brightness & gratitude

The thing about heartbreak is that it doesn't just break your heart. It breaks your ability to trust that you're not fundamentally too much, too loud, too emotional, too everything for anyone to love properly.

Your ex made sure of that. And he made sure everyone knew it, too.

The breakup wasn't just private tears and blocked numbers. It was public statements, carefully worded Instagram stories that painted you as "intense" and "overwhelming," think pieces from people who'd never met you about whether you were "stable enough" for a relationship in the public eye. Your anxiety, which you'd worked so hard to manage, became a spectacle. Proof that you were broken.

So you did what any reasonable person would do: you retreated. You stopped going out. Stopped posting. Stopped trying to convince anyone—including yourself—that you were okay.

That's where Pietra finds you on a Friday night in late March, curled up on your couch in joggers and an oversized hoodie, mindlessly scrolling through your phone even though you know it'll only make you feel worse.

"Absolutely not," she says, standing in your doorway with her hands on her hips. She's got that look—the one that means she's not asking, she's telling. "You're not doing this tonight."

"Doing what?" you ask, not looking up.

"This." She gestures at all of you. "The hiding. The spiraling. The convincing yourself you're better off alone."

"I am better off alone," you mutter. "Clearly."

Pietra crosses the room and plucks your phone out of your hands. "You're coming out with me and Max tonight. There's this gay night at a club in Shoreditch—good music, good energy, zero judgment. You're going to remember what it feels like to just exist without performing for anyone."

"P, I don't think—"

"I'm not asking." Her voice softens. "Babe, I love you. But you've been disappearing for weeks and I'm not going to watch you convince yourself you deserved what he did. You didn't. And you're not going to find that out by hiding in here."

So that's how you end up in the back of an Uber forty minutes later, wearing the one dress Pietra pulled from the back of your closet that still makes you feel a little bit like yourself. Your heart's hammering with anxiety, but Pietra's hand is warm in yours, and she keeps squeezing it every time you start to spiral.

"Just a few hours," she promises. "If you hate it, we'll leave. But I think you need this."

The venue is exactly what she promised—dimmed lights, pulsing music, a crowd that's here to dance and laugh and be themselves without apology. It's been so long since you've been somewhere that didn't feel like a performance, somewhere you didn't have to worry about who was watching or what they'd say about you later.

You're standing near the bar, letting the music sink into your bones, when you feel it.

That pull. That awareness of being seen.

You turn, and that's when you see him.

He's across the room, leaning against a pillar with a drink in his hand, and he's looking right at you. Not the way your ex used to look at you—cataloging your flaws, deciding if you were worth the effort. This is different. Warm. Curious. Like he's seeing something he didn't expect to find but is really glad he did.

Lando Norris.

You know who he is, obviously. Pietra's mentioned him before—he's mates with Max, part of that whole F1 world that always felt distant and untouchable. But right now, in this moment, he's just a guy with bright eyes and a soft smile, and he's walking toward you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Hi," he says when he reaches you, and his voice is warm, a little bit unsure in a way that immediately puts you at ease. "I'm Lando."

"I know," you say, then immediately want to cringe. "Sorry, that sounded—Pietra's mentioned you. I'm—"

"I know who you are too," he says gently, and there's no judgment in it. No pity. Just acknowledgment. "Can I buy you a drink?"

You should say no. You should protect yourself, keep your walls up, not let anyone close enough to hurt you again.

But there's something about the way he's looking at you—like you're not a headline or a cautionary tale, just a person he'd like to know—that makes you say yes.

You talk for hours.

Not about your ex, not about his career, not about any of the noise that usually surrounds both of you. He asks you about the book you're reading, the playlist you've been obsessed with lately, the trip you took to Scotland last summer. He listens—really listens—leaning in close so he can hear you over the music, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You're easy to talk to," you say at one point, surprised by how true it is.

"You're easy to listen to, love," he says, and the nickname lands soft and sweet, like he's been calling you that forever.

When Pietra finally finds you near closing time, she takes one look at you and Lando—sitting close on a worn velvet couch, your legs angled toward him, his hand resting casually near your knee—and grins.

"I'm getting a separate Uber," she announces. "You two look busy."

"P—" you start, but Lando's already pulling out his phone.

"I'll make sure she gets home safe," he promises, and Pietra nods, satisfied.

He does. He rides with you all the way to your flat in Clapham, even though it's completely out of his way, and when you reach your building, he walks you to your door.

"Can I see you again?" he asks, hands in his pockets, looking almost nervous.

"Yeah," you say, and you mean it. "I'd really like that."

He texts you before you even make it inside.

Lando: Had a really good time tonight, darling. Sleep well x

You fall asleep with your phone in your hand and a smile on your face for the first time in months.

The next few weeks feel like stepping out of a storm into sunlight.

