the assignment.”

“What?” she asks, her expression changing so quickly he nearly misses it. Her lips part, but nothing comes. There aren’t any words that make this better, not when Dean matters to her and she already knows this is going to break his heart.

He sees the confusion but not the panic underneath it. Even now, with her staring at him like he’s said something impossible, he only thinks he’s caught her off guard.

“Why?” Her voice breaks around the word, her head tilting as she tries her best not to cry.

“Because I like you. I like us,” he answers surely, his thumb rubbing absently against her skin. “I know that’s not what we said, but I was hoping—”

“Hey, no, Dean. You can’t,” she blurts as he steps so close she can feel the warmth of his body, the smell of his cologne amplified with the heat of his anxiety.

Her hand comes up slightly between them, but Dean’s too caught up in the rush of finally saying it to notice how rigid her shoulders have become.

He thinks she’s scared. He is too, and somehow that only makes him more certain they’re standing in the same place. Both of them nervous. Both of them trying to figure out what comes after the agreement they’d made. His eyebrows lift as he looks down at her, the confidence returning to his voice before he says, “And yet, I am.”

Allie blinks up at him, her tears balancing on her waterline as the bar rages around them.

But she’s silent.

Dean feels a wave of unease, his eyes drifting around the bar as he realizes just how many people are there, everything closing in a little tighter.

“No, I mean, like, you have to complete the assignment,” Allie whispers, her voice barely carrying over the music. She draws in a shaky breath before finally forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Because—”

“Because why?” he asks quietly, his eyebrows pulling together.

His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat. He’d been terrified she would laugh it off. Terrified he’d stumble over the speech he’d practiced with you. You had cried. You’d called it beautiful. You’d told him to tell her. Somehow, being here now, he realizes there had been one outcome he never once prepared himself for.

She nods once, looking sick to her stomach. “Because I did. I swear, it didn’t mean anything. I—Joanna set me up with this guy, like a total stranger at a bar.”

He stares at her, waiting for her to say there was more to it—that she hadn’t wanted to, that it didn’t matter, that she’d stopped before anything happened.

“You…” His voice comes out quieter than he means it to. “You actually did it?”

“I’m sorry.” The words barely leave her mouth before fresh tears gather in her eyes.

Nothing else comes. She doesn’t take it back. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tell him she misspoke.

Every sound in the bar swells until it becomes one unbearable roar. Somebody bumps his shoulder walking past, muttering an apology he doesn’t hear. A loud bark of laughter cuts clean through the noise.

Dean glances over his shoulder, watching as Hunter steps through the front door, eyes drifting across the room.

Hunter finds Allie almost immediately, a smile tipping at the corner of his mouth as he nods in her direction. The look of someone who’s on the receiving end of an assignment she completed.

Hunter’s smile falters for only a second as his eyes finally land on Dean standing beside her.

They’d spent years trying to get under each other’s skin. Dean sees it the moment it clicks. Hunter understands why Dean’s standing beside her. He doesn’t know the whole story, but the smile curling on his lips tells Dean Hunter’s enjoying every second of it.

Dean turns back to Allie, meeting her gaze. He doesn’t even need to ask—but he needs to hear it.

“Him?”

“No,” she croaks, eyes pinching shut as she shakes her head. “Yes—do you know him?”

And for the first time all night, Dean takes a step back, then another. His hand reaches up, raking through his hair as every sound around him crashes together like a freight train. The rose-colored glasses he’d walked in wearing had been ripped clean off, and all he could see now was red.

His skin crawls with the thought of it, heartbreak clawing at the back of his throat as his stomach sinks. How could he be so stupid? How could he possibly think either one of them would come out unscathed?

Maybe it’s because he never thought it would end like this when he agreed…

Maybe he thought the only person she could see herself with was him. He’d never even been the only option. And it broke his heart because he’d been the only one falling in love.

I like us. Not enough…

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York. I have.

This feels different. And it still isn’t enough.

None of this mattered.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Allie whispers, taking one careful step toward him before stopping herself. “Dean…”

Dean doesn’t even look at her. His jaw flexes hard enough to ache as he turns away, forcing the people lingering nearby to shuffle out of his way.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Dean asks, grabbing onto the anger before the sadness can split him open in front of everyone as he turns to Davenport.

“I heard your team needs saving,” Hunter says, taking a beer from the bartender’s hand.

He takes a slow drink without taking his eyes off Dean, leaning his body against the edge of the bar like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Yeah?” Dean laughs bitterly. “Get the fuck out.”

Hunter huffs out a laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling higher as he sets his beer back down. Dean can see Garrett and Tucker already closing in.

“Hey,” Hunter scoffs, putting his hands up in surrender, his demeanor anything but. “Logan said this was your idea—”

Dean doesn’t answer him. His eyes drift past Hunter instead, landing on Garrett standing a few feet away, confusion written all over his face.

“You weren’t there. Logan had to make a call,” Garrett mumbles.

“I’m not skating with this prick.” Dean squares up to him, stepping closer as Hunter studies him. A crooked grin spreads across his face. Neither one of them looks away.

“Aww. What, are you scared I’m gonna dust your ass again?” Hunter closes the distance until they’re nearly chest to chest.

“You wanna try?” Dean asks, shoving Hunter backward with both hands.

Hunter plants his feet, catches himself, then steps right back into Dean’s space. “Yeah? Yeah, I do.”

Dean grabs the front of Hunter’s shirt, hauling him close enough that their foreheads nearly touch. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

“Get the fuck out of my face,” Hunter shoots back.

Dean buries both hands in Hunter’s shirt, shoving him hard enough that he crashes into a high-top table. Glasses shatter and beer spills, the crowd parting as he surges forward, driving both palms into Dean’s chest.

Dean stumbles backward into the bar rail, his lower back slamming into polished wood. His fist connects with Hunter’s jaw almost on instinct, snapping his head sideways before Hunter answers with one of his own that catches Dean beneath the eye.

The two of them crash sideways into another cluster of people, chairs scraping violently across the floor as somebody dives out of the way.

Hunter lands a punch deep into his ribs that drives the air straight out of his lungs. Dean grabs onto him as he folds, dragging Hunter down until both of them hit the sticky hardwood in a tangled heap.

Hunter’s elbow catches the corner of Dean’s mouth—his lip splitting, blood flooding his mouth.

“Dean!” Garrett shouts. “Break it up!”

People reach for both of them from every direction, but neither man lets go. Dean tears free long enough to throw another punch that lands against Hunter’s ribs before Hunter answers with one across Dean’s cheekbone, his vision blurring again as people shout over one another.

Beau finally hooks both arms around Dean from behind, hauling him backward across the beer-slick floor while Garrett and Tucker wrestle Hunter the opposite direction. Dean strains against Beau’s grip anyway, shoes scraping against the bar floor as blood drips steadily from the corner of his mouth onto the front of his shirt.

“Enough!” Garrett barks into the space between, breathing hard himself.

Dean glances back, and Allie’s standing exactly where he left her, crying hard enough she has to cover her mouth. He tears himself out of Beau’s grip and storms toward the front door without another word.

“…Hey.”

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t even considered somebody else might still be here.

Logan’s leaning against the kitchen counter, dressed for the bar, absentmindedly eating a bowl of cereal. His eyes squint, taking a better look at you through the dark house, before his expression immediately changes.

Logan lowers the spoon back into the bowl, his eyebrows pulling together as he straightens away from the counter. “Hey, sweetheart…” he says carefully, his gaze moving over your face for less than a second before all the color drains from his own. “What’s wrong?”

You pull your bag a little closer against your side as you force yourself to look anywhere but at him, swallowing hard around the lump already sitting in your throat.

You open your mouth, fully intending to tell him you’re fine, but the words refuse to come, leaving you standing there in complete silence while another tear slips free despite your best efforts.

Logan sets the bowl down without taking another bite. “Hey,” he says again, this time much softer as he walks around the counter toward you. “C’mere.”

You suck in one sharp breath, another tear sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. You shake your head, blinking hard as you try to pull yourself back together.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as carefully as if he thinks you might fall apart in his hands, and for the first time since Dean walked out that front door, you let yourself cry.

The front of his t-shirt grows damp beneath your face while one of his hands rubs slow circles across your back, his other resting gently against the back of your head.

You don’t remember the last time someone held you while you cried. Dean never had to. He’d always made sure you laughed before it got this bad.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs quietly. “I’ve got you.”

The cool night air hits Dean like a slap the second he shoves through the front doors.

His shoes pound against the sidewalk as he puts as much distance between himself and Allie as he can, dragging the back of his hand across his split lip.

Every breath stings his ribs—his left eye’s already swelling shut—but none of it hurts as much as the pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.

“Dean!” He doesn’t look back as he hears her voice. “Dean, wait!”

Allie hurries after him, weaving around the crowd standing outside Malone’s. She reaches for his arm, fingers barely brushing the sleeve of his jacket before he jerks away so fast it startles both of them.

He shakes his head, breathing hard through his nose. “Don’t.”

Her hand falls back to her side as she searches his face, tears continuing to roll down her cheeks. If she’d reached for him five minutes earlier, he would’ve melted into it.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine. Go back inside,” he huffs, turning back around to walk away.

He only makes it a few steps before she reaches for him again, her hand wrapping around his arm. “How is this fine, Dean? You’re not okay. We’re not okay—”

“We? We’re not okay?”

“Yes we—us, Dean.”

“Why are you acting like there’s a fuckin’ we here when you clearly… you—you just. Fuck! You weren’t supposed to say that,” Dean cuts her short, the words sounding almost childlike, leaving him mortified.

“…What?” she asks breathlessly, staring up at him.

“You weren’t supposed to say that.” His voice cracks this time. “I was supposed to come here.” He gestures back toward the bar with one bloody hand before letting it fall uselessly to his side. “I was supposed to tell you how I felt.”

“Dean…”

“You were supposed to tell me you felt the same way.” His breathing grows more uneven with every word, his chest rising sharply as he struggles to keep himself together. “You were supposed to tell me I’d been an idiot for waiting this long. We were supposed to laugh about that stupid fucking assignment. We were…”

His voice disappears completely. He swallows hard, looking away for a second before forcing himself to meet her eyes again.

“How do you not feel the same way? How, Allie? I don’t get it. And that's my issue to work through, not yours—”

“I never wanted this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” Dean whispers, his eyes glassy despite how hard he’s trying to keep himself together.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are.” He presses his lips together for a second, his jaw flexing as he tries to steady his breathing. “I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this now.”

He’d spent so long wondering how good it would feel when he finally told her how he felt that he’d never once thought about what came after she said no.

Allie’s eyes drift back to the cut beneath his eye, another thin line of blood working its way down his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

Dean reaches up, touching the corner of his mouth before looking at the blood on his fingertips, completely numb.

“It’s nothing.”

“Dean, it’s not nothing.” She fumbles through her purse until she finds a bar napkin, unfolding it with shaky hands as she steps closer again. “Just… hold still for one second.”

She barely gets close enough to lift her hand before Dean takes another step backward. “Please don’t.”

Dean holds her gaze for a moment before letting out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the cracked sidewalk.

“Forget it.”

She says something else. He sees her lips move. Another apology, maybe. Another explanation. He doesn’t hear a word of it because the thoughts in his head are so, so much louder.

She never asked him to come tonight.

…Hunter was there.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly where Allie wanted him to be. His throat burns as he swallows hard, his vision blurring again.

The front doors of the bar burst open behind them, music spilling out onto the sidewalk along with a chorus of raised voices. Allie looks back toward the entrance as tears of frustration stream down her cheeks.

“Where is he?” Beau asks, already looking past her.

Allie whips around toward where Dean had been standing, but he’s gone. “He…” Her voice catches before she manages to finish. “I don’t know.”

“You really don’t wanna tell me?” Logan asks against the rim of his beer bottle before he takes a sip.

You shake your head almost immediately, your head resting heavy on his shoulder as you look out onto the empty street.

Logan nods like he’d expected that. He glances down at the porch beneath his feet for a second, tapping the toe of his boot lightly against the wood before looking toward you. “…Alright,” he says quietly. “Then don’t.”

You let out a long breath through your nose before quietly agreeing.

“Mind if I take a guess?” he asks gently.

Your fingers tighten around your sleeve until the fabric bunches in your fist.

You keep your eyes fixed in front of you, blinking quickly as another sting builds behind them, but you can’t quite bring yourself to answer, so you nod.

“It has something to do with Dean?”

Your chin trembles as you try your hardest to stay still, telling him everything he needs to know anyway.

“Mhmm,” he hums. “…Dean and Allie?” The names hang in the cool night air swirling around you.

You draw in another shaky breath, staring out at the emptiness for another second before the words finally leave you. “I just…” You swallow hard. “I don’t want to lose my best friend.”

Logan shifts toward you, pressing a kiss against your hair before he rests his chin on the top of your head. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out nice and slow.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he whispers.

You shrug helplessly, your voice barely rising above a whisper. “Everything changes when people fall in love.”

He chuckles breathily. “Nah… It’ll change some things,” he admits honestly. “Life always does.”

He turns toward you, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

“You’re not gonna lose Dean.”

His arm tightens around your shoulder, headlights sweeping briefly over the porch, and your heart plummets—the thought of Dean and Allie stumbling out of an Uber, laughing and kissing, tearing away at your last thread of sanity. The car disappears and you blow out a breath, nodding because Logan is waiting for some kind of response.

“You can talk to me, you know? It’s me.”

“How are you so sure?” you whisper.

Logan’s lip pouts a little, so slight you barely catch it out of the corner of your eye, when he hears just how broken you are. He takes another drink from his beer. “You two have been attached at the hip since freshman year. One girl isn’t gonna change that.”

“One girl,” you breathe, the words leaving your lips like you can’t believe he could possibly think that’s all she is—but he doesn’t know Dean like you know Dean.

Like Allie’s no different from the dozens of girls that have walked in and out of that door behind you. Like she isn’t the first one who made him nervous enough to ask for your help—caring enough to ask you for the first time if what he was offering someone else was enough. If he was enough.

Another car turns into the neighborhood and chills fall down your spine. “She’s not just some girl.”

The ring on his finger clinks against the bottle before he speaks. “I just mean Dean’s had people come and go before,” he continues. “You haven’t. He trusts you more than anybody. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you manage.

“And he’s always gonna need you.” Logan dips his head, trying to catch your eyes. “That idiot barely knows what he’s feeling until he talks it through with you first. You really think he’s gonna stop calling because he has a girlfriend?”

The word settles between your ribs, sharp and heavy.

“He talks about you constantly,” he adds. “Half the time somebody asks him a question, he starts with, ‘Well, she said—’ like we don’t already know who he means.”

You shake your head quickly, trying to get Logan to stop being so kind because each comforting word he offers to “Dean’s best friend” just pulls the woman who would do anything to mean what he means to her deeper underwater.

“Besides…” Logan huffs quietly, shaking his head. “They’ve been… whatever this is… for what? Five minutes?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you press the words past your lips.

“Exactly. I mean… they literally made a deal to hook up with other people.”

“No,” you whisper. “I mean—I just,” you stumble over your words, trying to put your misery into something coherent but it’s too fucking much. “I’m being stupid.”

“No, c’mon.” His hand slips from your shoulder, lifting to cup your cheek, turning you gently so you finally have to look at him.

His expression softens, his eyebrows pulling together with worry.

“If you think Allie’s gonna have some issue with you being close to him, she won’t,” Logan says, like it should be obvious. As though the possibility is so unreasonable it doesn’t require more than a sentence to dismiss.

“Okay,” you whisper, wanting the honesty to stop, hating how small your voice sounds.

“She knows you.” He gives you a confused little smile, like he can’t figure out how you’ve managed to scare yourself this badly over something so simple. “She knows what you and Dean are like.”

And how is that?

Your breath catches in your chest and your lashes flutter anxiously. A tiny part of you waits for him to say you’ve got it all wrong.

That Dean’s just taking the long way around. That one day he’ll realize he’s been looking at you all this time and finally understand why he could never let you go.

He doesn’t.

“You’re not competition, sweetheart.”

His expression softens when he says it, like he’s finally found the sentence that should make all of this better. The tears fill your eyes, blurring him so much that you can barely see.

“Thank you,” you whimper. You turn away from his touch, face crumpling before you can stop it, wiping away your tears with the heel of your hand.

“Hey.” Logan’s voice drops. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“No.” You shake your head, drawing in a trembling breath as you stand up, crossing your arms tight over your chest. “I appreciate it.”

“She’s not gonna want to take away somebody who’s like family to him.”

“You’re right,” you whisper.

“Hell, you’re probably gonna end up with one of us anyway,” Logan laughs quietly before shaking his head. “I mean…” His cheeks redden ever so slightly as he scratches the back of his neck. “We all love you.”

You barely hear the first part. The last three words only make the ache inside your chest that much harder to bear because you know exactly what kind of love he means.

You nod, forcing the corner of your mouth upward, tight and unsteady, but Logan’s shoulders lower slightly in relief when he sees it.

“I don’t need to go to the bar,” Logan mumbles. “You wanna come back inside? Watch a movie or somethin’?”

And be here when he comes home? You try to keep your expression from changing, terrified that the question is painted all over your face anyway.

“No, you should go.” Your voice cracks at the end, so you clear your throat. His eyes search yours, moving over your tear-streaked cheeks before he finally lets out a quiet breath. “Everybody’s probably wondering where you are—”

“They’ll survive,” Logan stops you, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at you.

Silence stretches between the two of you.

Finally, Logan pushes himself to his feet, studying your face as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He watches you for another long moment, and for one awful second you think he can see straight through it. You think he’s going to pull you back into his arms and keep asking questions until the truth spills out of you, but his shoulders slowly loosen.

“Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

“And if you’re still upset, call me.” He reaches up, rubbing away a tear. “Don’t care what time it is, alright?”

Logan draws you into one last hug, and you let yourself sink into it as the pressure in your chest starts building again. “You’re not gonna lose him,” he whispers once more, pressing another kiss against the top of your head before giving you a final squeeze and letting you go.

He stays near the doorway, watching while you cross the yard, so you keep your shoulders straight and your steps steady. You even lift a hand when he reminds you to text him, pretending you can hold yourself together for another ten steps.

You make it out of sight before your hand flies over your mouth, a sob breaking through as the strap of your bag slips down your shoulder and you struggle to drag air into your lungs.

You were his best friend. His safe space. His family. Close enough to stay beside him through every part of the life he was about to build with someone else.

You weren’t going to lose him.

Dean was still going to choose you.

Just never the way you’d dreamed he would.

Dean runs until his lungs start burning.

His shoes hit the pavement as his heart pounds in his chest. He stumbles off the curb at the end of the block, catching himself before he goes down completely, his hands still trembling with adrenaline.

His phone vibrates against his thigh, but he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t want to know if it’s Allie. He doesn’t want to hear Garrett asking where he went or Beau telling him to come back. He can’t go back.

He gasps for a breath, his split lip tearing open more as the cold air bites at his skin. He’s a little drunk, and he hates to admit it. Those beers he threw back to calm his nerves are catching up with him at the worst possible time.

His shoe catches against a raised crack in the sidewalk and he stumbles forward, one palm scraping hard against the concrete. His knee drops to the wet ground, and he stays there for a moment, head hanging between his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, shoving himself upright before his body can decide to stay down.

He makes it another block before the street opens in front of him, the familiar intersection finally slowing his feet.

His hands rake through his sweaty hair. He looks to the right, then the left toward the hockey house, before he glances back to where he wants to go.

Dean’s phone vibrates angrily in his pocket. He tugs it out, seeing a string of notifications, and a list of text messages stacked on top of each other. The latest one hits him like a gut punch.

Just talk to me please. Allie Hayes.

What if she comes looking for him? He doesn’t want to fold if she tells him she regrets what she did. He knows he will.

He doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He doesn’t want her to pity him while she patches him up after this stupid fuckin’ fight with Hunter. He doesn’t want to pretend it’s not shattering him while she tries to explain how it meant nothing.

He doesn’t want to fall asleep in sheets that smell like the two of them.

“I can’t fucking do it,” he whispers, because he knows the boys aren’t far behind. He doesn’t want Garrett or Beau. He doesn’t want Allie. He just wants you.

There’s nowhere else he goes.

He hopes you’re home.

You always know how to make things better.

But it’s gonna hurt. He can already picture the look on your face when he tells you he wasn’t enough. He can already hear your voice soften when he tells you Allie chose somebody else. He can already feel the way you’ll fit in his arms when you hug him and tell him he’s gonna be okay. He just wants to be okay…

He just wants to go home.

And so do you.

You keep your head down, not trusting yourself to look up if anyone passes by. Another tear falls, disappearing against the dark concrete before the next one follows.

Your sneakers scuff quietly against the sidewalk while you try not to think about what Dean’s doing or whether he’s already made it back to the house.

And, even though you don’t wanna know, you’re hyper aware of the phone weighing heavy in your pocket. A text from Dean—a social media update from Allie. Some public display of affection that will surely ruin you. But this limbo of knowing and not knowing what happened makes your stomach twist in knots.

What if you turned around right now? What if you went to Malone’s? Would that help? Maybe seeing them together would be the push you’d need to let that want go.

What’s a little more heartbreak?

You stop walking and in that moment you hear footsteps echo behind you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Briar’s campus is never completely empty, even this late, and somebody’s probably headed home just like you are.

You glance over your shoulder, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight as you catch a man walking toward you fast, too fast, so you move.

Your feet pound against the sidewalk as you look over your shoulder just as a pair of headlights rounds the corner.

For half a second, the headlights catch the face of the man behind you, and your heart nearly stops—his split lip, cheeks stained from tears and blood, his eye already swollen beneath blonde locks plastered to his forehead. He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling with every jagged breath.

Your stomach drops and your voice breaks as you call out for him.

“Dean?”

Even from where you’re standing, you watch his head lift before tipping back toward the dark sky for a second, his shoulders sagging as another broken breath escapes him and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Dean…” You try again, your voice catching as you hurry the last few steps toward him. The streetlight finally catches his face, and your chest tightens. “Dean, what the hell happened?”

He doesn’t answer. The second you’re close enough, he reaches for you. His arms wrap around you so suddenly they almost knock you off balance, pulling you against his chest with enough force that you stumble into him.

Before you can even think to hug him back, he’s buried his face against the side of your neck, another broken sob tearing through him as his whole body shakes in your arms.

“Hey… hey,” you whisper, choking back tears of your own.

Your fingers tangle through the hair at the back of his head while your other arm wraps around his waist, holding him as tightly as you can.

“I’ve got you.”

His hands bunch the back of your sweatshirt in his fists. You can feel every tremor that moves through him, his forehead pressed against your shoulder while you continue stroking his hair over and over, your own heart breaking right alongside his.

“What happened?” you whisper. He draws in a deep breath, blowing it out slow.

You pull back just enough to look at him again, your thumb brushing carefully beneath the eye that hasn’t swollen shut.

His lashes lift slowly and the tears on his bruised cheeks shimmer. And, at this moment, you can’t remember a time when you’ve ever seen him this sad… but you know the feeling. You’ve been living it all night.

For a second, all you hear is the rustle of leaves and the uneven sound of the two of you trying to hold yourselves together.

“Just give me a minute,” he whispers.

“Okay,” you nod. “Where were you going?”

His lips draw to the side, his eyebrows softening as he looks at you like you shouldn’t even have to ask. Dean’s hand slips into yours, his fingers closing tightly around your own before he begins pulling you toward your place.

The two of you walk side by side without another word, your hands still linked between you. Dean keeps his head down, staring at the sidewalk as it passes beneath his feet.

You sneak another look at him beneath the streetlights, taking in the blood drying beneath his nose and along the corner of his mouth. He lifts his free hand, wiping at his mouth, hissing in pain before he pulls away.

Dean must feel you looking because his head turns slowly toward you, his bruised eyes finally meeting yours.

And still, he can’t bring himself to speak. Not yet. Normally, he wouldn’t have let the silence last this long. He would’ve made some joke about you staring at him or squeezed your hand until you finally looked over and smiled. He would’ve told you the other guy looked worse, even if you hadn’t asked.

You wish there was something you could say that would make any of this better.

Dean lifts his eyes, staring toward your place before letting out a long, unsteady breath. You fish your keys from your sweatshirt pocket as the two of you make your way up the short walkway.

You unlock the door and pull it open, holding it for him as he steps inside ahead of you.

The apartment is almost completely dark when the two of you step inside. You quietly push the door shut behind you, the soft click of the lock sounding impossibly loud in the silence.

He starts toward the staircase without saying a word, and you follow him just as silently. The steps creak softly beneath your weight as the two of you climb toward the second floor.

You can’t stop checking on him. Every few steps your eyes drift back to his face, the physical pain and heartbreak painted so clearly across it.

And even so, you hate yourself for the relief that’s settled somewhere deep inside you, quiet enough that you tried to keep it buried.

Dean’s heart is in pieces, and somehow a part of you is grateful that he isn’t spending tonight somewhere else. Grateful that he came looking for you instead of her. Grateful that he’s here.

The realization makes you feel sick.

That’s not what best friends are supposed to think. They aren’t supposed to find comfort in someone else’s heartbreak, no matter how desperately they’ve wished for them.

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes back to the steps beneath your feet as another sting settles behind them. This isn’t about you. Whatever’s left of your own heart can wait. Right now, Dean needs someone to put him back together.

The two of you step into your place and Dean kicks off his shoes, still refusing to let go of your hand, leading you toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, nudging the door open before stepping inside.

The room stays dim, lit only by the soft amber glow from the hallway and the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the small window above the shower.

He reaches up for the collar of his jacket, and slowly eases it from his shoulders, wincing in pain as he drags it off one arm then the next.

He nods toward the shower, waiting for your answer before he reaches for the handle. “Of course,” you whisper. He twists the metal handle until hot water begins pounding against the tile, steam slowly filling the small bathroom.

“…I got blood everywhere,” he whispers, and your eyes flick up to the mirror, the corners already fogging over from the heat.

His t-shirt is stained across the collar, dried streaks trailing down the front where he’d wiped at his face over and over throughout the walk home. There are rusty fingerprints smeared across the sleeves of your sweatshirt too, little reminders of how tightly he’d held onto you in the middle of the street.

“You’re okay,” you whisper.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt first, pulling the bloodstained fabric over himself before dropping it onto the bathroom floor. You quietly do the same with your sweatshirt, leaving it beside his before slipping out of your jeans.

Neither of you says anything about it. By the time the two of you step beneath the spray, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, and you’re standing in your panties and bra.

The hot water runs over Dean’s hair, wetting dried blood, sending it ribboning down the side of his face. The chain on his chest flickers with every shaky breath, the tanned skin on his ribs a watercolor of purple and blue bruises.

Pink water circles lazily around the drain, carrying away blood and fresh tears.

He simply stands there with his eyes closed while you carefully press the damp cloth beneath the cut at his eyebrow, your other hand resting lightly against his shoulder to steady him. Every now and then he whimpers, but he never pulls away.

You rinse the washcloth beneath the spray before pressing it against the corner of his mouth. Dean’s head tips down slightly to give you better access, his eyes staying closed while you wipe away the blood still caught along his jaw.

“Who did this to you?”

He swallows hard enough that you see the movement in his throat. For a second, you think he might avoid the question but he doesn’t.

“Hunter.”

Your brows pull together in confusion. There are probably a dozen Hunters somewhere on campus, but there’s only one who could make Dean say it like that.

“Davenport?”

He nods, and the answer only leaves you with more questions. You look over his bruised face again, the cut at his eyebrow, the swelling already darkening beneath his eye, and the fresh scrape across his cheekbone that hadn’t been there when he left the house.

Hunter and Dean had never needed much of an excuse to get under each other’s skin, but this wasn’t the aftermath of another stupid chirp taken too far. Dean hadn’t run across campus crying because Davenport made some comment about hockey.

“Why?”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Dean blinks a few times, unable to put his disappointment into words.

“Do you want me to guess?” you whisper. The question sounds painfully familiar the moment it leaves your mouth. A few minutes earlier, Logan had offered you the same mercy while the two of you sat on the porch, quietly filling in the spaces around everything you couldn’t bring yourself to admit.

Now Dean is standing in front of you with the same helpless look you must’ve worn then, and somehow you already know where to begin.

“She did the assignment?”

Dean bites down on his split lip, turning his face away from you before he nods.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His jaw locks so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

And suddenly, everything starts to fall into place. Allie had completed the assignment. Dean had found out after telling her everything. Hunter had ended up with blood across his fists. But your heart still resists placing the last one where it belongs.

“With who?” you ask.

His nostrils flare and his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer beneath the water.

“No,” you breathe, but you can see Hunter stepping through the bar doors without having been there. You can see the look Dean must’ve caught between him and Allie, the one answer neither of them would’ve needed to say aloud. Your free hand rises to cover your mouth, but it does nothing to hide your emotions. “She couldn’t have known.”

“She didn’t,” he says, his voice breaking beneath the steady rush of the shower. “She had no clue.”

Dean lets out a slow breath, his forehead lowering until it rests against yours. “It…” His voice catches, forcing him to stop before he can get the rest out. “It could’ve been anybody. Would’ve hurt either way,” he whispers. He draws in another shaky breath, his lips flattening into a thin line before he finally forces himself to finish. “It just…” Another pause. “It being him fucking hurts.”

Your palm slides slowly over his shoulder before settling against the back of his neck, pulling him closer when a tremor moves through his body. “I’m sorry,” you whisper again, because there isn’t anything else you can give him.

“I really thought it was gonna go well.” Dean says it so quietly that the words almost disappear beneath the water, but you hear every one.

He had walked into that bar convinced the words he’d practiced with you would be enough to make Allie choose him. And fuck, if those same words had ever left his mouth for you, you think you could’ve lived on them for the rest of your life.

You can’t tell him that. You can’t admit that while he’s standing here broken over somebody else, not when he trusts you to be the one person who will hold him without asking for anything in return.

So you don’t.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking when he speaks as your fingers continue moving gently through his hair.

“I love you too.”

Your eyes burn all over again. The last traces of blood disappear down the drain beneath your feet, but neither of you makes any move to step away.

“You’re the only person I can count on.”

“Always,” you whisper.

He steps close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushes yours. His hands slide from your waist, lifting between you to hold your face, his bruised knuckles resting beneath your ears while his thumbs sweep over your cheeks. Your mouth trembles when you try to give him a reassuring smile.

He’d been too consumed by everything that had happened to realize you’d already been crying long before he found you.

And after he’d left you crying on his bed, you’d probably never stopped.

Dean’s thumb slides along your bottom lip, feeling it tremble under his touch. The fact that you’re holding your breath to keep from sobbing makes his heart start to race all over again.

“Babygirl,” he whispers. “Hey.” He stops you when you look away, searching your face for another long moment, looking at you like he’s only just beginning to realize that he wasn’t the only person whose heart was broken. “What’s wrong?”

You spent years convincing yourself you’d get over him eventually. Turns out watching Dean fall in love with somebody else is a pretty effective way to figure out exactly how bad you’ve got it.

Your phone lights up on the coffee table, and you hate how fast you reach for it, rolling your eyes at yourself.

˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚁𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎.

You groan and drop your head into your hands.

There he is.

You stare at the messages for a second before typing back.

˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 💕

A smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself.

That was the other problem. No matter how much this hurt, Dean was still Dean.

Your phone starts ringing before you can answer. Your heart immediately jumps, which is embarrassing considering it’s been doing that for years.

You answer before the second ring.

“Babydoll.”

“Mhmm…” You hum out a breath. “What do you want, Dean?”

For a second all you hear is his breathing before he chuckles weakly, and even though you can’t see him you can feel it. Something’s wrong.

“Can you come over?” His voice wavers a little.

“Yeah,” you answer, gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. M’fine,” he assures quickly, like the concern is completely unnecessary. You hear him shift around on the other end of the line. “I just need somebody to talk to.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”

“You’re the best,” he hums.

“Be there in ten.” Click.

You grab your purse and step into the warm summer night. Dean’s place is only a few blocks away, unfortunately giving you more than enough time to think.

You don’t dislike Allie. She’s beautiful, funny, smart, and completely capable of keeping Dean on his toes. The problem is that every time he talks about her, he sounds like somebody who’s already fallen.

You don’t want it to be somebody else.

You want it to be you.

By the time you step into the driveway, most of the lights in the guys’ house are on, the front door wide open and music and conversation pouring out onto the street.

You let yourself inside, greeting the boys on autopilot, too worried about how Dean sounded on the phone to think of much more.

You make your way upstairs, following the sound of Dean moving around in his room. His door is half open. You push it the rest of the way and find him standing in front of his dresser, pulling a shirt over his head.

The second he sees you, his face brightens. “Finally,” he huffs out a breath like you had kept him waiting and you roll your eyes.

Dean crosses the room and wraps his arms around you before you can say something smart—a smothering hug. But this time he keeps you there, turning his face into your shoulder and letting out a long breath.

He stays like that for a moment, holding you like he needs it—like he needs you.

“Dean?” You whisper.

“Babydoll,” he mumbles.

“Seriously, are you okay?” You laugh nervously.

He thinks about that for a minute, mumbling something frustrated and small under his breath. You pull back and cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“C’mon,” you breathe, and his bottom lip pokes out in a pout. “It’s me… Tell me. What the hell’s going on with you. You told me to come over. I’m here…”

“I know… Thank you,” he mutters.

“So?”

“So…” He sighs as you drop your hands, hanging heavy by your sides. “Mental gymnastics.”

“Over what?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Allie.

“Allie,” he whispers the name you saw coming a mile away. “I can’t do it.”

“Like?” You ask, feeling your stomach sink like a rollercoaster drop. “Like the two of you?”

“No—No. Hell no,” he answers fast and breathless. “That assignment. I couldn’t do it. Every girl I talked to, I just kept thinking about how fuckin’ stupid it was. I even thought about asking somebody to lie.”

“Desperate times,” you murmur.

“You got no clue,” he mumbles, tiredly. “I even thought about asking you. Y’know, to lie.” The words hit harder than they should. “Probably the only person I know who’d give a shit enough to help me with that.”

You force a smile, your lips trembling at the corner. “Of course.”

“She’d never believe it.”

Your eyelashes flutter as your heart starts to crack. “Oh?”

Dean laughs, scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he thinks it over. “You’re my girl. She’d know I was lyin’.”

You nod, giving him the only reply you can muster to that. He lifts his hands, running his fingers through his hair, still turning it over in his head.

“I’m just gonna tell her.”

You stare up at him for a moment, and those nerves you heard on the phone start to become crystal clear. “Tell her what?” You ask nonetheless.

He blows out a breath just like before, laughing nervously. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“You’ve never had trouble talking before,” you say, already turning away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as he scowls, rolling your eyes away.

“No too much on your boy, alright. I’m going through emotional duress.”

He walks around his bed and crashes down, turning to his side like he’s already waiting for you to settle on the other.

“This feels different.”

Your stomach sinks as you sink into the mattress next to him.

“I keep trying to convince myself we’re casual, but we’re not,” he tells you honestly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“We didn’t even do anything special. We stayed in, ordered food, watched movies, and it was probably one of the best nights I’ve had in years.”

The best night he’s had in years. All those memories you’d secretly hoped might fill that place already did—for you.

“I keep waiting for this feeling to go away,” he sighs. “I keep thinkin’ eventually I’ll wake up and it’ll be normal again, but it doesn’t.”

You look up at him for a moment, wishing he would stop talking and feeling awful for it at the same time. You hate how much it sounds like everything you’ve spent years wanting to hear.

You hate it even more because none of it is meant for you.

“Well, what are you gonna say?” You whisper, and he scoots a little closer, snuggling into his pillow.

“To Allie?”

You widen your eyes to keep the tears inside—because why the fuck would you want to know? But some part of you knows you need to hear it.

“Tonight?” He asks and you nod. “Like practice on you.”

No.

You look back at him, wishing you could take back those six little words because now he’s not just going to talk through his feelings.

He wants you to feel them. He wants to sit here and practice telling another girl he loves her while looking you directly in the eye, and the worst part is that he trusts you enough to do it—trusts you enough to hand you something this important and never once wonder what it might cost you.

And that might be too much for you to take.

“Mhmm,” the utterance pushes past your lips, and your head falls a little heavier into the pillow, wafting an unfamiliar perfume, just a whisper. Allie’s.

You push off the pillow and sit, and he does the same, meeting you eye to eye.

“Allie,” he breathes. “I, uh….” Dean laughs nervously, so you do the same. The two of you look away for a moment, anxious for different reasons entirely before looking back at each other.

“Dean,” you whisper, extending your hand casually for him to continue.