Lando texts you first, every time. Good morning messages with little updates about his day, random thoughts he wants to share, questions about yours. He remembers everything—that you take your coffee with oat milk, that you're anxious about an upcoming work presentation, that your favorite film is Pride and Prejudice and you've seen it at least thirty times.

Your dates are quiet, private. Coffee at a tucked-away café in Notting Hill where no one looks twice at either of you. Walks along the South Bank at dusk. Nights at his apartment in Woking, where he cooks you dinner (badly, but enthusiastically) and you end up ordering takeaway and watching old race highlights while he explains the technical details you don't understand.

He never makes you feel like you're too much.

When you ramble about something you're passionate about, he doesn't cut you off or look bored—he asks follow-up questions, leans in closer, smiles like he could listen to you talk forever.

When you're quiet, lost in your own head, he doesn't demand explanations. He just reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, murmurs, "I've got you, baby."

The nicknames become constant. Love. Darling. Baby. Sweetheart. Lovely. Each one lands like a small reassurance, a reminder that he sees you and likes what he sees.

"You're different than I expected," you tell him one night, curled up on his couch with your head on his shoulder.

"Yeah?" He's playing with your hair absently, fingers gentle. "How so?"

"I don't know. I thought you'd be... more. Louder. More intense."

He laughs softly. "I can be. But I don't have to be. Not with you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I like this. Just us. No noise."

"Me too," you whisper.

And you do. God, you do.

For the first time since your breakup, you feel like you can breathe. Like maybe you're not fundamentally broken. Like maybe you're exactly enough.

Lando feels like the cure.

It lasts eight perfect weeks.

Then the photos surface.

You're at the Monaco Grand Prix—your first time in the paddock, your first time being part of Lando's world publicly. You'd been nervous, but he'd been so reassuring, his hand steady in yours, introducing you to people with obvious pride.

"This is my girlfriend," he'd said, over and over, and each time it made your chest warm.

But someone had been watching. Someone with a camera.

By Sunday night, the photos are everywhere. You and Lando walking through the paddock, his arm around your waist. You laughing at something he said, his eyes soft on your face. You kissing his cheek before he got in the car.

The headlines write themselves.

Lando Norris Goes Public with New Girlfriend

Who Is Lando's Mystery Woman?

Lando Norris Dating Again After Split from Ex

And then, inevitably:

Is She Stable Enough? Lando's New Girlfriend's Messy Public Breakup Raises Questions

You're lying in bed in your hotel room when you see that one. Lando's at a team debrief, and you'd promised yourself you wouldn't look, wouldn't go searching for what people were saying.

But you do.

You always do.

The comments are worse than the headlines.

She's way too much for him. Did you see how clingy she was in those photos?

Isn't she the one who had that public meltdown with her ex? Red flag.

He could do so much better. She looks unstable.

Give it three months before she's crying on Instagram about how he broke her heart too.

She's using him for attention. So obvious.

Your hands are shaking. Your chest is tight. You can't breathe properly.

You know these comments don't matter. You know they're from strangers who don't know you, who are projecting their own issues onto pixels on a screen.

But they sound so much like the voice in your own head.

The one that says you're too much. Too broken. Too damaged to be loved properly.

When Lando gets back to the room an hour later, you're still staring at your phone, tears streaming silently down your face.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" He's across the room in seconds, kneeling in front of you, hands cupping your face. "Baby, talk to me."

"They hate me," you whisper.

"Who hates you?"

"Everyone. They're saying—they're saying I'm using you, that I'm unstable, that you should—" Your voice breaks. "That you should leave before I ruin your life too."

His jaw tightens. "Let me see."

"Lando—"

"Let me see," he says again, firmer, and you hand over your phone with shaking hands.

You watch his face as he scrolls, watch the anger flash in his eyes, the way his grip on your phone tightens.

"This is bullshit," he says finally, setting it aside. "All of it. You know that, right?"

"But what if they're right?" The words tumble out before you can stop them. "What if I am too much? What if I do ruin everything?"

"You're not. You won't." He pulls you into his arms, holds you tight against his chest. "Listen to me, love. Those people don't know you. They don't know us. They're just noise."

"But—"

"No." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your face. "You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not going to ruin anything. I'm with you because I want to be. Because you're brilliant and funny and kind and I'm completely gone for you. Okay?"

You want to believe him. You do.

But the voice in your head is so much louder.

It gets worse.

Every day, there's something new. A think piece about whether you're "good for Lando's image." A Twitter thread comparing you to his ex-girlfriend, listing all the ways she was better. A TikTok analyzing your body language in the paddock, claiming you look "possessive" and "insecure."

You stop posting on social media. You stop looking at the tags. But it doesn't matter—the anxiety has already taken root.

You start pulling away.

Not all at once. Just little things. Taking longer to respond to Lando's texts. Making excuses when he asks you to come to races. Convincing yourself that he's better off without you there, without the scrutiny and speculation that follows you everywhere now.

"You're being quiet, lovely," Lando says one night over FaceTime. He's in his hotel room in Barcelona, and you're back in London. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing," you lie. "Just tired."

"Baby." His voice is gentle but firm. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine, Lando. Really."

But you're not fine.

You're obsessively reading every comment, every article, every Reddit thread. You're comparing yourself to his ex, to other WAGs, to every woman who's ever been photographed with him. You're cataloging every flaw, every reason why he should leave.

You stop eating properly. You're not sleeping. You're having panic attacks in the middle of the night, convinced that you're destroying his career, that everyone's right about you.

Pietra notices first.

"You've lost weight," she says bluntly when she comes over one afternoon. "And you look like you haven't slept in days. What's going on?"

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." She sits down next to you, takes your hand. "This is about the comments, isn't it?"

You don't answer, which is answer enough.

"Babe, you have to stop reading that stuff. It's poison."

"But what if they're right?" Your voice cracks. "What if I'm ruining his life? What if he's just too nice to admit it?"

"Have you talked to Lando about this?"

"I can't." The tears start falling. "I can't put this on him. He has enough to deal with."

"So you're just going to suffer alone and push him away instead?"

"It's better than dragging him down with me."

Pietra looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the worry in her eyes. "You're spiraling. And I don't know how to help you if you won't let anyone in."

But you can't let anyone in. Because letting people in means they'll see how broken you really are, and then they'll leave. They always leave.

The fight happens on a Tuesday night.

Lando's back in London for a few days before the next race, and he shows up at your flat unannounced because you've been dodging his calls.

"We need to talk," he says when you open the door, and his face is serious in a way you've never seen before.

"About what?"

"About the fact that you've been pulling away for weeks and won't tell me why." He steps inside, closes the door behind him. "About the fact that you're clearly not okay and you won't let me help."

"I'm fine—"

"Stop saying that!" His voice rises, and you flinch. He notices, and his expression softens immediately. "Sorry. I'm sorry, love. But you're not fine. I can see it. Pietra can see it. Everyone can see it except apparently you."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Well, I do." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Because I'm watching you disappear and I don't know how to stop it. I don't know what to do."

"You can't do anything!" The words burst out of you, sharp and desperate. "Don't you get it? This is who I am. I'm anxious and broken and too much, and eventually you're going to realize that and leave, so why don't we just—why don't we just end this now before it gets worse?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Is that what you think?" Lando's voice is quiet, almost hurt. "That I'm going to leave?"

"Everyone does." You're crying now, can't stop the tears. "My ex was right. I'm too intense, too emotional, too—"

"Your ex was a fucking idiot who didn't deserve you." Lando crosses the room, tries to reach for you, but you step back.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't try to fix this. You can't fix this. You can't fix me."

"I'm not trying to fix you!" He's getting frustrated again, you can hear it. "I'm trying to be here for you, but you won't let me. You won't talk to me, you won't tell me what's going on in your head—"

"Because what's going on in my head is that I'm ruining your life!" You're shouting now, all the fear and anxiety and self-loathing pouring out. "Every day there's another article about how I'm not good enough for you, how I'm damaged goods, how you should leave before I destroy your career. And they're right, Lando. They're right."

"They're not—"

"Yes, they are!" Your voice breaks. "You deserve someone stable. Someone who doesn't have panic attacks over Twitter comments. Someone who doesn't come with all this baggage and drama. Someone better."

"I don't want someone better." His voice is raw. "I want you."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't." The words feel like they're being ripped out of you. "Maybe you should go. Maybe we should just—we should end this before I hurt you too."

"You're not going to hurt me—"

"I already am!" You're sobbing now, can barely get the words out. "Can't you see that? I'm pulling you into my mess, and it's only going to get worse. So please. Please just go."

"Baby—"

"Go, Lando." You can't look at him. "Please. Just go."

The silence stretches out, painful and heavy.

Then you hear him move toward the door. Hear it open.

"I love you," he says quietly. "I know you don't believe that right now. But I do."

The door closes behind him.

And you collapse.

The week that follows is the worst of your life.

You don't eat. You barely sleep. You don't answer calls or texts—not from Lando, not from Pietra, not from anyone.

You just exist in the darkness of your flat and your own mind, convinced that you've done the right thing. That you've saved Lando from the inevitable disaster of being with you.

But it doesn't feel like relief.

It feels like drowning.

You spend hours scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Reading his old texts. Torturing yourself with memories of how safe you felt in his arms, how seen you felt when he looked at you.

The voice in your head is relentless.