“I get it now,” he mumbles, taking your hand in his. Your gaze falls as his fingers tighten around yours.

“Get what?” You whisper, eyes lifting back to him.

“You love love.” Your eyebrows soften on his, recalling something he had told you she had mentioned when they first met. “That’s what you said you wanted, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“So, I came here to tell you that I…” He mumbles as his thumb brushes along your knuckles. “I didn’t complete the assignment.”

Silence settles over the room as you already hear something you know to be true.

“Why?” You ask, watching him for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for his four little words he’s so desperate to say to leave his lips and shatter your heart completely.

“Because I like you,” he answers and you force yourself to smile.

Suddenly, Dean is harder to see through the blur gathering in your eyes. You nod, feeling your body starting to tremble with adrenaline.

“I like us.” He laughs softly. “We just kept having all these little moments.”

Dean doesn’t notice the way your stomach twists, looking away as your first tear breaks free. You lift up your shirt, brushing it away before he can see. He drags a hand across his mouth, smiling at the memory, too busy to see you.

And suddenly every fear you’ve spent months trying not to think about becomes impossible to ignore. Because if he talks about her like this now, what happens when she says yes?

The answer comes immediately. You lose him.

Not all at once. Slowly, the way people drift when they start building a life full of beautiful memories with someone else.

“I couldn’t do it either,” you whisper.

“You think she’s gonna say that?” He asks, breaking character. Talking to a friend.

“I hope so.”

He looks relieved, like finally saying it out loud has taken a weight off his shoulders. “Was it too much, honestly?”

You shake your head quickly—too eager. Not at all your normal reply and you both know it. “No, Dean. I think you should tell her,” your words barely slip past your quivering lips.

“Hey,” he breathes, his eyes widening as he leans in, that relief he was feeling falling away almost as fast as it came. “Are you okay?”

You look up to the ceiling, your hands coming up under your eyes to catch your tears, letting out a breathless laugh. “Oh my God,” you huff.

“You’re crying,” he interjects, pawing your hands away, grabbing your face just like you held him just minutes before.

He searches your face like he missed something. And he did. He has no clue. No fucking clue.

Dean immediately leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, and you sniffle, hiccuping on your tears. Embarrassment coursing through your veins.

“Did I say something wrong?”

The panic in his voice makes you feel guilty, your tears rolling warm over his hands as you think of an escape plan. Some way to salvage this moment for him—for you.

“Why are you crying?” He whispers, laughing because it’s awkward and he’s nervous. Because this went from a hopeful moment to him being totally perplexed.

“That was just…” You swallow hard. “Really beautiful.”

Dean blinks a few times. “What?”

“Your,” you swallow hard, rolling your eyes as tears flick off your lashes. “That—that speech, Dean.” Your voice cracks, and you laugh as well. For him. Again.

“You think?”

You nod as a smile pulls at your mouth. “I loved it.”

His thumbs come up, brushing beneath your eyes. Dean's smile gets a little brighter, the dimples in his cheeks popping like that was the vote of confidence he needed. “It was that good?”

“Perfect,” you whisper.

“Damn, might be too much for a bar, huh?” He sighs, smiling back at you before he leans in, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “Thank you.” You can hear the relief in his words, like that conversation was exactly what he needed.

And, the last thing you wanted to hear.

“The Uber is here,” Garrett calls from downstairs.

“Oh, shit,” Dean practically jumps off the bed, running his fingers through his hair before he pats his pockets, double-checking for his wallet. “You comin’?” He asks when you stay right where you are.

You shake your head.

You point to your tear-soaked cheeks, attempting a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t think I’m feeling very good—I…” You look around for a moment. “I think I’m just gonna go home.”

Dean frowns immediately. “You’re joking? No, you’re fine. You just—It was the speech, right?” He asks, his attention immediately pulled away when he hears the boys outside yelling for the two of you. “I don’t wanna do this without you. What if this blows up in my face—”

“YOU TWO COMING?” Both of you are called through the open window. Dean groans and drops his head back for a second.

“I need you. You’re killin’ me.”

“Go,” you say, offering him a smile that lets him know he’s gonna be okay.

For a moment he just stands there before finally nodding. “Okay—Alright,” he answers, checking his reflection in the mirror, spraying some cologne across his chest before he grabs his jacket off the chair. He heads toward the door, stopping with one hand on the frame.

“You sure, sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Dean studies your face for another second before nodding back. “Okay.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Then he hesitates. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck.”

The sound of his footsteps disappears down the stairs. A few seconds later you hear laughter, voices, a door opening and closing. You push yourself to your feet and wander toward the window, watching the black SUV drive off into the night.

And silence.

And in that moment, it’s like the energy had been sucked out of the room completely, the reality of the night catching up to you.

Your throat tightens immediately and your vision starts to blur—you don’t even realize you’re crying until you wipe at your cheek and your hand comes away wet.

You turn away from the window and look around his room. Your sweatshirt is draped over the back of the chair. His backpack with notes from your study session on Tuesday is half-open beside his desk. The cologne you bought him for his birthday—the scent drilled so deep in your brain it still lingers faintly in the air.

Everywhere you look there are pieces of you here.

Maybe that’s what has been hurting so much. Not the idea of Dean loving somebody else. The idea that he might be happy enough to stop needing you the way he always has. That one day you’ll wake up and realize you aren’t the first person he calls anymore, and that neither of you will have even noticed when it happened.

You press a hand over your mouth and try to breathe through it, but all you can hear is Dean’s voice.

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.

I keep waiting for this feeling to go away.

Eventually you kick off your shoes and pull yourself onto his bed. The pillow is still warm from where he’d been lying. You bury your face in it trying to stop thinking—stop feeling.

Tomorrow he’ll probably walk through the front door smiling. He’ll tell you everything. What she said. How nervous he was. What had happened after that. And you’ll sit there and listen because that’s what you’ve always done.

Then a horrible thought hits you. You can’t stay here.

Because there’s a really good chance Dean is about to get exactly what he wants tonight. There’s a really good chance she says ‘yes’. And if she does, why wouldn’t they come back here?

For years you’ve walked into this room without thinking about it. You’ve fallen asleep here during movie nights. You’ve spent hours sitting on this bed listening to Dean complain about classes, hockey, teammates, girls you didn’t give a shit about. You treated this like it was your home and you belonged here.

But maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe none of it was ever yours in the first place.

Maybe this is just the first time you’ve had to realize it.

Your grip loosens on the pillow before you finally stand, picking up whatever pieces of yourself you can.

That isn’t even the part that hurts the most. Maybe you should’ve known how this would end.

He needed help telling another girl he loved her, and he came to you.

And you said yes.

"Holy shit," someone mutters as you pass, and you smile to yourself. This is exactly the reaction you wanted. You came here tonight to have fun, to feel wanted, to remind yourself that you're not sitting at home pining over your ex-boyfriend.

Even if that ex-boyfriend is somewhere in this house.

It was his best friend’s frat throwing the party, so you were sure you’d end up seeing him. You didn’t let that deter you, though.

You push the thought of Dean Di Laurentis out of your mind as you make your way toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen. You're not here for him. You're here for you.

The kitchen is marginally less crowded, and you're reaching for a cup when a guy in a vampire costume slides up next to you. He's cute in a generic way—dark hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.

"Let me guess," he says, looking you up and down with obvious appreciation. "Sexy vampire?"

You laugh, shaking your head as you pour yourself a drink. "Santanico Pandemonium. From Dusk Till Dawn?"

"Never seen it, but I'm suddenly very motivated to watch it." His grin widens. "I'm Tyler."

"Dangerous movie for a guy dressed as a vampire," you tease, taking a sip of your drink. The vodka burns pleasantly down your throat.

Tyler leans against the counter, angling his body toward yours. "I like danger. Can I get you another drink? That one looks a little weak."

You're about to respond when you feel it—that prickling awareness at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched. You glance toward the kitchen doorway and your breath catches.

Dean.

He's leaning against the doorframe, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, dressed as the devil in a way that makes the costume look like it was made for him. Fitted black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants that hug his frame perfectly, and a pair of small red horns perched on his blonde hair. Red accents trace along his collar and cuffs—details that somehow make him look more dangerous, not less. Even from across the room, you can see the tension in his jaw, the predatory way he's watching you. Dean Di Laurentis has always had a presence that draws attention without trying, but right now, with that dark intensity in his eyes, he looks absolutely lethal.

Right now, that attention is focused entirely on you.

His dark eyes rake over your costume, lingering on the curves of your body, the expanse of skin on display, and something hot and possessive flashes across his face. You watch his grip tighten on his cup, watch the muscle in his jaw tick.

Good, you think with a surge of vindictive satisfaction. Let him look. Let him see what he fumbled.

You deliberately turn back to Tyler, offering him your brightest smile. "Another drink sounds perfect."

An hour later, you're on the dance floor, and you've completely lost yourself in the attention.

Tyler lasted through three songs, his hands respectful on your waist as you swayed together, before he leaned in close to your ear. "You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?" You'd smiled and danced close enough that your bodies brushed with every beat. When his friend called him over, you'd watched him go with a little wave, already scanning the crowd for your next distraction.

You didn't have to wait long.

Marcus appeared almost immediately—a football player with broad shoulders and a pirate costume that showed off his arms. "Dance with me," he'd said, not really asking, and you'd let him pull you back into the throng of bodies. His hands were bolder than Tyler's, settling low on your hips. You'd turned in his arms, pressing your back against his chest, and rolled your hips to the beat.

"Damn," he'd breathed against your neck, and you'd felt the heat of Dean's stare intensify from across the room.

You didn't look. You didn't need to. You could feel him watching, could practically feel the jealousy radiating off him in waves, and it made you move with more confidence, more deliberate sensuality.

When Marcus's hands started wandering toward your ass, you'd spun away with a laugh, letting the music carry you deeper into the crowd. A guy in a Ghostface mask caught you, steadied you with hands on your bare shoulders.

"Careful, beautiful," he'd said, and you'd grinned up at him.

"I'm always careful."

"Somehow I doubt that." His hands slid down your arms, and you let him pull you close, let your body move against his. The mask was creepy up close, but his body was solid and warm, and when his hands found your waist, you didn't stop him. You raised your arms above your head, swaying, letting the gold embellishments on your costume catch the light, knowing exactly how you looked.

Knowing Dean was still watching.

You caught a glimpse of him through the crowd—still in that same spot by the wall, his entire body rigid with tension. Even from here, you could see the darkness in his expression, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it had to hurt.

Good.

Let him hurt the way you'd hurt.

Ghostface leaned down, his mask brushing your temple. "You're the hottest girl here, you know that?"

"Oh yeah? Tell me more," you purred, and he laughed, his hands tightening on your waist.

You danced with him through two more songs, let him get comfortable, let his hands wander. When he tried to kiss you—or at least press the mask against your neck in some approximation of a kiss—you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed.

"I need another drink," you told him, and slipped away before he could follow.

But you didn't make it to the bar.

A hand caught yours, spinning you around, and you found yourself face-to-face with a guy in a leather jacket and slicked-back hair—some kind of 50s greaser costume. He was handsome in a clean-cut way, with a charming smile that probably worked on most girls.

"Where are you going?" he asked, pulling you back toward him. "I've been watching you all night."

"Have you?" You let him reel you in, your hands landing on his chest. The leather was smooth under your palms.

"Hard not to. Your energy is fucking magnetic." His hands found your hips, and he started moving with you, matching your rhythm perfectly. "I'm Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake."

"You gonna tell me your name, or are you going to stay mysterious?"

You just smiled, turning in his arms so your back was pressed against his chest. His hands slid around your waist, holding you close, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder as you moved together. The position was intimate, almost obscene, your ass grinding against him as his hands splayed across your stomach.

"Fuck," he muttered, his lips brushing your ear. "You're killing me."

You were killing Dean, too. You could feel it, that burning attention that hadn't wavered all night. You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch sight of him through the crowd, and your breath caught.

He wasn't leaning against the wall anymore. He was standing now, his body coiled tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Even from across the room, you could see the fury in his expression, the barely-contained violence.

Your current dance partner—a tall guy in a Clark Kent costume who'd smoothly cut in after Jake got pulled away by his friends—has his hands on your hips, and you're moving against him to the heavy beat, putting on a show you know Dean is watching. Superman is handsome enough, enthusiastic, his hands confident as they grip you.

"You're incredible," he murmurs in your ear, and you smile, arching your back slightly, pressing closer.

You feel it again. That gaze, burning into you from across the room, hotter and more intense than ever.

You don't have to look to know it's Dean.

He's been watching you all night; you've felt it. Every time a new guy approaches, every time someone's hands wander a little too low, you've felt the weight of his stare. Part of you wants to confront him, to tell him he has no right to look at you like that anymore. But another part of you—the petty, vindictive part—enjoys it.

Enjoys knowing he's watching you have fun without him.

Enjoys knowing it's driving him absolutely insane.

Superman's hands slide lower, and you're about to step away when suddenly he's gone. One second he's behind you, the next he's being physically moved aside, and Dean is there instead.

"Hey, man, what the fuck-" Superman starts, but one look at Dean's face shuts him up. Dean doesn't say a word, just stares at him with an expression that promises violence, and Superman backs off with his hands raised.

You whirl around, fury igniting in your chest. "What the hell, Dean?"

"We need to talk." His voice is low, rough, and his hand wraps around your wrist.

"I'm busy," you snap, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm.

"Now."

The possessiveness in his tone makes your blood boil. You let him pull you off the dance floor, but only because you're about to rip him a new one and you'd rather not do it in front of everyone. He leads you down a hallway, away from the pulsing music and crowds, until you're in a relatively quiet corner near the stairs.

You yank your wrist free the moment you're alone, and the force of it makes you stumble back a step. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"My problem?" Dean's laugh is harsh, humorless, and he takes a step toward you, closing the distance you just created. "My problem is watching every asshole in this house put their hands on you all fucking night."

"They're not assholes, they're just guys having fun at a party. And last I checked, you don't get a say in who touches me anymore." You cross your arms over your chest, which only serves to push your breasts up higher in the low-cut bikini top. Dean's eyes drop for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face, his jaw tightening.

"Don't do that," he says, his voice dropping lower.

"Do what? Exist? Have fun? Move on with my life?" Each word is sharp, pointed.

"Having fun," he repeats, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. "Is that what you call letting their hand roam over your skin? Letting them whisper in your ear while your grind your ass against them?"

Heat floods your cheeks—part anger, part something else you don't want to name. "I was dancing. People dance at parties, Dean. It's kind of the whole point."

"You were putting on a show." He takes another step closer, and you can see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Don't pretend you weren't. You were practically fucking them with your clothes on. No, more like you were fucking them with that string on. You-"

"I'm single, Dean. I can do whatever the fuck I want." You glare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"You wore that on purpose."

"I wore this because I look hot in it and I wanted to feel good about myself. Not everything is about you, you- you fucking asshole!"

"Bullshit. You knew I'd be here. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"You are so fucking arrogant!" Your breath is coming faster now, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "You're being ridiculous—"

"Am I?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, that familiar scent that used to mean safety and home. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to make me lose my fucking mind. And congratulations, babydoll, it worked."

"Don't call me that," you snap, but your voice wavers. "And don't act like you have any right to be upset. You broke up with me, remember? You're the one who said we wanted different things, that the timing wasn't right, that you needed space-"

"I know exactly what I said, and I've regretted it every single day since. But that doesn't mean I can just stand there and watch other men touch you like they own you."

"They don't own me. Nobody owns me." You're breathing hard now, your hands trembling with anger and adrenaline. "And you know what? Maybe I did want you to see. Maybe I wanted you to know what it feels like to watch someone you care about slip away. To feel helpless and jealous and-"

"You wanted me to be jealous?" Something flashes in his eyes—triumph mixed with fury. "You admit it."

"So what if I did?" You're goading him now, you know you are, but you can't stop. Weeks of hurt and anger are bubbling up, demanding release. "You deserve to feel like shit, Dean. You deserve to watch me have fun without you. You deserve to see other guys want me and know that you gave up your chance-"

"I didn't give up anything." His hand shoots out, wrapping around your upper arm, and he pulls you closer. Not rough enough to hurt, but firm enough that you gasp. "I made a mistake. A stupid, fucking mistake because I was scared of how much I needed you, and I've been trying to fix it ever since."

"By doing what? Staring at me from across rooms? Showing up at places you know I'll be?" You try to pull your arm free, but his grip tightens. "That's not fixing anything, that's just being a creep."

"I was trying to give you space. Trying to find the right moment to talk to you, to apologize, to-" He breaks off, his other hand coming up to grip your other arm. "But then you walked in tonight looking like every guy's wet dream, and I couldn't- I can't-"

"Can't what?" Your voice is breathless now, and you hate it. Hate how your body is responding to his proximity, to the heat of his hands on your bare arms, to the desperation in his voice.

"Can't watch you leave here with someone else." His voice cracks slightly. "Can't stand the thought of another man's hands on you, another man making you laugh, another man taking you home and-" He stops, his jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. "Fuck."

"That's not your decision to make anymore." But even as you say it, you're not pulling away. You're standing here, trapped between his body and the wall behind you, your breathing ragged, your skin burning where he's touching you. "And it's not my problem."

"I know." His grip on your arms loosens slightly, his thumbs stroking over your skin in a gesture that's achingly familiar. "I know I don't have any right to feel this way. I know I'm the one who fucked everything up. But watching you tonight—watching Tyler lean in close to you at the bar, watching Marcus's hands slide down your hips, watching that asshole in the Ghostface mask press against you, watching Jake's hands on your stomach while you moved against him-" His voice is getting rougher, more raw. "It was fucking torture."

"Good," you whisper, but there's no heat in it anymore. "You deserve it."

"I know." One of his hands slides up from your arm to your shoulder, his fingers brushing against your collarbone. "I know I did. But that doesn't change the fact that I wanted to rip every single one of them away from you. That I wanted to be the one touching you, the one making you smile, the one you were grinding against on that dance floor."

Your breath hitches. "Dean-"

"Do you have any idea what you look like in this?" His eyes drop, taking in the dark red top, the way it barely contains your breasts. "Like a fucking fantasy. Like something I don't deserve to even look at, let alone touch. But I can't stop looking. I haven't been able to stop looking at you all night."