You ruined it. You pushed away the best thing that ever happened to you. You're too broken to be loved. He's better off without you. Everyone is better off without you.

On day seven, Pietra uses her spare key to let herself into your flat.

She finds you on the couch, unwashed, surrounded by takeaway containers you haven't touched, staring blankly at the TV that isn't even on.

"Oh, babe," she breathes, and the concern in her voice almost breaks you.

"I'm fine," you say automatically.

"No, you're really not." She sits down next to you, takes in your appearance with worried eyes. "Have you eaten anything today?"

You don't answer.

"This week?"

Still nothing.

"Right." She pulls out her phone with shaking hands. "I'm calling Lando."

"No—" You try to grab the phone, but you're too slow, too exhausted.

"Yes," she says firmly. "Because I love you, and I'm scared, and you need help that I can't give you."

You hear her step into the other room, hear the low murmur of her voice. You should care. You should stop her.

But you're so tired.

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at your door.

You know who it is before Pietra opens it.

Lando steps inside, and the look on his face when he sees you—concern and love and barely contained panic—almost destroys you.

"Hi, baby," he says softly, and his voice cracks on the nickname.

You can't speak. Can't move. Can only stare at him as he crosses the room and kneels in front of you, the same way he did that night in Monaco.

"I'm going to give you two some space," Pietra says quietly, and then she's gone, and it's just you and Lando and all the broken pieces between you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper finally. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh, no." He reaches for your hands, and you let him take them. "You don't have to apologize, love."

"I pushed you away. I said terrible things. I—"

"You were scared." His thumbs stroke over your knuckles. "You were hurting, and you were scared, and you thought you were protecting me. I get it."

"I thought—" Your voice breaks. "I thought you'd be better off without me."

"Well, you were wrong." He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that you almost believe him. "I've been miserable this week. Couldn't focus on anything. Kept checking my phone every five minutes hoping you'd text. Max had to physically take it away from me during the strategy meeting."

Despite everything, you let out a wet laugh.

"There she is," he murmurs, and the tenderness in his voice breaks something open in your chest.

The tears come then. Really come. Great, heaving sobs that you've been holding back for days, weeks, maybe months. All the fear and anxiety and self-loathing pouring out of you in waves.

Lando doesn't hesitate. He pulls you off the couch and into his arms, holding you so tight you can barely breathe, and you cling to him like he's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you, baby. Let it out."

So you do. You cry into his chest, your hands fisted in his shirt, and he just holds you. Rocks you gently. Presses kiss after kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry," you sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing." His voice is firm but so gentle. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm such a mess—"

"You're not a mess. You're hurting. There's a difference."

"Everyone was right about me—"

"No." He pulls back just enough to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, and you realize he's crying too. "Everyone was wrong. So fucking wrong, darling. You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not unstable or dramatic or any of the other bullshit they said about you."

"But—"

"Listen to me." His voice is fierce now, almost desperate. "You are kind. You are brilliant. You are funny and thoughtful and you make me laugh harder than anyone I've ever met. You remember the little things. You listen when I talk about racing even though half of it probably bores you. You make me feel seen in a way I've never felt before."

The tears are still falling, but you're listening. Really listening.

"Your anxiety doesn't make you broken," he continues, his thumbs wiping away your tears even as his own fall. "It makes you human. And the fact that you're dealing with all this shit—the comments, the pressure, the constant scrutiny—and you're still here, still trying, still fighting? That makes you the strongest person I know."

"I don't feel strong," you whisper.

"I know, love. I know." He presses his forehead to yours. "But you are. And I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from all of it. I'm sorry I let it get this bad."

"It's not your fault—"

"And it's not yours either." He pulls back to look at you again. "None of this is your fault. Not the comments, not the articles, not the way your brain tries to convince you you're not enough. None of it."

"I don't know how to stop believing it," you admit, and it feels like the most honest thing you've said in weeks.

"Then let me believe it for both of us," he says simply. "Until you can believe it yourself. Let me remind you every single day that you're good enough. That you're more than enough. That I'm not going anywhere."

"You promise?"

"I promise, baby. I love you. I'm completely, stupidly in love with you, and nothing—not the comments, not the pressure, not your anxiety—is going to change that."

You break again, but this time it feels different. Like something cracking open to let the light in.

He holds you through it, whispering reassurances into your hair, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, the top of your head. Over and over, like he's trying to kiss the pain away.

"Come on, lovely," he murmurs eventually. "Let's get you to bed."

You don't have the energy to argue. You let him guide you to your bedroom, let him help you out of the clothes you've been wearing for two days, let him pull one of his old hoodies over your head.

The smell of him—familiar and safe—makes you want to cry all over again.

He climbs into bed behind you, pulls you back against his chest, and wraps his arms around you completely. One arm around your waist, the other coming up so his hand can rest over your heart.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your neck. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."

You lace your fingers through his, hold on tight.

"I love you," you whisper. "I'm sorry I didn't say it before. I'm sorry I—"

"Shh." Another kiss to your temple. "I know, darling. I know."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in him, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck.

For the first time in a week, you feel like you can breathe.

You wake up to sunlight streaming through your curtains and the smell of tea.

For a moment, you panic—thinking you dreamed it, that Lando isn't really here, that you're still alone in your spiral.

Then you hear movement in the kitchen, and your heart settles.

He's still here.

You find him a few minutes later, standing at your stove in joggers and the t-shirt he wore last night, making tea and toast like he's done it a thousand times.

"Morning, lovely," he says when he sees you, and his smile is soft and warm and everything you don't deserve but desperately need.

"You stayed," you say, and your voice is still rough from crying.

"Of course I stayed." He crosses to you, cups your face gently. "I told you I wasn't going anywhere."

He kisses your forehead, slow and tender, and you close your eyes against the feeling.

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get some food in you."

You manage half a piece of toast and some tea, and he doesn't push for more. Just sits next to you at the counter, his hand resting on your thigh, his thumb drawing absent circles.

"We should talk," you say eventually. "About everything."

"We will," he agrees. "But not right now. Right now, you just need to rest."

"Lando—"

"Please, baby." He turns to look at you, and his eyes are so earnest. "Let me take care of you today. We'll figure out the rest later."

So you do.

You let him guide you to the couch, let him pull you into his side, let him wrap a blanket around both of you. He puts on Pride and Prejudice—your comfort film, the one you mentioned once in passing months ago—and you settle against his chest.

His fingers find your hair, running through it slowly, gently, the same way he did that first night at his apartment. His other hand holds yours, their fingers intertwined on his stomach.

Every few minutes, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. Your forehead. Your temple. Like he's trying to make up for the week you spent apart, trying to remind you that he's here and he's real and he's not leaving.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me," he says quietly during one of the film's quieter moments. "I should have—I should have checked in more. Should have made sure you knew you could tell me when things got bad."

"It's not your fault," you say. "I'm the one who shut down. Who pushed you away."

"We both could have done better." He kisses your head again. "But we're going to do better now. Yeah?"

"Yeah," you whisper.

"I mean it, love. We're going to figure this out together. Better boundaries with social media. Maybe you talk to someone—a therapist who specializes in anxiety. I'll do better at protecting you from the worst of it. We'll make it work."

"What if it's not enough?" The fear creeps back in. "What if I spiral again?"

"Then I'll be there." He says it so simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll be there every single time, baby. For as long as you'll let me."

You tilt your head up to look at him, and the expression on his face—open and honest and full of love—makes your chest ache.

"I don't deserve you," you whisper.

"Yes, you do." He leans down, presses a soft kiss to your lips. "You deserve everything good, darling. And I'm going to spend however long it takes convincing you of that."

You kiss him again, deeper this time, trying to pour everything you can't say into it. Thank you. I'm sorry. I love you. I'll try.

When you pull back, he's smiling, and he tugs you closer, tucking your head under his chin.

"Rest, lovely," he murmurs. "I've got you."

So you do. You let yourself relax into him, let the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his arms and the gentle pressure of his kisses lull you into something that feels almost like peace.

It's not a miracle cure.

The anxiety doesn't disappear overnight. The comments don't stop. The pressure of being in the public eye doesn't magically become easier.

But Lando keeps his promise.

He's there for every wobble, every moment when the voice in your head gets too loud. He reminds you to eat, to sleep, to step away from your phone when the comments get too vicious. He holds you through panic attacks and celebrates the small victories—the days when you can scroll past the hate without it destroying you, the moments when you can believe, even just a little bit, that you're enough.

You start seeing a therapist. You set boundaries with social media. You learn to recognize when you're spiraling and actually ask for help instead of trying to handle it alone.

And Lando? He's patient through all of it. Never makes you feel like a burden. Never acts like your anxiety is an inconvenience.

He just loves you. Steadily. Unconditionally. With a thousand small gestures and soft words and gentle touches that slowly, slowly start to rewrite the narrative in your head.

Three months after that terrible week, you're back in the paddock for the British Grand Prix. You're nervous—the last time you were here, it triggered the worst spiral of your life.

But Lando's hand is steady in yours, and when you start to panic, he pulls you aside, cups your face, and looks at you with those steady eyes.

"You've got this, baby," he says firmly. "And if you don't, I've got you. Either way, we're okay."

And somehow, you believe him.

You make it through the day. Through the cameras and the questions and the inevitable comments that pop up online later. And when you start to spiral that night in the hotel, Lando's already there, pulling you into his arms, pressing kisses to your hair, reminding you of all the things you can't quite believe yet but are learning to.