"Then maybe you should have thought about that before you dumped me." Your voice is weaker now, and you can feel your resolve crumbling. "Before you told me you needed to focus on hockey, that a relationship was too distracting, that-"

"I was an idiot." He steps even closer, and now you're fully backed against the wall, his body crowding yours. "I was scared because I'd never felt that way about anyone before. Because you made me want things I didn't think I could have—a future, a life beyond hockey, something real. And instead of dealing with that like an adult, I panicked and pushed you away."

"You broke my heart." The words come out barely above a whisper, and you hate how vulnerable you sound. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough, like I was just some distraction you needed to get rid of."

"No." His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "No, baby, you were never- fuck, you were everything. You are everything. That's why I got scared. Because losing you would destroy me, and I thought if I ended it first, if I was the one to walk away, it would hurt less." His laugh is bitter. "Turns out I was wrong about that too."

You can feel tears pricking at your eyes, and you blink them back furiously. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up here and say all the right things and expect me to just-"

"I don't expect anything." His other hand comes up to frame your face, and now he's holding you like you're something precious, something he's terrified of losing. "I just need you to know that I'm sorry. That I've been miserable without you. That seeing you tonight, seeing other guys touch you and look at you and want you-" His voice drops to almost a growl. "It made me realize I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I'm okay without you. I can't watch you move on."

"That's not fair." Your hands come up to grip his wrist, but you're not pushing him away. "You can't just decide you want me back because you got jealous at a party."

"It's not just tonight." His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips. "I've wanted you back since the moment I walked away."

Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can feel it. "Dean-"

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His voice is desperate now, pleading. "Tell me you don't still think about us, about what we had. Tell me you didn't wear this costume partly because you knew it would drive me crazy. Tell me you didn't dance with all those guys hoping I was watching."

You open your mouth to deny it, but the words won't come. Because he's right. You did know he'd be here. You did choose this costume partly because you knew how he'd react. You did dance with those guys knowing his eyes were on you the whole time.

"I hate you," you whisper, but it sounds more like a confession than an accusation.

"No, you don't." His thumb brushes over your lower lip, smudging your dark lipstick. "You hate that you still want me. That's not the same thing."

"You're such a fucking dick-"

"And you're so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you." His voice is rough, raw with emotion. "I need you. Breaking up with you was the biggest mistake of my life, and I've been trying to find the right way to tell you, the right moment, but seeing you tonight-" His body presses closer, pinning you fully against the wall now. "I can't wait anymore. I can't watch you walk away. I can't let another man touch you when all I want is to-"

"To what?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes are dark, intense, burning into yours. "To make you mine again. To remind you how good we were together. To erase every other man's touch from your skin until the only hands you remember are mine."

Your breath catches. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, can see the genuine anguish in his eyes beneath the jealousy and possessiveness. This close, you can see everything—the dark circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn't been sleeping well, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's looking at you like you're water and he's been dying of thirst.

"You can't just say that. You can't just-"

"I know I can't." His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel his breath on your lips. "I know I have no right. But I'm saying it anyway because I can't keep it in anymore. I want you back. I need you back."

You should push him away. You should tell him it's too late, that he hurt you too badly, that you've moved on. But your body is betraying you, swaying toward him, and when his lips brush against yours—barely a kiss, just a whisper of contact—you don't pull back.

"I seriously hate you," you breathe against his mouth, but it doesn't sound any more real than when you said it earlier.

"I know." His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back. "Hate me all you want. Just don't leave with someone else tonight… Please."

And then he's kissing you for real, and it's nothing like the gentle kisses you used to share. This is desperate, claiming, his tongue sliding against yours as he presses you back against the wall. You should stop this. You should-

But your hands are fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, and you're kissing him back just as desperately. All the anger, all the hurt, all the weeks of missing him are pouring into this kiss, and when he groans into your mouth, the sound goes straight between your legs.

"Upstairs," he mutters against your lips. "Now."

You should say no. You should walk away, go back to the party, find Superman or Tyler or literally anyone else. But Dean's hand is sliding down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, and your body is screaming for more.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you manage to say.

"I don't care." He grabs your hand, pulling you toward the stairs. "Hate me while I make you come."

He guides you through the crowd of people and up the stairs to Beau’s bedroom door.

“This is ridic-” You start to come to your senses for a brief moment. You can't fuck your ex in his best friend's bedroom.

That’s a new low

But he shushes you, pushing the door open and pulling you in behind him without allowing you to finish your thought. The bedroom door barely closes before Dean is on you again, his mouth crashing against yours with bruising intensity. He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, his hands everywhere at once—sliding up your thighs, gripping your ass, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is through his pants.

"Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all night?" he growls against your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point hard enough to make you gasp. "Watching every asshole downstairs eye-fuck you while you danced like that? I was going mad."

"Good," you manage to say, even as your head falls back to give him better access. "You deserved it."

He makes a rough, possessive sound deep in his chest, and then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. His fingers press against your clothed cunt, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes.

"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes going dark. "You're already soaked. I can feel it through the fabric."

Heat floods your cheeks, but before you can respond, he's pushing you back onto the bed. You fall onto the mattress with a soft bounce, and he follows you down, settling between your parted legs. His weight presses you into the bed, solid and familiar and intoxicating.

His mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply while his hands roam your body. He traces the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips, then slides higher to cup your breasts through the sequined bikini top. His thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric, and you arch into his touch with a moan.

"I've missed this," he murmurs against your lips. "Missed touching you. Missed the sounds you make."

His mouth moves down your neck, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He pauses at your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and the possessiveness of the gesture sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.

"Dean-" you start, but he cuts you off by sliding his hand under the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

His fingers find you wet and ready, and he groans. "Fuck, baby. Were you this wet when those other guys were touching you?"

"Maybe," you lie, just to see what he'll do.

His eyes flash dangerously, and then he's hooking his fingers into the dark red fabric and dragging it down your legs. He tosses the bottoms aside carelessly, leaving you exposed from the waist down except for your heels.

"Liar," he says, his voice low and rough. He settles back between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. "You weren't wet for them. You were wet for me. Because you knew I was watching."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue makes your back arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit, groaning at the taste of you, and the vibration goes straight to your clit.

"Fuck, I've missed this the most," he mutters against your flesh. "Missed how you taste. Missed making you fall apart with my mouth."

He's always been good at this, better than anyone else you've ever been with, and he's using every bit of that knowledge now. His tongue circles your clit with maddening precision, then dips lower to slide into you. The sensation is overwhelming, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

"Dean- oh god-" You can barely form words as he works you over, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on your clit.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your wet flesh. "That's it. Say my name. Want everyone in this fucking house to know who's making you feel this good."

Then his mouth is back on you, and he's relentless. He sucks your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves until you're trembling. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other slides up to tease your entrance.

"Please," you gasp, your hips rolling against his face. "Dean, please-"

He slides one finger inside you, and the stretch makes you moan. He works it in and out slowly, curling it to hit that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, all while his tongue continues its assault on your clit.

"So fucking tight," he groans against you. "Did you let anyone else touch you like this? Did you let anyone see how pretty you look when you're desperate?"

"No," you manage to say, your voice breaking. "No, just you-"

"That's right." He adds a second finger, stretching you further, and the satisfaction in his voice is palpable. "Just me. Only me."

He picks up the pace, his fingers pumping into you while his mouth works your clit with devastating precision. The pressure builds fast and hard, coiling tight in your belly, and you can feel yourself getting close.

"Dean, I'm- I'm gonna-"

And then he stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you look down at him in desperate fury. He's watching you with a smirk, his lips glistening with your arousal, his fingers still buried inside you but completely still.

"What the fuck-"

"Beg me," he says, his voice rough with desire and something darker. "I want to hear you beg."

"Fuck you."

"That's the plan." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, his stubble scraping against the sensitive skin. "But first, I want to hear you beg. Want to hear you say 'Please, Dean. Please make me come.' Want to hear you admit that no one else can make you feel like this."

You try to hold out, try to maintain at least some shred of dignity. But you're so close, and you need this. Need him. Your body is screaming for release, and you can't think straight with his fingers still inside you, his breath hot against your cunt.

He presses a few more kisses to your inner thigh, trailing them up toward your core. Each one is soft, teasing, maddening. "Come on," he says softly, glancing up at you with that infuriating smirk. "Beg me, sweet girl."

He presses a soft kiss directly to your clit, and the gentle touch after all that intensity nearly breaks you.

"Please." The word tumbles out before you can even think to stop it, any restraint you had left completely gone. "Please, Dean. Please make me come. I need- fuck- I need you."

"That's my girl." The possessiveness in his voice should annoy you, but instead it sends a fresh wave of heat through your body. "That's exactly what I wanted to hear."

His mouth returns to your clit, and this time he doesn't stop. He works you relentlessly, his fingers pumping into you hard and fast, curling to hit that perfect spot with every thrust. His tongue flicks over your clit in rapid strokes, and the combination is overwhelming.

"Come for me," he commands against your flesh. "Come on my tongue. Show me how much you missed this."

The orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your back arches off the bed, your thighs clamping around his head as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out his name, your hands fisting in his hair, your entire body shaking with the intensity of it.

He works you through it, his fingers and tongue gentling but not stopping until you're pushing at his head, oversensitive and trembling. When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening with your arousal, and the sight of it makes your stomach clench with renewed desire.

"Fuck," you breathe, your chest heaving. "Dean-"

"I'm not done with you yet." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and hungry as he stands. "Not even close."

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he strips, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the body you've missed more than you want to admit. His chest is broad and defined, his abs cut, and when he works his belt open and shoves his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

He's hard, his cock thick and flushed, and you remember exactly how it feels inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the way he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

"Turn over," he commands, and something in his tone, rough and authoritative, makes you obey without thinking.

You flip onto your stomach, and his hands are immediately on you. He reaches around you to untie your cape, tossing it to the floor, then unhooks your bikini top. The velvet fabric falls away, leaving you completely naked except for your heels and the smudged remains of your makeup.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hands running up the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your ass, up your spine. "You're so fucking perfect. Missed this body. Missed every inch of you."

His hands grip your hips, pulling them up so you're on your knees, face pressed into the mattress. The position leaves you completely exposed, vulnerable, and you feel a fresh rush of arousal at the thought of how you must look to him.

"This is how I've been picturing you," he says, his voice rough. "Every night since we broke up. On your knees for me, desperate and wet and mine."

You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and then he's pushing inside in one hard, deep thrust.

The sensation punches the air from your lungs. He's big—bigger than you remembered—and the stretch burns in the best way. It's been weeks since you've had him, and your body needs a moment to adjust to the intrusion.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips. "So tight. Forgot how fucking tight you are."

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out into the mattress. Each thrust is deep and hard, the angle allowing him to hit spots that make your vision blur.

"This what you wanted?" he grits out, his hips snapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, obscene and intoxicating. "Wanted to drive me crazy until I couldn't take it anymore? Wanted me to see you dancing with all those assholes and lose my fucking mind?"

"Yes," you gasp, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. "Wanted you to- fuck- wanted you to see what you gave up."

He leans over you, one hand sliding up your spine to wrap around your throat. He pulls you back against his chest, changing the angle so he's hitting even deeper. His other hand splays across your stomach, holding you in place as he fucks into you.

"I know what I gave up," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your neck. "And I'm never making that mistake again. You're mine. You've always been mine."

His hand slides down from your stomach to your clit, rubbing in tight, fast circles. The dual stimulation is overwhelming—his cock driving into you, his fingers on your clit, his hand around your throat, his voice in your ear.

"Did you think about me?" he asks, his voice rough. "When you were dancing with those guys, did you think about me watching? Did you get wet knowing I was losing my mind?"

"Yes," you admit, because there's no point in lying anymore. "Yes, I thought about you-"

"Good." His fingers move faster on your clit. "Because I was thinking about this. About getting you alone and reminding you exactly who you belong to."

You can feel another orgasm building, faster than you expected. Your walls are already fluttering around him, and he groans at the sensation.

"That's it," he encourages. "Feel how perfectly you take my cock? Like you were made for me. Like this pussy was made for me."

"Dean-" Your voice is high and desperate. "I'm close-"

"I know baby. I can feel it." He releases your throat, pushing you back down onto the mattress. Both his hands grip your hips now, and his pace becomes punishing. "But you're not coming yet. Not until I say so."

"Please—" You're begging again, but you don't care. "Please, Dean, I need—"

"You need what?" His hand comes down on your ass in a sharp slap, and the sting makes you cry out. "Tell me what you need."

"Need to come," you gasp. "Need you to make me come-"

"Say you're mine." His voice is commanding, desperate. "Tell me you're mine and I'll let you come."

You try to hold out, try to maintain some control, but you're so close and he feels so good and you can't think about anything except the need for release.

"Yours," you finally gasp out. "I'm yours, Dean, fuck- I'm yours."

"That's right." His hand slides around to your clit again, rubbing hard. "Mine. Always fucking mine."

The orgasm slams into you with devastating force. Your entire body convulses, your walls clenching around him so hard he curses. You scream into the mattress, your hands fisting in the sheets as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

He fucks you through it, his rhythm faltering slightly. "Fuck, baby, you feel so good."

You're still trembling when he pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. But before you can protest, he's flipping you onto your back, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and driving back inside you in one smooth thrust.

The new angle has him hitting even deeper, and you cry out at the intensity. You're oversensitive from two orgasms, but the pleasure is still there, building again impossibly fast.

"Want to see your face," he says, his eyes locked on yours. "Want to watch you come apart for me again."

He leans down, folding you nearly in half, and the position has him grinding against your clit with every thrust. His face is inches from yours, his expression raw and desperate and possessive.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice breaking. "Missed you so much."

Your hands come up to frame his face, and you pull him down into a kiss. It's messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you can taste yourself on his lips.

"Dean-" You break the kiss to gasp for air. "I'm gonna-"

"Do it." His hips snap harder, faster. "Come on my cock. Show me how good I make you feel."

The third orgasm is almost painful in its intensity. Your body is so sensitive, so overwhelmed, that when it hits, you see stars. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your back arching off the bed, and you're pretty sure you scream his name loud enough for the entire party to hear.

The feeling of you coming around him is his undoing. His rhythm stutters, and then he's coming too with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside you. You feel the warmth of it, the pulse of his cock, and it prolongs your own orgasm until you're both shaking and gasping.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you with his full weight, and you wrap your arms around him. For a long moment, neither of you moves, both trying to catch your breath. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and your entire body feels like jelly.

"Fuck," he finally breathes against your neck. "That was..."

"Yeah," you agree, because you don't have the words either.

He carefully pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. He rolls onto his side, immediately pulling you against his chest, and you're too exhausted and satisfied to resist.

His arms wrap around you, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head. Your cheek presses against his chest, and you can hear his heart still racing, feel the rise and fall of his breathing gradually slowing. Your own body is trembling with aftershocks, muscles quivering, skin hypersensitive everywhere he touches you.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the party downstairs. Sweat cools on your skin, making you shiver slightly, and Dean pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. Your legs are tangled with his, one of your thighs draped over his hip, and you can feel the stickiness between your legs—evidence of what you just did.

What you just let him do.

The thought brings a complicated rush of emotions. Satisfaction, yes. Your body is sated in a way it hasn't been since the breakup. But there's also confusion, vulnerability, and underneath it all, that persistent ache of hurt that great sex can't quite erase.

Dean's hand moves to your hair, fingers gently working through the tangled strands. You'd lost the feathered headpiece accessory somewhere during the night, probably on the dance floor, and your carefully styled waves are now a mess. He doesn't seem to care. His fingers are gentle, almost reverent, as he smooths your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" he asks softly, and there's genuine concern in his voice.

You nod against his chest, not quite ready to speak yet. Your throat feels raw—from screaming his name, probably—and your emotions are too jumbled to put into words.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple. His lips linger there, and you feel him breathe you in. "I've missed this," he murmurs. "Just... holding you. Being close to you."

Something in your chest tightens at the tenderness in his voice. This is the Dean you fell for—not the cocky hockey player or the jealous ex, but the one who could be soft when it was just the two of you. The one who made you feel safe and cherished.

The one who broke your heart.

"Dean," you start, but your voice cracks.

"I know." His hand moves from your hair to your face, tilting your chin up so he can look at you. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of makeup. "We need to talk about this. About us."

You meet his eyes, and the vulnerability you see there makes your breath catch. He looks almost scared, like he's terrified you're going to pull away now that the heat of the moment has passed.

Maybe you should. Maybe the smart thing would be to get dressed, walk out, and pretend this never happened.

But you don't move.

"Why did you do it?" The question comes out quieter than you intended. "Why did you break up with me if you... if you felt like this?"

Dean's jaw tightens, and for a moment you think he's going to deflect. But then he sighs, his hand moving to cup the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.

"I was scared," he admits, and the honesty in his voice surprises you. "You made me feel things I'd never felt before. Things I didn't know how to handle."

"So you ran away." There's no accusation in your tone, just statement of a fact.

"Yeah." He looks away, shame flickering across his features. "I told myself it was about hockey, about needing to focus on the season. And that was part of it—Coach had been on my ass about my performance, and I was stressed about scouts and the draft and all that shit. But the real reason..." He pauses, his throat working as he swallows. "The real reason was that I was falling in love with you, and it fucking terrified me."

Your heart stutters in your chest. He's never said those words before—not even when you were together. You'd felt it, sensed it in the way he looked at you, touched you, but he'd never actually said it. He'd said he loved things about you, but never that he was in love with you.

"I'd never been in love before," he continues, his eyes finding yours again. "Never wanted a future with someone, never thought about what comes after college, after hockey. But with you, I started thinking about all of it. And instead of talking to you about it, instead of being a fucking adult, I panicked and pushed you away."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing his words. Part of you wants to be angry—and you are, still, that anger simmering beneath the surface.

But another part of you understands.

"You really hurt me," you finally say, and your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought what we had meant nothing to you. That dating me was a mistake."

"No." His grip on you tightens, almost desperate. "Fuck, no. You were everything. You are everything. That's why I got so scared."

A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and Dean catches it with his thumb. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek where the tear had been, then another to your jaw, your temple, your forehead. Each kiss is gentle, apologetic, full of unspoken emotion.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers against your skin. "I'm so fucking sorry for hurting you. For making you feel like you weren't enough when the truth is I didn't think I was enough for you."

You pull back slightly to look at him, surprised. "What?"

"You're incredible," he says simply. "You're smart and funny and beautiful and you have your shit together in a way I don't. You know what you want, where you're going. And I'm just... I'm a hockey player who's good at hitting pucks with sticks. I didn't know how to be what you needed."

"I never asked you to be anything other than yourself," you say softly. "I just wanted you to be honest with me. To let me in instead of shutting me out."

"I know." He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they're bright with unshed tears. "I know, and I fucked it up. But I'm asking you—begging you—to give me another chance. Let me prove that I can do better. That I can be better."

You want to say yes immediately. Your body is still humming with satisfaction, your heart aching with how much you've missed him. But you force yourself to think, to really consider what you're doing.

"What's different now?" you ask. "What's changed since you broke up with me?"

"I have." He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at you properly. His other hand continues to trace patterns on your skin—your shoulder, your arm, your hip. "I've been miserable without you. I tried to tell myself I made the right choice, that I needed to focus on hockey, but it didn't work. I couldn't focus. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about you."

His hand moves to your face again, cupping your cheek. "I talked to my dad about it. About you. About how I felt. And he told me I was being an idiot, that if I found someone who made me happy, I should hold onto them. Not push them away because I was scared."

"Your dad said that?" You're surprised. Dean rarely talks about his father, and you'd only met him once.

"Yeah. He also told me that being in love doesn't make you weak—it makes you stronger. Gives you something to fight for." Dean's thumb strokes over your cheekbone. "And he was right. These past few weeks, trying to work up the courage to talk to you, to apologize... I've never been more terrified in my life. But I knew I had to try. Because losing you for good would be worse than any rejection."

You feel more tears threatening, and you blink them back. "You really hurt me, Dean. It's not just going to go away because we had sex."

"I know." He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. "I know it's going to take time. I know I have to earn your trust back. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes?" You repeat with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," He says softly, a small smile growing on his lips. "I love you so fucking much and the way I handled things... that's not who I want to be."

You study his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all you see is earnest vulnerability. This is a side of Dean you've rarely seen—open, honest, willing to admit his flaws.

"I'm scared," you admit quietly. "I'm scared of letting you back in and having you hurt me again."

"I'm scared too," he says. "Scared of fucking this up again. But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."

Your hand comes up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. It's still elevated, matching your own. "If we do this... if I give you another chance then things have to be different. You have to actually talk to me when you're scared or stressed or feeling overwhelmed. You can't just shut me out."

"I won't," he promises. "I'll talk to you. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"And the jealousy thing..." You raise an eyebrow. "Tonight was hot, but you can't go around threatening every guy who looks at me."

"I know. I'll work on it. But in my defense, you were basically putting on a show for me."

"Maybe I was," you admit, and his eyes darken slightly. "But that doesn't give you the right to act like a caveman."

"I know." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "I'll try to control it. But I'm not going to apologize for wanting you all to myself."

"Possessive," you murmur against his mouth.

"Only when it comes to you." He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel heat starting to build again despite your exhaustion.

When you break apart, you're both breathing harder. Dean's hand has drifted down to your hip, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist.

"So what does this mean?" he asks quietly. "Are we... are we trying again?"

You take a deep breath, considering. Every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to be careful, to protect yourself. But your heart—your stupid, hopeful heart—wants to give him this chance.

"We're trying," you finally say. "But Dean, I mean it when I say you have to actually put in the work. This isn't just going to magically fix itself because you confessed your love for me after we had amazing sex."

"I know." He pulls you closer, his relief palpable. "I'll put in the work. Whatever you need."

"I need honesty," you say firmly. "Complete honesty. If you're feeling scared or overwhelmed or like you need space, you tell me. You don't just disappear."

"I promise."

"And I need consistency. I need to know that you're in this, that you're not going to wake up one day and decide it's too much again."

"I'm in this." His hand moves to tangle in your hair. "I'm all in. I love you."

The words hang in the air between you, and your breath catches. He said it earlier, implied it, but hearing him say it directly makes it real.

"I love you," he repeats, his eyes locked on yours. "I should have said it before. Should have said it every day we were together. But I'm saying it now, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me."

Tears are streaming down your face now, and you don't bother to wipe them away. "I love you too," you whisper. "I never stopped. Even when I hated you, I still loved you."

He kisses you then, deep and slow and full of promise. It's different from the desperate, hungry kisses earlier—this one is tender, reverent, like he's trying to pour all his feelings into it.

You lie there for a while longer, just holding each other, trading soft kisses and gentle touches. Dean's hands roam your body, but it's not sexual—it's exploratory, like he's relearning the map of your skin. You do the same, tracing the lines of his muscles, the scars from various hockey injuries.

"I really did miss this," he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just being close to you. Touching you."

"I missed it too," you admit. "More than I wanted to."

His hand slides down your side, over the curve of your hip, and you feel heat starting to build again. Despite everything you've just been through, your body responds to his touch, craving more.

"Dean," you breathe as his hand moves between your legs, fingers teasing.

"Hmm?" He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"We should probably get back to the party. People are going to notice we're gone."

"Let them notice." His fingers slide through your wetness—a mixture of your arousal and his cum—and you gasp. "I'm not done with you yet."

"We just-" Your protest dies as he circles your clit, and your hips buck involuntarily.

"I know." He rolls you onto your back, settling between your legs. "But I want you again. Want to take my time with you this time. Make love to you properly."

The phrase "make love" should sound cheesy, but coming from Dean, it makes your heart flutter. This is what you'd wanted all along—not just the passion and heat, but the tenderness and intimacy.

"Okay," you whisper, pulling him down for a kiss.

This time is different. Slower, gentler, more intimate. He takes his time exploring your body, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, murmuring words of love and apology against your flesh. When he finally slides inside you, it's slow and deep, and you both gasp at the sensation.

He makes love to you with a tenderness that brings tears to your eyes, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. Every thrust is accompanied by whispered words—"I love you," "I'm sorry," "You're so beautiful," "I'll never let you go again."

When you come this time, it's softer, deeper, more emotional. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face, and he holds you through it, kissing away your tears and telling you he loves you over and over.

He follows soon after, his release almost gentle compared to the intensity earlier. He buries his face in your neck, breathing your name like a prayer, and you hold him close, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, exhausted and sated and emotionally wrung out. Dean pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking you against his side, and you rest your head on his chest.

You're both still catching your breath when you hear it—footsteps in the hallway outside the bedroom door. Heavy, purposeful footsteps that make your entire body go rigid.

"Oh my god," you whisper, your eyes going wide.

Dean's head snaps up, and you watch as reality crashes over his face. "Fuck. This is Beau's room."

The footsteps pass by, heading toward the bathroom, and you both exhale shakily. But the moment of panic has shattered the peaceful afterglow completely.

"We need to leave," Dean says urgently, already moving. "Like, right now. If Beau comes up to his room-"

"Yeah, okay, yes." You're already scrambling out of bed, your heart hammering in your chest. The tender intimacy of moments ago has been replaced by adrenaline-fueled urgency.

Dean grabs his clothes, pulling on his pants with quick, efficient movements. You snatch the pieces of your costume from the floor, but frown as you hold it up. You were in no state to sneak out of a part in a bikini after what you and Dean had just done.

"Here," Dean says, he tosses you his gray hoodie from the back of the chair. "Just put this on over it. It's mine."

You slip on your costume and pull the hoodie on to cover yourself—it falls almost to your knees and smells like him.

Dean finishes buttoning up his shirt and doesn't bother with the horns or other accessories. There's no time.

"What about... his bed?" You bite your lip, glancing back at the messy sheets.

"Uh..." Dean hurriedly starts to straighten out the sheets in an attempt to make the bed look somewhat put together. "Mm good enough."

"You sure?" You ask, stuffing your cape into the pocket of Dean's hoodie as you survey the room, looking for any more evidence that the two of you were here.

He nods and takes your hand, squeezing it gently before moving to the door. He cracks it open slowly, listening. The hallway is quiet now, but you can still hear the muffled sounds of the party downstairs—music, laughter, voices.

"Okay," he whispers. "We go slow. Quiet. If anyone sees us, we just act like we were looking for the bathroom or something."

You take a deep breath and nod. Dean opens the door wider and peers out. The hallway is empty, but you can hear voices coming from one of the other rooms. Your pulse is racing as he pulls you out into the corridor.

The walk to the stairs feels like it takes forever. Every creak of the floorboard makes you both freeze. Halfway down the hallway, you hear a door open behind you, and Dean immediately pulls you against the wall, pressing you into the shadows. His arm comes around your waist, holding you close, and you bury your face in his chest, barely breathing.

Someone emerges from the bathroom—a guy in a zombie costume—and walks in the opposite direction without even glancing your way. You wait until he's disappeared into another room before Dean carefully pulls you forward again.

The stairs loom ahead, and you're almost there when Dean suddenly stops. He turns to you, his eyes scanning your face and neck. His expression shifts to concern.

"You have some uh... marks," he says quietly, reaching up to touch a dark hickey on your collarbone.

You reach up to feel your neck, and your stomach drops. "Oh god. How bad?"

"Bad enough that people will notice." He's already thinking, his eyes darting around. "Here," Dean says, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He opens the camera app and hands it to you. "Check yourself. See what we're working with."

You look at your reflection and wince. Your makeup is smudged, your hair is a mess, and there are dark marks scattered across your neck and shoulders. You look exactly like someone who just had intense sex. You huff and tug the hood over your head, pulling the strings a bit to tighten it and cover your neck.

"Alright," He pulls you toward the stairs. "Keep your head down. Don't make eye contact with anyone. We move fast, but not so fast that we draw attention."

You descend the stairs together, your hand gripping his tightly. The party is in full swing below—people dancing, drinking, laughing. No one seems to notice you slipping down the staircase.

The living room is crowded, bodies pressed together on the dance floor. You and Dean navigate through the throng carefully, keeping to the edges of the room. Someone bumps into you, and you tense, but they don't even look at you.

The kitchen is your next obstacle. There are a few people in there—a couple making out against the counter, someone raiding the fridge—but they're too absorbed in their own activities to pay attention to you.

Dean leads you toward the back door, moving with purpose but not urgency. You're almost there when you hear a familiar voice call out.

"Dean? Dude, where have you been?"

Your heart stops. You both freeze.

Dean turns slowly, his arm still around your waist, pulling you slightly behind him. It's one of the hockey players holding a beer and looking curious.

"Just needed some air, man," Dean says smoothly, his voice casual despite the tension radiating from his body. "Party's getting crazy."

"Tell me about it," Dean's teammate laughs, completely oblivious. "Hey, you seen Beau? I've been looking for him."

"Nah, not recently," Dean says, and you can hear the strain in his voice now. "But I'm sure he's around somewhere."

"Yeah, probably." He takes a sip of his beer. "Anyway, catch you later."

He turns away, and Dean immediately pulls you toward the back door. You're through it in seconds, stepping out into the cool night air.

You don't stop moving until you're around the side of the house, out of sight of the windows. Only then does Dean pull you to a stop, and you both lean against the exterior wall, breathing hard.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "That was close."

"Too close," Dean agrees, his chest heaving. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, and then you start to laugh—the kind of laugh that comes from adrenaline and relief and the sheer absurdity of the situation. "We just snuck out of a frat house like we're criminals. We're ridiculous."

"Completely ridiculous," he agrees. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "But worth it."

You lean back against him, looking up at the night sky. The party continues inside, oblivious to the fact that you and Dean just pulled off the most intense, emotional, and logistically complicated reunion of your lives.

"Come on," Dean says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Let's get out of here before Beau realizes we used his room for make-up sex."

He takes your hand and leads you toward his car, and as you walk together through the darkness, you can't help but smile. Whatever happens next, whatever complications lie ahead, at least you know one thing for certain:

Making up with Dean Di Laurentis is definitely worth the risk.

you're fifteen minutes early. you're never early.

the waiting room is empty, which is good because you don't think you could sit here making small talk with another patient right now. the white noise machine hums from somewhere behind the reception desk, a constant static that's supposed to be soothing but just makes you more aware of every sound your body makes. your breathing. the rustle of your clothes. the tap of your shoe against the floor that you can't seem to stop.

you left your hair down even though you always tie it back for sessions because it feels too vulnerable otherwise. but today you want to feel vulnerable. you want him to notice.

you check your phone. 6:47pm. his last appointment of the day is always at seven. you know this because you've been coming here every thursday at seven for six months and you've never seen anyone leave after you.

six months.

you remember the first session. how you sat on that couch and couldn't look at him while you explained why you were there. "i have a problem with sex," you'd said, and the words felt stupid coming out of your mouth. so clinical and detached.

"tell me about it," he'd said, and his voice was so calm that you actually looked up at him. he was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, pen in hand but not writing anything yet.

so you told him about the compulsion. about the way you'd fuck someone and feel nothing and then do it again the next night hoping it would be different. the way you fixated on people... strangers, mostly, and built entire fantasies around them until the reality of actually being with them shattered everything. how you were chasing something you couldn't understand or begin to grasp.

he'd listened to all of it. didn't flinch, didn't judge, didn't try to fix it right away. just asked questions. "what do you think you're looking for?" and "how do you feel in the moment, right before?" and "what happens after?"

you'd left that first session feeling raw.

the second session, you noticed his hands. the way he held the pen, the way his fingers moved when he gestured while talking. you told yourself it didn't mean anything.

by the fourth session, you were thinking about his voice at night.

by the eighth session, you realized you were dressing differently on thursdays.

and then one night, session eleven, maybe twelve, you were fucking some guy you'd met at a party and you weren't thinking about him at all. you were thinking about dr. cameron. about what his hands would feel like instead. about whether he'd be gentle or rough, whether he'd talk to you the way he does in sessions, that calm steady voice asking you questions while he—

you'd came so hard you scared yourself. that was a rarity. you never came.

after that, it was over. every hookup became a placeholder for him. every confession in therapy became a way to see if he'd react, if you could make him break that professional mask even for a second. you started telling him more explicit details. not because you needed to for therapy, but because you wanted to see what he'd do with the information. if he'd really look at you.

you're pretty sure he does. you've caught him sometimes, when you're in the middle of a story, and there's something in his eyes that doesn't really feel like clinical interest.

or maybe you're delusional and maybe this whole thing is just another fixation.

but today feels different.

last weekend you fucked someone in a bar bathroom and the entire time you were imagining it was dr. cameron. you’d said his name so quietly, barely a whisper, but the guy heard it. asked "who's rafe?" and you'd lied, said it was your ex, but the truth sat in your chest like a bag of heavy rocks.

you can't keep doing this. you can't keep coming here every thursday and confessing everything except the one thing that actually matters.

the door to the inner office opens.

dr. cameron steps out, holding a file. he's wearing a light colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and you hate that you notice. the way his forearms flex, and how his long fingers grip the file. he sees you and something flickers across his face. surprise, maybe, but it's gone so fast you might have imagined it.

"hey," he says. "you're early."

"yeah." your voice sounds normal. "is that okay?"

"of course. come on in."

you follow him into the office and the familiar space feels different today, even though its all the same. the couch where you always sit with his chair angled toward it. the desk in the corner with his laptop and stacks of files. the lamp that casts everything in warm light. the door closes behind you, and you hear the lock click into place like he always does, for privacy, but today the sound makes your stomach turn.

"how was your week?" he asks, settling into his chair.

you sit on the couch, your usual spot. nothing feels normal. your skin is too tight.

"it was fine," you say. "i mean, not fine. i don't know."

he waits. he's good at that. letting silence stretch until you fill it.

"i hooked up with someone last weekend," you say, and you watch his face for a reaction, but there's nothing. just that calm, attentive expression. "met him at a bar."

"okay," he says. "tell me about it."

so you do. you tell him about meeting the guy, about how easy it was to fall into that classic pattern—drinks, flirting, the bathroom with its flickering fluorescent light and the smell of cheap soap. you tell him about fucking the guy against the sink, your jeans around your ankles, his hands on your hips, and how the entire time you were somewhere else. you were here. in this office. with dr. cameron's hands on you instead.

he's leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and he's listening the way he always does, but there's something else underneath it. the lamp casts shadows across his face and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers are pressed together.

"and after?" he asks. his voice is steady but there's something underneath it now, something that wasn't there before. "how did you feel after?"

"empty," you say. the word sits between you like a stone. "like always."

"but you did it anyway."

"yeah."

"why?"

you shrug, but the gesture feels wrong, too casual for what you're about to say. "because... because i wanted to feel something? i guess? anything." the words come out uncertain, like you're testing them as you speak.

there's a pause that stretches way too long. it makes you aware of the distant sound of traffic outside muffled by the closed window, the fact that you're alone in this room with him and the door is locked. you can hear your own breathing. his too, if you listen closely enough.

and then you say it.

"i've been thinking about you," your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. "since session six. maybe earlier. i don't know."

session six is definitely a lie. you’d been thinking about him since session two. but there’s no way you could admit something like that. telling him at all was more than enough.

his face changes. it's subtle, just a flash of something raw crossing his features before he can stop it. he looks away, down at his hands where they're pressed together between his knees, and for a moment he's just a man sitting in a chair. not a therapist. not someone in control. just a man who's been caught.

when he looks back at you, his jaw is tight, and whatever argument he'd been having with himself is over. you can see it in his eyes.

"session six," he repeats, and his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "that's... that's a long time."

"yeah."

he's quiet for another moment. you watch him process it, watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. his fingers unclasp and he runs one hand through his hair, messing it up in a way you've never seen before.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"because i thought it would go away," you reply. the confession feels like peeling off skin. "i thought if i just... maybe if i kept coming here, kept talking about it, it would stop. but it didn't. it got worse."

he nods slowly. you can see the conflict playing out on his face, the way his mouth tightens, the way he looks at you and then away and then back again like he can't help himself.

he stands up. the movement is sudden enough that you flinch, and for a second you think he's going to ask you to leave, going to tell you this was a mistake and that you need to find another therapist. but he doesn't. he walks away from you, toward the window, and stands there with his back to you, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way they're drawn up tight. the way they rise and fall with his breathing. the office feels smaller suddenly, the walls much closer.

he's pacing now. not frantically or anything, just a few steps back and forth in front of the window, looking at the floor like he's trying to work something out. his hand falls from his neck and he shoves both hands in his pockets, then pulls them out again. you watch him, and you realize this is it. this is the moment where he decides whether to cross the line or send you away.

he stops so abruptly it almost looks like something catches him. his hand falls away from the back of his neck again and when he turns, he doesn't say anything right away. he just looks at you, and there's something in his eyes you've never seen before. something hungry and raw and completely unprofessional.

the way he looks at you... it's not the way a therapist looks at a patient.