"I'm proud of you," he murmurs into your hair. "So fucking proud, lovely."

"I couldn't do this without you," you admit.

"Yes, you could," he says. "You're stronger than you think. But you don't have to do it without me. Not anymore."

That night, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you realize something.

Lando was never the cure for your heartbreak. He was never supposed to fix you or make the pain disappear.

But he gave you something better: a safe place to heal. A steady presence that didn't waver when things got hard. A love that didn't demand you be perfect or put-together or anything other than exactly who you are.

And maybe that's the real cure. Not the rush of new love that makes you forget your pain, but the steady, patient, unconditional love that holds you while you learn to heal yourself.

"I love you," you whisper into the darkness.

"I love you too, darling," he murmurs back, pressing another kiss to your head. "Always."

And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you believe that maybe, just maybe, you're going to be okay.

Not because someone fixed you.

But because someone loved you enough to stay while you learned to fix yourself.

Charity dinners weren’t really your thing. Not that you were against charity; you just hated the expectation. Nate slipped away from you moments after arriving, caught up with catching up with distant associates. It left you alone, vulnerable. You doubted he meant to, but no matter the purpose, his disappearance still harboured a sick sense of solitude.

You turn the sink tap until water spills out of it. The chill bites at your hands; the skin surrounding your fingertips burns as you had spent half the evening picking at them to distract yourself. The pale-coloured clutch sits atop the space before the mirror starts. It glares at you; your phone is half dead; unopened lip gloss haunts you. 

What a mistake you’ve made, showing up tonight like you even had the ability to put a face on and pretend. It was pointless even trying most days, but you did today anyway. Why?

The half-dead phone buzzes once; you blink back the tears that form. It’s Nathan; of course it’s Nathan. He’s asking where you are; you don’t have it in you to tell him the truth. You don’t answer him at all; instead, you place the device screen down on the side of the sink again. It makes a sound again, another message. Then it’s quiet for a moment, and you're left to your thoughts again. You sniffle, and it starts ringing. He’s calling you now, likely growing worried over your silence. 

“Hello?” You choke out, the phone stays on the surface; it would feel far too intimate to have his voice in your ear, so you put it on speaker. 

“Where are you? Are you okay?” Nate asks; you can hear the way he’s panicking through the crackly microphone. Something warm pools in your gut. It feels nice to have someone worry about you every once and a while. 

“I’m in the bathroom, just freshening up.” 

You already know he doesn’t believe you by how quiet he turns. It’s muffled, but you can hear a pop of champagne followed by cheering in the background. Your heart turns cold as you start to feel like a burden again. 

“Do you need me?” 

Is it that obvious? Your sheer inability to do anything in a public setting without freaking out? Nate has always known; he knew before it had got bad and during the worst of it. The most heartbreaking part of it all was he knew when it was getting better and when it ended up bad all over again. He never turned his back on you, though; maybe that's why you don’t feel as bad putting it all on him.

"Maybe," you say, oh so quietly he probably can’t even hear it. He does, though; you listen in as the volume on his side of the call goes quieter. He’s stepped away now; his footsteps ring out in the empty hall leading to the communal restrooms. The call stays active the whole time; neither of you says anything, just breathes together in an undertone. 

When you unlock and open the bathroom door, he stands only a pace away. His white shirt is crumpled, his tie undone and messy around his neck. You spent a good five minutes trying to tie that thing before leaving the house. He looks worried, eyebrows creased, lips pursed into that thoughtful hold that makes you worried in turn. 

It’s not overwhelming the way he walks you back into the small bathroom; he doesn’t crowd you into the wall. Instead, he just steps gently like you're a prey animal. Slow, so slow it hardly breaks the silent atmosphere. He locks the door behind him, and it feels like a breath of fresh air as opposed to a forced containment. He presses down on his own phone screen and ends the call and finishes by placing it on top of yours on the sink. 

“I’m sorry, Nate,” you mutter, your back coming up flush with the edge of the hand dryer. “I didn’t want to take you out of the party.”

“Not even a party. It’s fine, anyway; I was waiting for the chance to get out of there.”

You smile, even laughing quietly under your breath. He warms at the sight, the previous concern melting into a gentle calm. His hand brushes over yours faintly. It happens carefully, allowing you full control over the space. You can’t stop yourself from wrapping around him, arms circling over his shoulders. He’s good like that, the best for you even when you can’t do it alone anymore. 

A total of seven minutes pass before you psych yourself up enough to leave the bathroom. Nathan’s with you the whole time; he doesn’t say much, but you know his mind is running rampant with praises and soft encouragement.