"stand up," he says.

you do. your legs feel shaky, unsteady, but you stand anyway. your hands are trembling at your sides.

"come here."

he sits back down in his chair, and the distance between the couch and where he's sitting is barely a few steps, but it feels way longer now. each one gives you another chance to turn around, another chance to pretend none of this happened, to walk out and find a new therapist and never come back. you don't take it.

your shoes are silent on the carpet. you're standing in front of him now, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. close enough to see the way his pupils are dilated, the way his chest is rising and falling faster than normal. there's no trace of the careful distance he'd kept for six months. it's gone completely.

"sit," he says, patting his lap.

"dr. cameron—"

"sit."

you do. you lower yourself onto his lap slowly, your back settling against his chest. his thighs are thick and solid and warm beneath you, the muscle firm under the fabric of his pants. you can feel his cock, already hard, pressing against your ass through the denim of your jeans. the knowledge of it sends heat flooding through you. you want to shift, to grind back against him, but you force yourself to stay still because part of you still can't even believe this is happening.

his hands settle on your thighs. warm and heavy, the weight of them grounding you.

"keep talking," he says, his voice low in your ear. you can feel his breath against your neck, warm and slightly uneven. "tell me about the compulsion."

"i—i don't know what you want me to say."

his hands slide higher, fingers tracing the inside of your thighs through your jeans. the touch is light, almost teasing. "tell me what it feels like. when you're with someone. what are you chasing?"

you can barely think. his fingers are moving in slow circles on your inner thighs and it's making it hard to form words. "i don't know... validation, maybe? proof that i'm wanted."

"and do you get it?"

"no. never."

his fingers pop the button on your jeans. the sound is loud in the quiet office, the snap of metal against fabric. you lift your hips slightly so he can pull the zipper down. the rasp of metal teeth separating sounds almost deafening in the silence.

"why not?" he murmurs, sliding his hand inside your jeans, over your underwear. you're already wet, soaked through the fabric, and you know he can feel it. his fingers press against you through the damp cotton and you gasp, your hips jerking forward involuntarily.

"because... because it's never enough," you whisper. "it's never—fuck—"

he presses against your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk forward again. his other hand comes up to grip your jaw, fingers splaying across your cheek and throat, holding your head back against his shoulder. the grip is firm and feels like a gentle anchor.

"keep talking," he says. "you're doing so good."

"dr. cameron, please—"

"please what?" his thumb catches the edge of your underwear, easing it aside. his fingers find you almost absently, like he's waiting for your answer more than your reaction, but you can hear the wet sound of it when he slides through your folds. "use your words."

you can't answer. your eyes are squeezing shut and it feels like you're hardly breathing. he circles your clit once, twice, and you're already shaking. the jeans are tight around your hips, constricting, and his hand is trapped inside them, the denim pressing his knuckles against you in a way that's almost uncomfortable but also perfect.

his fingers stop circling. they just rest there, warm and still against your clit. the sudden absence of movement makes you whimper, a sound you didn't mean to make.

"the guy from last weekend," he says. not a question. his breath is against your ear, warm and steady. "tell me what he did."

"he—" your voice cracks. you can't think. his fingers are right there but not moving and it's worse than if he'd pulled away completely. the stillness is torture. "i don't—"

"you don't remember?" his fingers slide lower, just barely, teasing your entrance. you can feel the tip of one finger pressing against you, not pushing in, just resting there. "or you don't want to tell me?"

"no, i—he fucked me. in the—" you're breathing too fast. the words won't come out right. your brain can't form complete thoughts with his hand between your legs. "backseat. i was—"

his fingers push inside you. just the tips, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the intrusion. you gasp and lose the sentence completely, your mouth falling open.

"you were what?"

"on top," you manage. "i was on top."

he pushes deeper. not all the way, just enough that you can feel the stretch, the promise of more. his fingers are thick and you can feel every ridge, every knuckle as they slide into you. then he stops again and holds still inside you, buried to the second knuckle.

"did you cum?"

"no."

his fingers don't move and he’s silent for a moment. you can feel your pulse around them, can feel yourself clenching involuntarily, trying to pull him deeper. the stillness is maddening.

"why not?" he asks, and his voice is so calm, so steady, like he's asking about the weather while his fingers are inside you and you're falling apart in his lap.

"because i—" you're shaking. "i never—with them, i can't—"

"can't or don't?"

"both? neither. i don't know." the words come out frustrated, desperate.

his thumb brushes your clit. once. the lightest touch. you jerk against him and he pulls it away immediately, denying you.

"but you want to," he says.

"yes—fuck—yes."

"what do you think about?" his fingers curl inside you slightly, pressing against that spot. not enough pressure. just enough to make you aware of it. "when you're with them. when they're inside you... what's in your head?"

you don't answer. you can't. your breath is coming in short gasps and his hand is still gripping your jaw, holding you in place, and you can feel the heat of him against your back, the solid weight of his chest. the hardness of his cock pressing into you through your jeans, and you wonder if he's as desperate as you are, if this is killing him too.

"answer me," he says, and his fingers push deeper, all the way now, buried inside you to the knuckle. you cry out, the sound echoing in the small office.

"i can't—"

"yes you can." he starts moving them. slow, methodical thrusts that make you see stars. his thumb finds your clit again and circles it once, twice. the dual sensation is overwhelming. "tell me what you think about."

"i—" you're climbing already, way too fast. the pressure building low in your belly, spreading through your thighs. "i think about—"

he stops. completely stops. his fingers buried inside you but motionless, his thumb lifting off your clit.

this broken and desperate sound falls from your mouth, something you'd never even heard before.

"say it," he says.

"you," you gasp. "i... i think about—fuck—i think about you."

"me." his voice is rough now, the professional veneer cracking. "you think about me while some stranger fucks you in a parking lot."

"yes."

"what am i doing?" his fingers move again, just slightly, just enough to remind you they're there. "in your head. what am I doing to you?"

"this," you whisper. "you're—you're doing this."

"yeah?" he pushes deeper, curling his fingers inside you. you can feel every ridge, every knuckle, the stretch of it. his thumb finds your clit and he starts moving in a rhythm that has you climbing fast. too fast. your hips start to move, grinding back against his cock, and you can feel how hard he is, can hear the way his breath catches. his other hand tightens on your jaw, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"stay still," he says.

you try. you're shaking so fucking badly, your thighs trembling. you're right there, right on the edge, the pressure building and building and—

he stops. his fingers stay inside you but they don't move. his thumb lifts off your clit.

"no—please—"

"tell me more," he says. his voice is steady but you can hear the strain in it now. "you think about me. what do i do? in your head?"

you're gasping. you can feel tears starting to form, burning in your eyes. "i can't—"

"yes you can." his fingers move slightly, just a tiny curl, pressing against that spot inside you. "tell me what i do to you. in your fantasies."

"you—you touch me like this," you say, your voice breaking. "you make me—you don't stop. you let me cum."

"do i?" his fingers curl inside you again, harder this time, and you cry out. "what else?"

"you fuck me," you whisper. "you fuck me and you—and you tell me i'm good."

"you are doing good," he says, and his thumb presses against your clit again. you're climbing again, faster this time, the pressure building impossibly fast. "you're being so good for me right now."

"dr. ca—"

"tell me why you chase validation," he continues. meanwhile his fingers are moving inside you, pumping in and out, and you can hear the wet sound of it, obscene in the quiet office. you can feel yourself dripping, soaking his hand, soaking through your jeans. "what are you trying to prove?"

"i don't—i can't think—"

"try."

you have actual tears on your face now, hot and wet and streaming. "that i'm worth something. that someone wants me."

"and do you feel that? with the men you fuck?"

"no—never—please—"

you're right there again. your whole body is tense and shaking and his fingers are moving faster and his thumb is circling your clit and you're so close, so fucking close, the pressure building to an unbearable peak and—

he stops again.

you actually sob, the sound wrenching out of you.

"not yet," he says. "we're not done talking."

"please," you beg. "pleaseplease let me cum. i can't—"

"you can." his voice is firm. "breathe."

you try. the jeans are soaked now, the denim dark with wetness. you can smell it, the smell of sex starting to fill the office, mixing with the scent of his cologne and the faint smell of coffee from earlier.

"why do you think you fixate on people who can't give you what you need?" he asks.

"i don't know."

"yes you do."

"because—because it's safe," you gasp. "because if they can't give it to me then i can't be disappointed."

"and me?" his thumb brushes your clit, so light it's almost nothing. "am i safe?"

"no."

"why not?"

"because you could actually—fuck—you could actually hurt me."

"how?"

you're crying. "because i actually want you. not just—not just the sex. you."

his fingers start moving again. slow, and you're climbing again, faster now. you grind back against his cock and he doesn't stop you this time. you can feel him hard and thick against your ass, can hear the way his breathing has changed, rougher now.

"say it again," he says.

"i want you."

"louder."

"i want you," you say, your voice breaking. "i want you so fucking bad. please- please let me cum. i'm so close. please."

he's building you up again. his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you, and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. his other hand is still on your jaw, holding you in place. you can feel his breath against your ear, the slight hitch in it, and you realize he's as affected as you are.

"that's it—" he whispers quietly. "take what you need."

you're right there. right fucking there. the pressure is unbearable and—

his fingers go still.

but this time he doesn't pull away. just... stops. his fingers stay buried inside you, his thumb resting against your clit. completely motionless. completely silent.

the silence is worse. you're right there, right on the edge, and he's not moving and he's not saying anything. you can feel your pulse in your clit, can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body begging for more. the stillness is psychological torture. you need it so bad you could honestly cum right then and there without him touching you anymore. your pussy is clenching around nothing, beggining for it. but god, what a waste that would be.

so you wait. five seconds. ten. fifteen. your breath coming in short gasps.

finally, he speaks.

"why do you think you're here?" he asks, and his voice is quiet. "really here. not the answer you gave me in session one. the real answer."

"i don't—"

"yes you do." his fingers curl slightly inside you, just enough to make you gasp, but then he goes still again. "why are you here?"

"because..." you whisper. "because i don't know how to want something without destroying it. because i'm afraid if i let myself actually have something real, i'll ruin it."

"and me?" his thumb presses against your clit, just barely. "what am i?"

"real," you say. you're crying again. "you're real. and i'm terrified."

"good," he says, and his fingers start moving again. slow at first, then faster, harder, and his thumb is circling your clit and you're climbing so fast you can't breathe. "you should be terrified. because i'm not going to let you run from this. i'm not going to let you turn me into another fantasy you can chase and never catch. this is real."

"yes—fuck—yes—"

"knowing you go home and touch yourself and imagine it's me?" his fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot, and he doesn't stop this time. his thumb is relentless, circling and pressing and you're climbing higher and higher. "knowing you're so desperate for it you'll fuck anyone just to feel something?"

"oh my... god, please—"

"you don't need them," he says. his fingers are relentless now, pumping in and out of you, the wet sounds loud and sloppy and obscene. "you need someone who knows what you need. someone who's been listening. someone who's been paying attention for six fucking months."

"i—i'm—i'm gonna—"

"then do it," he says. "cum on my fingers. right here in my office. show me what you look like when you finally get what you need."

and you do. you cum so hard you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel. it hits you like a wave, starting deep in your core and radiating outward. your body convulses in his lap, every muscle tensing and releasing. your hips grinding back against his cock, and his fingers don't stop moving, drawing it out, prolonging it. the orgasm tears through you in waves, each one crashing over you harder than the last. you can feel yourself clenching around his fingers, rhythmic pulses that seem to go on forever. the wetness gushing out of you, soaking his hand, soaking your jeans, probably soaking through to his pants.

you're aware of everything and nothing—the way your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, the way your breath is coming in broken gasps, the way you can hear yourself making sounds you've never made before, desperate and raw. his fingers keep moving, keep curling, keep hitting that spot inside you, and just when you think it's over another wave hits and you're crying out again, your back arching, your head thrown back against his shoulder. it goes on and on, longer than ever before, until you're begging him to stop, until it's too much, until you can't take anymore.

when you finally come down, you're crying. actual tears streaming down your face, your breath coming in gasps. he pulls his fingers out slowly and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. your jeans are soaked, the denim dark and wet, clinging to your thighs.

"shh," he says, wrapping his arms around you. "you're okay. you did so good."

you're trembling. you can still feel his cock hard against your ass and you want to turn around, want to touch him, want to make him feel what you just felt, but you can't move. your body won't cooperate.

"that's what you needed," he says quietly. "someone who knows you. someone who listens."

you nod, still trying to catch your breath.

"next session," he says, and his voice is back to that calm, professional tone, like he didn't just make you come apart in his lap, "we're going to talk about why you keep choosing people who can't give you what you need. i think we made some progress today on identifying the root of the compulsion."

you almost laugh. the absurdity of it.

"okay," you whisper.

"good," he says. "now go clean yourself up. there's a bathroom down the hall."

you stand on shaky legs. your jeans are dark with wetness and you have to button them with trembling fingers. when you look back at him, he's watching you, his fingers in his mouth, tasting you. the sight of it sends another jolt of heat through you.

"same time next week?" he asks.

"yeah," you say. "same time."

you walk out of his office on legs that barely work. in the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. your face is flushed, your eyes red and glassy, your lips swollen. there's a mark on your neck from where his hand gripped your jaw, dark and obvious. you reach up to touch it. the skin is tender, slightly raised. you stare at it for a long moment, and then you notice something else in the mirror's reflection: your therapy appointment card, sticking out of your back pocket. the next date is already written on it in his handwriting. thursday. same time. you pull it out and look at it.

he wrote it before today's session.

you tuck the card back into your pocket. look at yourself in the mirror one more time. the mark on your neck. your flushed face.

The breakup had been messy, the kind that left you feeling hollowed out and stupid. You knew it was toxic. You knew he was wrong for you. But your heart hadn't quite caught up with your brain, and you found yourself staring at your phone more times than you'd care to admit, thumb hovering over his name. It was your best friend who found you curled up on the couch, a pint of melted ice cream in your lap, looking like a rejected contestant on a reality dating show.

"Okay, that's enough," she'd said, snatching the remote from your limp hand and turning off some mindless rom-com you weren't watching anyway. She sat down, the couch dipping with her weight, and fixed you with a look that was all business. "Listen to me. I have the best advice, and you're going to take it."

You'd just blinked at her, feeling the familiar sting of tears behind your eyes. "What? Go to therapy? Burn his stuff? Change my major so I never have to see him in the library again?"

"Better," she said, a wicked glint in her eye. "The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new."

You'd groaned, letting your head fall back against the cushions. "That's the worst advice I've ever heard."

"It's not! It's brilliant. It's a palate cleanser. A... a reboot! You just need one fun, meaningless night to remind you that there are other hot guys in the world. Guys who aren't emotionally stunted manchilds."

You weren't convinced, but you also weren't in a position to argue. The universe, it seemed, decided to provide the perfect opportunity. The Briar University hockey team, led by their captain Garrett Graham, had just won the most important game of their season. The victory party, according to your friend who was dating one of the players, John Tucker, was going to be legendary. The team was going all out, hosting it off-campus at their rambling, beer-can-littered team house, and they were inviting everyone.

"You have to come," she insisted, already rummaging through your closet. "Tucker will be so happy. And it'll be perfect. Crowded, loud, tons of guys you don't know. It's a target-rich environment for your... palate cleansing."

So you went. You let her dress you up in a tiny black miniskirt that barely covered your ass and a slinky red tank top that clung in all the right places. You slipped on a pair of kitten heels and layered on some delicate gold jewelry. You looked good. You looked like someone who wasn't spending her nights crying over a guy who thought "communication" meant telling you when he was going out to get drunk with his friends.

The hockey house was exactly as you'd imagined: a chaotic symphony of thumping bass, shouting, and the sticky-sweet smell of beer and cheap perfume. The moment you stepped inside, you lost your friend to a wave of hockey players, all of them slapping Tucker on the back and whooping in celebration. You were on your own.

You grabbed a red Solo cup from the keg, the lukewarm beer doing little to calm your nerves, and made your way toward the makeshift dance floor in the living room. It was packed, a writhing mass of bodies moving to the beat. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the music vibrate through you, trying to lose yourself in the noise. You were just starting to feel a little less like a fraud and a little more like a girl at a party, when a familiar presence made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Dean Di Laurentis. He had a reputation that preceded him, a long and sordid history of being a man whore. He was handsome, annoyingly so, with that cocky smirk and those eyes that seemed to see right through every one of your defenses. He was also friends with Tucker, which put him squarely on the "do not touch" list. Messing around with him would create a complicated mess you had no interest in untangling.

"Having fun?" His voice was a low rumble right by your ear, warm and a little gravelly.

You opened your eyes and turned your head slightly, just enough to give him a withering look. "So much fun."

He chuckled, a deep, annoyingly attractive sound. He moved closer, his body brushing against yours as he started to move with the music. "Good. You look like you're having fun." His gaze dropped pointedly to your red top. "Wearing red to match the letters on my jersey or what?"

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn't get stuck. "Not everything is about you, Di Laurentis."

"Isn't it?" He was grinning now, his hand coming to rest on your hip, his thumb stroking a small circle over the fabric of your skirt. It was a casual, possessive gesture, and it made your skin tingle in a way you immediately hated. "Heard about your breakup. Tough break."

Your entire body went rigid. "Who told you that?"

"People talk," he said with a shrug, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Tucker mentioned it. Said you were taking it hard."

“I don’t take anything hard,” you snapped back at him.

“We’ll see about that,” he replied, giving you a quick wink with a smirk plastered across his face.

You wanted to shove him, wipe that smirk off his face. Instead, you forced a sweet smile and turned around in his arms, placing your hands on his chest to push him back slightly. "Well, as you can see, I'm just fine. So you can run along now. I'm sure there's a puck bunny somewhere in this house who's feeling neglected."

His grin didn't falter. If anything, it widened. "I'm not interested in puck bunnies tonight." His eyes, a dark and mesmerizing green, held yours. "I'm more interested in the girl in the red top who looks like she wants to either punch someone or cry."

He was too perceptive. It was infuriating. You decided to ignore him, turning your back to him and continuing to dance.

You were determined to have a good time, to find someone, anyone, else to talk to. You told yourself you weren’t going to let Di Laurentis ruin your night. Nobody was.

You spotted a guy from your statistics class leaning against the wall, nursing a soda and looking harmless enough. Perfect. You smoothed your shirt, took a breath, and walked over.

“Hey,” you said, giving him a small smile. “You’re in my stats lecture, right? Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

His face lit up. “Yeah! You sit near the front. You’re really good at that class.”

You laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. But thank you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “No, seriously. I’m pretty sure your explanation in class saved me during that last quiz review.”

You were just about to ask his name when a hand clapped down on his shoulder so hard the poor guy jolted.

“Bro!” Dean’s voice boomed behind you. “Tell me you saw that play last night.”

The stats guy blinked. “Uh… what play?”

“Hockey,” Dean said, like it was the only sport that had ever existed. “Overtime. Absolute insanity. You watch, right?”

The guy looked between you and Dean, clearly trying to figure out what was happening. “Um… not really? I don’t-”

Dean didn’t let him finish. “No way. You’re missing out. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his phone and shoved it practically into the guy’s face. “Look at this shot. Look at it.”

You stepped back, jaw tightening. “Di Laurentis,” you said sharply, “we were talking.”

Dean didn’t even look at you. “Yeah, yeah, two seconds.”

The stats guy gave you an apologetic shrug, eyes darting like he was trapped. “I should… uh… go find my friend,” he mumbled, already backing away.

Dean clapped him on the back again. “Catch you later, man.”

The guy practically fled.

You glared. “Seriously?”

Dean finally looked at you, all innocent eyes and fake confusion. “What? I was just talking to him.”

“You scared him off.”

“I did not.” He crossed his arms. “He looked like he wanted to leave anyway.”

“Fuck you,” you groaned and turned away, determined not to let him get to you.

You tried to get another drink, weaving through the crowd until you reached the counter. You’d barely touched the cup before Dean appeared beside you like he’d teleported.

“I can get that for you,” he said, leaning one elbow on the counter like he owned the place.

“I don’t need you to get it for me.”

“You sure? Because that one looks kinda flat. I can grab you a better one.”

You stared at him. “Di Laurentis, go away.”

He grinned. “Can’t. I’m having too much fun.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, scanning the room for your friend. You finally spotted her near the far wall, talking to Tucker and some other people. Relief washed over you  until a tall figure stepped directly into your line of sight.

Dean.

Again.

He lifted his hand in a little wave, like he was your personal, unwanted chaperone. “Looking for someone?”

“Yes,” you snapped. “My friend.”

“Ohhh.” He nodded slowly. “Right. Totally. I’ll help you look.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“Too late,” he said, falling into step beside you.

You stopped walking. “Why are you doing this?”

He blinked, all faux innocence. “Doing what?”

You threw your hands up. “You know exactly what.”

Dean just smiled, that infuriating, smug, I‑know‑something‑you‑don’t smile, and shrugged. “Maybe I just like hanging out with you.”

“I can promise you puck bunnies would enjoy your presence more,” you replied quickly, except he only grinned wider.

Finally, you snapped. You stood in front of him near the staircase, the noise of the party a dull roar around you.

"Okay, what is your problem?" you hissed, poking him in the chest. "Are you ever going to leave me alone?"

He looked down at your finger on his chest, then back up at your face, his expression unreadable. "Not a chance."

Frustration bubbled up inside you, hot and sharp. "Why? Why are you doing this? You're making it impossible to find someone to hook up with, which is the whole reason I came here tonight!"

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted them. You didn’t want him knowing your problems, so why would you blurt it out? Maybe something in you believed your solution was standing in front of you, towering over you. You watched his eyes darken, a flicker of something, surprise? Interest?, crossing his features before his usual cocky mask slid back into place.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "If that's all you needed, you could've just asked me, you know. I can help you in that department."

You let out a short, sharp laugh. "You? Oh, that's hilarious. No thanks. I'm trying to get over my ex, not trade one problem for a much, much bigger one."

"It wouldn't be a problem," he said, his voice earnest now, his eyes searching yours. "It could be no strings attached. Just you and me… keep it under wraps you know."

You stared at him, your mind racing. It was a terrible idea. A monumentally bad idea. He was a player, your friend's boyfriend's teammate, and he was the last person on earth you should be getting involved with, even for one night. But he was also standing there, offering exactly what your friend had prescribed, and you were so tired of feeling sad and lonely. And he looked really, really good in the dim lighting, his jaw sharp and his eyes intense.

"No strings attached?" you challenged, your voice barely a whisper.

He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "No strings. Just one night. You and me."

You rolled your eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual conviction. "You're unbelievable."

"So I've been told," he said with a smirk. "So, what's it gonna be?"

You took a deep breath, the decision settling in your gut like a lead weight. "Fine," you said, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. "But we're not doing it here and nobody can know."

His smile was triumphant. "My room's upstairs,” he said, then leaned down, his whispered breath hot against your ear, “and I can keep a secret.”

He led you through the throng of people, around the corner and up the stairs, his hand warm and firm on the small of your back. You kept your head down, avoiding eye contact, praying no one saw you go upstairs together. His room was at the end of the hall, a surprisingly tidy space with a made bed and hockey posters on the walls. He closed the door behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet.

He didn't waste any time. The moment the door clicked shut, the charged silence between you was more electric than the thumping bass from downstairs. He turned to face you, his eyes dark and intense, the cocky smirk from earlier replaced by something else. Something hungrier.

"You sure about this?" he asked, his voice low.

You weren't, not really. But you were tired of thinking. So instead of answering, you closed the distance between you, wrapped your arms around his neck, and pulled his mouth down to yours. The kiss was nothing like you expected. It wasn't gentle or tentative. It was hot and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that tasted of beer and desperation. His hands were on you instantly, one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your back to grip the curve of your ass through the thin fabric of your skirt. He pulled you flush against him, and you could feel the hard line of his erection pressing against your stomach. It was a potent, heady feeling, knowing you had this effect on him.

You broke the kiss, panting slightly, and looked up at him. His lips were swollen, his eyes blazing. "No strings," you reminded him, your voice shaky.

"No strings," he agreed, his hands already moving to the hem of your red tank top. He lifted it over your head in one smooth motion, his gaze dropping to the simple black lace bra you wore. "Fuck, you're hot."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as a flush crept up your neck. "Save it, Di Laurentis."

"Dean," he corrected, his voice a low growl. "If I'm about to fuck you, you're going to call me Dean."

He didn't wait for a response. He unhooked your bra with a flick of his wrist, letting it fall to the floor. His hands were on your breasts then, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped, your head falling back as he leaned down to take one into his mouth. He sucked and nipped, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him to you as you ground your hips against his.

He picked you up as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried you to his bed, laying you down against the comforter before hovering over you. He made quick work of your skirt, sliding it down your legs and tossing it aside, leaving you in nothing but your black lace panties and your kitten heels. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch.

"Like what you see?" you asked, your voice laced with a challenge you didn't feel.

"Very much," he murmured, his eyes tracing the line of your hips, the curve of your thighs. He hooked his fingers in the sides of your panties, slowly sliding them down your legs. He tossed them over his shoulder, and you couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"Show off," you teased.

He grinned, a flash of the Di Laurentis charm you knew so well. "You have no idea."

He knelt on the floor between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. You were completely exposed to him, and for a moment, a wave of self-consciousness washed over you. But then he leaned in, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh, and all coherent thought flew out the window.

He licked you, a long, slow swipe of his tongue that had you arching off the bed. He did it again, and again, his movements deliberate and sure. He found your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. You cried out, your hands gripping the sheets as he worked you with his mouth, his fingers joining in, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that made your vision go white. It was too much, and not enough. You were so close, teetering on the edge, your hips bucking against his face as he drove you higher and higher.

"Dean," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips. "Please..."

He didn't need any more encouragement. He doubled his efforts, his tongue flicking relentlessly against your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of you, faster, harder. And then you were coming, your orgasm crashing over you in a wave of intense, blinding pleasure. You cried out his name, your body convulsing as you rode out the waves, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank.

He didn't give you much time to recover. He was shrugging off his shirt, revealing a chest that was all hard muscle and smooth skin, a testament to the hours he spent on the ice and in the gym. He undid his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers, and your eyes widened. He was... impressive. Thick and long, already hard and leaking at the tip. He rolled on a condom he'd retrieved from his nightstand, his movements efficient and practiced.

He crawled over you, caging you in with his arms. He looked down at you, his expression serious for the first time all night. "Last chance to back out," he said, his voice rough.

You reached up, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him down for a kiss. "Shut up and fuck me, Dean."

He needed no further encouragement. He positioned himself at your entrance, and then he was pushing inside you, slow and steady, stretching you, filling you completely. You gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders at the overwhelming sensation. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move then, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, deep and hard. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. It was raw, and primal, and exactly what you needed. You met him thrust for thrust, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more.

He was everywhere. His hands were on your breasts, your hips, your ass. His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your lips. He was muttering filthy things in your ear, praising you, telling you how good you felt, how tight you were, how wet you were for him. And you were lost, completely swept away in the storm of him. You felt another orgasm building, this one deeper, more intense than the last.

"Come with me," he growled, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit. He rubbed tight circles, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breathing ragged.

That was all it took. You shattered, your inner walls clamping down around him as you came with a cry that was half his name, half a sob. He followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he spilled himself into the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor in the aftermath. You were both breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat. For a long moment, you just lay there, the only sound your ragged breaths and the muffled thump of the party still going on downstairs.

Finally, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom in the wastebasket by his bed. He lay on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling. The silence was back, but this time it was different. It was heavier, loaded with unspoken words.

You sat up, your movements a little stiff as you started to gather your clothes. "Well," you said, your voice overly bright. "That was... palate cleansing."

He let out a low chuckle, turning his head to look at you. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"It's what I'm calling it," you said, pulling on your panties and your skirt. You avoided his gaze, focusing on the mundane task of getting dressed. You felt a strange mix of satisfaction and shame. You'd done what you set out to do. You'd gotten under someone new. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just made a much bigger mess than the one you started with.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft. You looked over at him. He was propped up on his elbow, watching you. God, did he look good. "No strings, remember?"

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Right. No strings."

You finished dressing in silence, the air thick with a tension you couldn't name. When you were fully clothed, you stood by the door, your hand on the knob.

"I'll, uh, see you around," you said, hating how awkward you sounded.

"See you around," he echoed, his expression unreadable.

You slipped out of his room, closing the door softly behind you. You could hear voices downstairs, loud and boisterous. You took a deep breath, squared your shoulders, and descended the stairs, ready to face the world.

Your friend found you near the keg, her eyes wide with concern. "There you are! I was looking everywhere for you. Are you okay? You look... flushed."

"I'm fine," you said, a little too quickly. "Just got a little hot on the dance floor. Where were you?"

"Talking to Tucker," she said, grabbing your arm and pulling you into a corner. "Okay, spill. What happened? You disappeared for, like, an hour."

"Nothing happened," you lied, taking a long sip of the beer she handed you. "I just needed some air. Went out back for a bit."

She didn't look entirely convinced, but she let it drop, thankfully distracted by Tucker who came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. "There you are, babe. Was wondering where you went." He grinned at you over her shoulder. "Hey, you having a good time?"

"It's a great party," you said, and it wasn't even a lie. The knot in your chest had loosened considerably.

Just then, a loud chorus of cheers erupted from the living room. "DI LAURENTIS! WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

You froze, your beer cup halfway to your lips. You watched as Dean appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking perfectly composed. He'd run a hand through his hair, messing it up artfully, and his smirk was firmly back in place.

"Relax, I was taking a piss," he said, clapping Garrett Graham on the back. "You guys start celebrating without me?"

"Man, we thought you'd already found a lucky puck bunny and bailed," John Logan joked, shoving him playfully.

Dean's eyes flickered over to you, just for a second, a quick, knowing glance that made your stomach flip. "Nah," he said, turning to grab a beer from the cooler. "Not tonight."

You felt your friend's gaze on you and you forced a neutral expression, taking another sip of your beer as if you hadn't just been thoroughly ravaged by the guy they were talking about. You could feel Dean's presence even when he wasn't looking at you, a magnetic pull that was both infuriating and intoxicating. You caught his eye again across the room and he gave you a slow, deliberate wink. You quickly looked away, your cheeks heating.

"So, you gonna find someone to take home tonight?" your friend whispered in your ear, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

You thought about Dean's room, the way he'd felt inside you, the guttural sound he made when he came. "I think I'm good, actually," you said, surprised to find it was true. You felt lighter, freer. The ex-boyfriend-shaped cloud that had been hanging over you for weeks had finally dissipated.

"Okay, well did you at least have fun?" she asked, smiling. She waited for your response, and you gave her a nod. "Nice to know my advice sucked ass” she added laughing. “I'm proud of you. This is a step in the right direction."

You spent the next hour mingling, talking to people you barely knew, and actually enjoying yourself. You danced with your friend and Tucker, and even had a conversation with Beau Maxwell about a philosophy class you were both taking. But no matter where you were or who you were talking to, you were always aware of Dean. You'd feel his eyes on you from across the room, and when you'd look up, he'd be watching you, a thoughtful expression on his face. It wasn't predatory or possessive, just... observant. It was both unnerving and strangely comforting.

As the party started to wind down, you found yourself leaning against a wall in the hallway, watching the last of the stragglers stumble out the door. Your friend had already disappeared into Tucker's room and you were tired, but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from a night well spent.

"Leaving so soon?"

You didn't have to turn around. You knew it was him. "It's almost two in the morning," you said, not looking at him. "Some of us have classes in the morning."

"Me too," he said, moving to stand beside you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. "But I was thinking... I could walk you home."

You finally turned to look at him. He was watching you, his expression open and earnest. "No strings,” you reminded him. “Also, why?" you asked, genuinely confused.

"Because it's late," he said simply. "And because I want to."

You considered it for a moment. It was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Your friend was staying with Tucker at the house tonight, so she wouldn’t notice either way. But, walking home with him, letting him see your dorm, it blurred the lines of the ‘no strings’ rule you'd both agreed on. But you were tired, and your feet were killing you in these stupid heels, and the thought of walking home alone in the dark was less appealing than it had been a few hours ago.

"Okay," you said, with a sigh of resignation. "But just to the door. And no funny business."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Scout's honor."

The walk back to your dorm was quiet, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. The cool night air was a welcome relief from the stuffy house, and the campus was eerily beautiful in the moonlight. He didn't try to hold your hand or put his arm around you. He just walked beside you, a steady, comforting presence.

When you reached your dorm, you stopped at the main entrance. "Well, this is me," you said, turning to face him.

"Right," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "So, I guess I'll see you around."

"I guess so," you said, feeling a strange pang of disappointment. You should have been glad this was over, that you could go back to ignoring him. But you weren't.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft. "About tonight..."

"No strings," you reminded him, your voice firm. "We agreed."

"I know," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I was just going to say... it was fun."

You couldn't help but smile back. "It was definitely... cleansing."

He laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made your heart do a little flutter. "Goodnight," he said, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary.

"Goodnight, Dean," you said, before turning and disappearing into the building.

You leaned against the door of your dorm room, your heart pounding. You had done it. You had gotten over your ex. But as you drifted off to sleep that night, it wasn't your ex's face you saw in your mind's eye. It was Dean's, his green eyes, his cocky smirk, and the way he'd looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And you knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified you, that this was far from over. No strings attached, you told yourself. But as you closed your eyes, you couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to be tangled up with him, just for a little while.

─˖· masterlist

So how has he become the one with the wrong idea?

Somewhere along the way, Dean caught feelings for his fuckbuddy. Friend with benefits. Whatever label you wanted to slap on it, he’d broken the one sacred rule: don’t catch feelings.

You blew into his life like a tornado.

You tore apart his carefully maintained routine and—before he even realized it was happening—made everyone else seem considerably less interesting.

At first, Dean didn’t mind. He’d found a girl who could match his energy, someone who wanted the same uncomplicated physical release he was more than happy to provide.

But then things started changing.

Sometimes, after sex, you stayed.

You’d lie in bed talking about classes, his hockey practices, your bizarre family dilemmas, campus gossip—anything and everything. Neither of you ever intended to fall asleep together, but somehow it kept happening. More than once, you woke up with Dean wrapped around you, his arm draped across your waist as if it belonged there.

Which was honestly very nice.

The problem was that Dean had always been excellent at avoiding things. Yet he’d never felt this way about a girl before.

At least not since high school, and he’d be a senior in a matter of months. The whole thing felt strange. Too serious. Too grown-up. It didn’t fit the effortless, unbothered persona he'd spent years perfecting.

You weren’t much better.

You’d tried to bring up the subject more than once, testing the waters carefully, only to abandon it whenever Dean gave you nothing to work with. Every conversation seemed to end with him brushing things off or changing the subject before it could become real.

Of course you’d caught feelings too.

Because beneath all the flirting, the confidence, and the reputation, Dean was kind. Thoughtful in ways most people never got to see. He was gentle when it mattered, attentive without making a big deal out of it, and he'd never once made you feel disposable.

Not like certain frat boys or other athletes, who only cared about themselves. 

Dean Di Laurentis is boyfriend material.

The problem is that he doesn’t seem to realize it.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it.

Which brings you to your current dilemma.

Dean is sprawled across the couch, a girl’s hand resting on his chest as she gazes up at him like he hung the stars himself. And he’s entertaining it.

You’d never explicitly asked for exclusivity, but the two of you had established one rule from the beginning: if either of you wanted out, or wanted to be with someone else, you’d say so.

For the past few weeks, you’d seen each other almost every day. You weren’t seeing anyone else, and you’d gotten the impression he wasn't either. In fact, campus gossip had been practically buzzing about the fact that Dean Di Laurentis hadn’t hooked up with anyone at a party in weeks.

It shouldn’t have made you jealous.

You weren’t together. You weren’t anything.

So why did it feel like you were everything? Why did it feel like he was breaking your heart without even realizing it?

The noise of the party faded into the background as you chugged the drink in your hand and headed for the kitchen in search of something stronger.

You wanted to curse Garrett for hosting this stupid party. For practically forcing you to come, knowing Dean would obviously be here.

Grabbing a bottle of tequila, you started pouring.

Your eyes kept flicking back and forth between Dean’s hand resting on the girl's thigh and the way their faces seemed just a little too close together.

“Whoa, there.”

A voice beside you pulled you from your thoughts.

Beau Maxwell.

Dean’s best friend gently took the bottle from your hands before you could continue.

“Rough night?” He asked, glancing at the alarming amount of tequila you’d managed to fit into one cup

“Yeah,” you said with a tight smile. “You could say that.”