He tries not to abandon you again for the rest of the night, arm circled around your waist as people more or less talk at him instead of to him. But it just happens once without either of you having the chance to do anything about it. He’s pulled away from you like the tide, and in his absence you're joined by others. Other WAGs, ones that don’t know, ones that do and don’t make a scene because of it. 

Despite your physical distance, his eyes never really leave you for long. He’s with his teammates, but his focus is stuck on you. A drink is in your hands by now, something sweet and unforgettable. You tilt the glass towards him, and he raises a brow. It’s a foreign, silent sharing of mutual understanding. His head nods once, and then you finally feel comfortable to pitch in to the conversations around you. 

"Tight, Daddy?" Addison asks, watching Dean's hands work with the laces.

"Not too tight," Dean assures him. "Just right. Can you wiggle your toes for me?"

Addison scrunches up his face in concentration, and his little feet shift in the skates. "I wiggle them!"

"Good job, buddy," Dean says, and he finishes with the second skate before sitting back on his heels. "How do they feel?"

"Good," Addison announces. Then, with the unshakeable confidence of a three-year-old, "I'm gonna skate fast like you, Daddy."

"We're going to start slow," Dean corrects gently. "Remember what we talked about? First you learn to stand, then walk, then glide."

"Then fast," Addison insists.

"Then fast," Dean agrees, exchanging an amused look with you over Addison's head.

You're already in your own skates, having laced them up while Dean helped Addison. It's been a while since you've been on ice, not since before Addison was born, really. Dean still skates regularly, both for his own practice and to demonstrate things for his youth team, but you've had less reason to. Still, it comes back quickly, muscle memory kicking in as you stand and test your balance.

"Mama's ready!" Addison observes, pointing at you.

"Mama is ready," you confirm. "Are you ready, Addy?"

"Ready!" he says seriously, in that way three-year-olds have of making everything sound intensely important.

Dean helps Addison stand, keeping a firm grip on his hands. Addison wobbles immediately, his ankles trying to bend inward, and Dean's there to steady him. "Keep your feet flat, buddy. Don't let your ankles do this," he demonstrates the wobble, "keep them straight like this."

Addison's face scrunches up again with concentration, his tongue poking out slightly as he tries to control his ankles. It's an expression you've seen on Dean's face a hundred times, usually when he's focused on reviewing game footage or planning practice drills. Your son looks so much like his father it's almost comical: the same blonde hair that never quite behaves, the same determined set to his jaw when he's working on something, the same green eyes that can shift from serious to mischievous in seconds.

"Good," Dean says. "That's really good. Now we're going to walk to the ice, okay? Just like regular walking, but I'm holding your hands."

"Okay, Daddy."

The walk from the locker room to the rink entrance is slow and careful, Addison taking exaggerated steps while Dean walks backward in front of him, keeping hold of both his hands. You follow behind with your phone, already recording because you know you'll want to remember this.

The rink is pristine, the ice freshly zambonied and gleaming under the overhead lights. It's cold enough that you can see your breath, and Addison notices immediately. Dean’s rink was one of the colder ones you’d been in. 

"Mama, look! Smoke!" he exclaims, breathing out dramatically and watching the cloud of condensation.

"That's your breath in the cold air," you explain. "Pretty cool, right?"

"So cool," Addison agrees, and then he's distracted by the ice in front of him. "That's where we skate?"

"That's where we skate," Dean confirms. "You ready to go on?"

Addison nods enthusiastically, but when Dean guides him to step onto the ice, he freezes. His little hands grip Dean's tighter, and his eyes go wide.

"It's slippery," he announces, like this is a revelation.

"It is slippery," Dean agrees. "That's what makes skating fun. But Daddy's got you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Dean says. "Do you trust me?"

Addison considers this with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster, then nods. "Yeah!"

Your chest squeezes at that, at the complete faith in your son's voice. You step onto the ice yourself, skating a slow circle to warm up while Dean helps Addison get his bearings. The first few minutes are tentative, Addison barely lifting his feet, essentially just standing on the ice while Dean holds him steady.

"Okay, now we're going to try moving," Dean says. "Just slide one foot forward, like this. See? Then the other foot."

"Slide," Addison repeats, and he attempts to move his right foot forward. It goes too far and too fast, and he yelps, but Dean's grip keeps him upright.

"That's okay," Dean says immediately. "That was good. You moved! Let's try again, but smaller. Just a little slide."

You skate closer, phone still recording, watching as Dean patiently guides Addison through the basics. It's slow going. Addison's legs keep wanting to do different things, his ankles still trying to bend inward despite his concentration. But Dean's patience is endless, his voice calm and encouraging even when Addison gets frustrated.

"I can't do it," Addison says after a few minutes, his lower lip starting to tremble.

"Yes, you can," Dean says firmly. "You're already doing it. You're standing on ice, and you've moved forward. That's skating, buddy."

"But not fast."