His expression softened. Without a word, he grabbed a random mixer from a nearby shelf and handed it to you.

“Here,” He twisted off the cap and passed it over. “Unless your plan is to drink four tequila shots at once.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You poured some into the cup and took a sip. Immediately, you coughed.

“That bad?” Beau asked, amused, patting your back lightly as you struggled to swallow.

“It's really strong,” you managed.

“Can I try?”

You looked up at him and held out the cup. “Be my guest.”

Beau took a sip and a second later, he grimaced.

“Damn.” He lowered the cup. “Who hurt you?”

You tried to laugh but the joke landed a little too close to home.

Had Dean talked to Beau about whatever this thing between you was? Did Beau even know you'd been sleeping together?

Your eyes drifted back toward the living room.

Dean now had two girls caressing his face and chest. Logan and Tucker were sitting nearby with girls of their own, laughing about something. Still, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen.

Beau followed your gaze, understanding immediately flashed across his face.

Before you could look away, his hand settled on your waist. He gently turned you around until your back was resting against the kitchen island, blocking your view of Dean entirely.

“He's really dumb sometimes,” Beau said.

You hummed in agreement, taking another small sip.

Then, before you could think better of it, you asked, “Wanna do something maybe even dumber?”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Like what?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Like helping me forget what his name even is.”

For a moment, Beau said nothing, but he didn’t remove his hand from your waist. Instead, his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your top, moving back and forth.

His gaze flickered down to your lips.

“He’ll be pissed,” Beau said quietly.

“I doubt he cares.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “Just look at him. Not a care in the world.”

He glanced toward the living room before looking back at you, his jaw tightening. Then he leaned in slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

The word barely left your mouth before the space between you seemed to disappear. For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the tension hanging between you. Then Beau closed the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft and careful, nothing like Dean. 

Dean kissed like everything was urgent, like he was always one second away from losing control. Beau, meanwhile, seemed content to take his time.

You found yourself kissing him back anyway, driven by a messy combination of hurt, anger, and the lingering hope that Dean might finally show that he cared. 

The kiss deepened, and for a moment you let yourself get lost in it. It was nice. Beau was nice. A few weeks ago, you might’ve even considered going back to his place, letting the night unfold into something more. But now, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the boy kissing you, your thoughts kept drifting elsewhere. 

Now, all you could think about was a certain blond hockey player.

Despite the warmth spreading through your chest, despite the attention and the distraction, there was no real desire to take things any further.

Still, even if you’d wanted to, you never got the chance.

You’d barely noticed how much time had passed when a loud clearing of a throat cut through the moment. A heavy hand landed on Beau’s shoulder, the interruption sharp enough to make both of you freeze before slowly pulling apart.

And there stood Dean. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, his entire body rigid with tension. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch, blazing with a fury that left little doubt he’d seen far more than enough.

“Having fun?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“Hey, Dean,” Beau said breathlessly, moving his hand away from your jaw.

You took a deep breath, glancing between the two men.

“Didn’t realize you two knew each other,” Dean said.

“Yeah, we’ve crossed paths a few times,” Beau answered. “We have a business course together too, right?”

“Yeah, right,” you stammered out, suddenly acutely aware of Beau's hand on your waist and Dean’s eyes burning into your profile.

Dean hummed, his jaw still tightly clenched.

“I think one of your teammates was looking for you,” he said to his friend.

“Who?”

“I don’t fucking know. He was just asking around for where you were.”

You knew it was a lie. You could tell by the bored tone of his voice and the way he seemed far more interested in staring at you than looking at Beau. Dean had never been a particularly good liar.

“Okay...” Beau trailed off. “I’ll see you around?”

You looked up at him and nodded, “See you.”

Dean watched him walk away to search for his supposed teammate.

“You won’t be seeing him around,” he all but growled.

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the staircase leading up to his room. You stumbled after him, startled by the sudden movement.

You barely had time to process what was happening before you were standing in his bedroom, the door locked behind you while Dean paced in front of his bed.

“Dean, what the fuck?” You finally asked, breaking the silence as you frowned at the man in front of you.

“Me what the fuck?” He shot back, turning to point at you. “You what the fuck?”

“Huh?”

Your brows knitted together as you stared at him in confusion.

“Why the fuck would you kiss Beau?”

A sharp laugh escaped you, completely devoid of humor.

“You think it’s funny to mess around with my friend? That’s so fucked up.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you have no right to act like this or throw accusations around when you’re not any better.”

You let out a deep breath and rubbed at your eyes, trying to gather yourself.

“You don't get to practically entertain a threesome on the couch and then get mad because I kissed someone.”

“It's not just someone. That’s my friend,” he snapped. “And what threesome? I haven’t slept with anyone since we started—”

The words died on his tongue, and you caught it immediately. The hesitation. The way he suddenly seemed unable to finish the sentence. 

Because the truth was, even Dean couldn't figure out what exactly the two of you were. Or, perhaps more accurately, what the two of you weren't.

“You’re gonna act like you didn't have two girls all over you?” You huffed. “Because you looked really comfortable.”

“All over me?” He looked genuinely offended by the accusation, as if it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“I know we’re not exclusive or anything, but really? You had to do it right in front of me?”

“I don’t know what you think happened, but I didn’t even kiss them.” He shook his head. “I mean, one of them tried, but I just didn’t...”

“Didn’t what?”

For a moment, he stayed silent.

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, dragging a hand over his face as he searched for the right words. His elbows rested on his knees, his head dipping briefly into his hands before he finally looked back up at you.

The anger had vanished, replaced by something far more vulnerable, something pained enough that it made your chest tighten just looking at him.

“I couldn’t kiss someone else.”

You let out a shaky breath at his words, watching as he waited for your reaction.

“Dean, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Why?” He asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because...” Your mind flashed back to all the times you’d carefully tried to bring up whatever this thing between you was. The times he’d thanked you for being so chill about your arrangement. The times he’d said he didn't have time for a girlfriend. How much he enjoyed his freedom.

“Is it so crazy that I could feel something between us?” He asked, a frown creasing his brows.

“You told me you didn’t want a girlfriend,” You replied.

“And you said you wanted a casual relationship.”

“Yeah, because you said you didn’t want to be tied down,” you shot back. “I’m not going to ask for something serious from the same guy who’s with a different girl every night.”

“You should’ve told me that,” he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, he stood and closed the distance between you.

“I've done casual before. It wasn’t an issue for me,” you explained. “But then you started doing things… You remember my friends’ names. You cuddle me. You kiss my forehead when I leave in the mornings...”

His expression softened.

When he gets closer to you, he takes your hands in his, rubbing his thumb across your palm.

“Did you like kissing Beau?”

“What?” You asked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic when it felt like the two of you had almost finally admitted your feelings.

“Did you like kissing Beau?” He repeated, his gaze darkened now, one hand lifting to cradle your cheek.

“It was nice,” you admitted softly, watching the way he couldn't stop looking at you. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Yeah?”

His face was closer now, his breath brushing against your skin.

“It wasn’t fair to Beau, to just... use him.”

“You feel guilty, then?”

“I think he knew it came from jealousy, but it still wasn’t right.”

Dean slid a finger beneath your chin and tilted your head up until your eyes met.

“Beau can handle himself,” he said quietly. “He knew what he was doing.”

“So you're not mad?” You asked, the gentleness in his voice was making it difficult to think straight.

“I'm furious,” he admitted, a humorless laugh escaped him. “But I’ll deal with him later.”

His thumb brushed across your jaw.

“You, on the other hand, are another story.”

Before you could even react, Dean slid his hand to the side of your neck, pulling you into a deep kiss. The frustration that had been simmering between you all night seemed to collide at once. 

One hand settled at your waist before drifting lower to your ass, drawing you closer as his other arm wrapped around you, hoisting you up and wrapping your thighs around his waist.

He backed you against the door, kissing you like he had a point to prove. When he finally pulled away, it was only to press a trail of kisses along your jaw, his forehead resting briefly against yours as both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His hand moved toward the hem of your skirt, brushing over the fabric of your panties and finding the evidence of just how affected you were. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze flickered up to meet yours. 

“This for him or me?” Dean asked, his voice low and rough around the edges. 

“You,” you whispered immediately, your pulse racing as his heated gaze locked onto yours. “Always you.” 

Those three words were all he needed.

Dean pulled away from the door and guided you toward the bed, dropping you on it before leaning over you. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, stripped of some of the jealousy and frustration that had fueled it moments before.

Then you suddenly broke away.

“Wait,” you gasped, catching his wrist before things could go any further. “Before we do this, I need to know what we are now.”

For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of both your breathing.

“Whatever you want us to be,” he said finally.

“Seriously? You’d just give up your womanizer ways for me?” You stared at him, a skeptical look on your face.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Baby, if you wanted to get married tomorrow, I’d do it.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you laughed, feeling him press a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Too soon to talk about children, then?”

“Take me on a proper date first.”

Dean's smile widened, “That can definitely be arranged.”

It's your right. Since you were a child, you demanded the best in everything—toys, clothes, boyfriends. They had to be perfect. Had to be yours. And yes, it may come off a little superficial but who cares? It's what you deserve, and it'll be hell if you don't get it.

Since the first look, when you caught Rafe lounging on a chair with his friends, tipping the rim of his beer onto his lips, while his eyes scanned over the room in an attractive lazy way, you knew you had to have him. It didn't help that you were competitive, and Rafe garnered attention with women. They flocked to him and begged for a minute of his time. It became a game to you, and that heightened your need.

Everything was calculated. The makeup you wore, the outfits you curated, the glances. You always timed your arrivals—when you knew Rafe would be watching the door—and marked your exits. You knew exactly what to wear—dresses that tantalizing exposes your ass, but only as a preview—and the cosmetic style he liked. Rafe's the type of man who believes he wants a bare-faced woman, but truly, he wants something natural that enhances your features.

You came with friends. You left alone. You drank enough to loosen your nerves and danced with the crowd, but not enough to make a fool of yourself. You knew your tolerance and knew Rafe didn't like a messy girl.

At least, in public.

You caught his gaze a couple of times, flashing a flirtatious smile over your shoulders, but never lingered longer than three seconds. Rafe can't know how easy he can have you, because Rafe, like most boys, loves a chase. You're not easy, you're spoiled. He had to come to you.

And he did.

Rafe tried to introduce himself on several occasions. On those nights when you're leaving early—as planned—Rafe would cut to the door to pay a parting remark. "You're leaving so soon?" he would ask, "Alone? Again?" He would add. You always told him it was because no one caught your eye, and Rafe took that as a personal challenge. He would then try to tell you his name, as if he were different, to which you nod—detached—as if it didn't matter.

It drove him insane.

Because you didn't offer the same courtesy. You kept him guessing. He had to finally ask around to learn your name, which he would use to tease you the next time he saw you. And he did. And you laughed. But you acted like you didn't care. Like all the trouble he went through didn't prove a thing. That's when Rafe knew he needed you.

Tonight's no different. Just as you're about to leave, Rafe catches you with another smooth pick-up line. You just giggle. He studies how your eyes crinkle with amusement, the curve of your lips painted in his favorite shade of lipstick, and the lithe tilt of your head to the side as you ask him with your gaze, is that the best you got?

It isn't. But Rafe's determined to get further with you tonight. He continues to talk, asking about which men disappointed you and the reasons for your constant disappearances from these parties. And, for once, you're answering his questions with little resistance. Perhaps, it's because of the amount of cheap wines you consumed, or maybe you—for once—are tired of the games and want it to come to a fruitful end. Because when Rafe finally asks to take you home, you don't say no.

The walk to his truck is brisk. His arm wrapped around your waist, directing your path, while his fingers trail over the backless cut of your dress, producing a buzzing feeling beneath your skin. He's whispering something in your ear, but all of it is incomprehensible as you revel in the feeling of his touch and his touch alone. The feeling of your game coming to a conclusion.

And, just as you're about to reach the car, Rafe slams you into the side of the vehicle with a searing kiss.

His mouth catches yours and everything feels perfect. As if the buildup leading to this precise moment had been worth it, and every needy emotion rises to the top. His hand travels down the length of your body, to your hips, pulling you closer, and needing to eliminate all the space and wait you made him do.

Rafe's movements are swift and controlled. One of his hands props open the backdoor of his car, pushing you inside, and laying you against his leather seats. All without breaking the kiss.

"You don't know how long I wanted this, wanted you," Rafe blubbers between wet kisses. "Seeing you at every party, in these tiny dresses, not being able to touch," he rasps, bundling the hem of your dress into a tight fist. "Tell me you wear them for me."

"And if I did?" You say with a moan, tipping your head back to grant him access to your neck. "Did you like them?"

"Of course I did," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, the vibration of his words sending heat straight to your core. "You dressing up for me like my own perfect doll."

You want to retort that it's him who's in the palm of your hand, but Rafe sucks on a sensitive spot, causing your eyes to roll back and a whimper to escape your lips instead. He grabs your wrists with one hand, throwing them over his shoulder as he pulls you flush against his chest.

"So pretty, so fucking untouchable," Rafe kisses down the length of your throat, his fingers collecting the spaghetti straps of your dress before sliding it down the slope of your shoulders. "I'm going to fuck you so good."

His words snap you out of your haze. And while Rafe continues to expose more of your body, lamenting each reveal of flesh with a kiss, you withdraw enough to grab his attention.

"You're not fucking me in a car."

"What?" Rafe breaths, unable to snap out of the trace you had him in. Delirious with want, his mind warped around the idea of you being so close to attainable, that all rational manners left his system. He tries to kiss you again, to resume the moment, but you pull enough to send him a deadly glare, pouty and spoiled.

"Rafe, take me somewhere nice or we're not fucking at all."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe he's contemplating it. But Rafe doesn't understand that you have it all planned out to result in a perfect moment. You won't let it be disrupted just because Rafe can't drive the extra mile to take you somewhere nice. You'd rather leave him with blue balls.

"Are you serious?" He asks slowly, his eyes drawn to your swollen lips, the little pout, and the desperation to have them back on his. Sure, Rafe's had girls who wanted something more than a casual fling. He had them ask him for a better spot, but he never obliged. He never cared. But you're different. He wants you, and it's been a hell of a chase to get you here. He'll be damned if he lets it slip away because of a pretentious standard.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" You cross your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts further up. He nearly groans at the sight. "We're not having sex here."

"The nearest place has to be at least a fifteen-minute drive," Rafe argues. And it makes you upset, brows pinched together. "We can just—"

"I don't care," you snap. "Take me somewhere nice or I'm leaving."

You're serious. He sees it on your face. Rafe can't risk that, despite wanting to protest, because he knows he if he messes this up, he won't have another chance. Swearing under his breath, he drags himself out of the backseat and into the driver's side, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

Dangerously, Rafe speeds down the road, while you're sitting in the backseat with a self-satisfied demeanor, fixing your makeup through the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Rafe spares a glance through the same reflection, connecting with your gaze, and while there's subtle bitterness coiled in his chest, he recognizes the bigger prize at hand.

And what he can do with it.

Because, despite your bratty attitude, Rafe is a person who wants control. You want perfection. You two can have both.

That's how you find yourself in a newly-booked penthouse suite at one of the bougie hotels in Kildare, your head digging into the soft comforter of the bed, your ass in the air, as Rafe drills into you from behind.

When you reached the room, everything moved frantically. Rafe slammed you against the nearest wall to kiss you again—needing your lips, needing your taste—while his hands roamed over your dress and pulled down your cleavage, revealing your tits. Your hands wandered down his pants, unbuttoning them hurriedly, needily, and he assisted you by pulling them off alongside his boxers. His cock was big, slightly red with a pearly bead of pre-cum that rolls off the tip. And you could tell by the look on Rafe's face that he wanted you to suck it.

But you told him, "I don't do blowjobs."

So fucking pretentious.

It didn't matter. He hauled you over to the king-sized bed and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft thump, while Rafe hauled you up to your ass, pushing up your dress, until it became nothing but a bundle around your waist. His movements were urgent, and he wanted—no, needed—to be inside you because a bratty girl was going to be a great fuck.

And he was right.

You're perfect. The way you wrap around him, the way he sinks inside you. He doesn't know if it's because of the delirium of wanting you so desperately, of chasing you for so long—but he never had better pussy. And it doesn't help that your moans are sweet, breathy, and loud—begging him to go faster.

"Such a pretentious brat," Rafe grabs your throat, hauling you upwards till your spine rest on his chest, airway constricted by his harsh grip. "Making me wait this fucking long."

"R—Rafe," you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at the way he's angling his cock deep into your cervix, bullying the sensitive spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"Had to get the princess treatment, did you?" He murmurs hotly into your ear, nibbling a spot on your neck as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder. His thrusts grow more erratic. "Had to make me earn you, didn't you?"

"You weren't going to fuck me in a car," you persist, and despite how cockdrunk you became, and how much of an attitude you're willing to sacrifice to feel good, you were still adamant about receiving what you deemed enough. He respected that. "I'm not one of your whores."

"But I'm fucking you like my own personal slut. Is that any better?" He bites the lobe of your ear, and his other hand wanders up to grab a handful of your breast, squeezing the fat before rolling your perked nipple between his fingers. You moan louder. "What does that make you?"

You can't seem to answer him, can't seem to find your senses. The words Rafe uses are vulgar, but there’s still no regrets about this entire thing. Rafe wanted you so badly, that he was willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel he probably won't even stay the night in. All because you demanded it.

You win.

"Shut up," you stammer, your stomach tightening. "Shut up and just fuck me, Rafe."

Rafe grins. The hand playing with your tits slips between your thighs to assist, finding your clit easily as he rubs it with his thumb in sync with his thrusts. Breathy moans escape you as you arch into his palm, while he pistons deeper inside of you, bottoming out.

"You sound so pretty, doll," Rafe murmurs against your heated skin, "Come on, take my fucking cock."

Everything’s so dirty. The way he handles you, the way your wetness drips down your thighs, the way his words breathe onto your skin and tighten your core. But you love it. You do, but you're not willing to give in so easily. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much he feels like a prize.

"You don't deserve me." You whisper with a mewl, body tightening with the familiar wave of your undoing.

Yet, Rafe merely grins.

"But you're sucking in my cock like you need me," Rafe taunts, pleasure coursing through his body at the way your walls grip him in a vice. The way your words spark challenge and invitation. He knows, despite your spoiled attitude and pretentious demands, he'll do anything to get another chance like this. "Now, behave like a good girl or you're not coming tonight."

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