"Fast comes later," Dean reminds him. "Uncle Nicky wasn't fast his first day on skates. Daddy wasn't fast, either."

"You weren't?" Addison looks skeptical.

"Nope," Dean says. "I fell down a lot my first time. Way more than you."

This seems to mollify Addison somewhat. The idea that his father, who he thinks can do anything, also struggled at first makes him willing to try again.

"Can Mama skate with us?" Addison asks, looking over at you.

"Sure can," you say, gliding over to them. "Want me on your other side?"

Addison nods, and you take position on his left while Dean stays on his right. Together, you both hold one of Addison's hands, and slowly, the three of you begin moving across the ice. Addison's still wobbly, his feet sliding unpredictably, but with both of you there he's more confident.

"Look, I'm skating!" he announces proudly.

"You are," you agree, smiling at Dean over Addison's head. "You're doing such a good job, baby."

"I'm not a baby, Mama," Addison corrects with the indignation of a three-year-old who's been told he's a big boy now. "I'm three. That's big."

"You're right, I'm sorry," you say seriously. "You're a big boy who's learning to skate."

"Yeah," Addison agrees, satisfied.

You make several slow circuits around the rink like this, Addison between you and Dean, his little legs working hard to keep up. He talks the entire time, a constant stream of consciousness that includes observations about the ice ("it's so white, Daddy"), questions about skating ("when I go fast?"), and random non sequiturs about his life ("my friend Lucas has a dog and it's big").

"You're doing so good, Addy," Dean says after the third lap. "Do you want to try something new?"

"What something?"

"Do you want to try gliding? That means you push with your feet and then you slide."

"Slide is fun," Addison declares.

"Sliding is very fun," Dean agrees. "Okay, so we're going to push with this foot, like this, and slide. Then push with the other foot, and slide."

Dean demonstrates, and you mirror him on Addison's other side. Addison watches intently, then tries to copy the movement. His first attempt is more of a shuffle than a glide, but Dean praises him anyway.

"Perfect! Good job, buddy. Let's do it again."

It takes a few more tries, but slowly, Addison starts to get the rhythm of it. Push, glide. Push, glide. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated, but there's definite progress. And more importantly, he's smiling, that wide unreserved smile that shows his dimples and makes his eyes crinkle just like Dean's do.

"Mama, take picture!" Addison demands suddenly. "I'm skating!"

You've been taking periodic photos and videos throughout, but you stop to take a proper photo of them, then a selfie of Addison between you and Dean, all three of you on the ice. Dean makes a goofy face that makes Addison giggle, and you capture that too, the pure joy of this moment.

"Can I try by myself?" Addison asks after another few minutes.

Your immediate instinct is to say no, that it's too soon, that he'll fall. But Dean catches your eye and gives you a small nod, and you trust his judgment on this. He knows what he's doing.

"You can try," Dean says. "But we're going to be right next to you, okay? So if you start to fall, we'll catch you."

"Okay, Daddy."

Dean slowly releases Addison's hand, and you do the same on your side. Addison stands there for a moment, arms out for balance like a tiny tightrope walker. His face is a mask of concentration, and you hold your breath.

Then, very carefully, he lifts one foot and slides it forward. Then the other. He's doing it. He's actually skating on his own, even if it's only for a few feet before his balance wobbles and Dean has to catch him.

"Did you see?" Addison asks excitedly, looking between you and Dean. "I did it by myself!"

"You did!" you confirm, your voice a little thick because your baby, your three-year-old, is skating. "That was great, Addy."

"I'm just like Daddy," Addison beams proudly.

"You are," Dean agrees, and there's something soft in his expression as he looks at your son. "You're doing so good, buddy. I'm really proud of you."

"Can we do more?"

You spend another twenty minutes on the ice, watching as Addison gets incrementally more confident. He falls a few times, despite Dean and you being right there, but he bounces back immediately each time, that resilient way small children have of not dwelling on failures. By the end of the hour, he's able to move several feet on his own before needing to be caught, and he's absolutely beaming with pride.

"Okay, buddy," Dean says eventually. "I think that's enough for today. Your legs are probably getting tired."

"I'm not tired," Addison protests automatically, even though you can see he's starting to flag.

"Maybe not," Dean says diplomatically. "But the ice needs a break. We'll come back another day, okay?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Maybe not tomorrow," you interject. "But soon. We can practice every week."

"Every week," Addison repeats, nodding like this is a binding contract. "And then I go fast."

"Then you'll go fast," Dean agrees.

Getting Addison off the ice and on the bench isis easier than getting him on was. He's tired now, even if he won't admit it, and he lets Dean carry him to the bench. While Dean unlaces Addison's skates, you pull out your phone to review the photos and videos you took.

"Look at this one," you say, showing Dean a photo of him and Addison on the ice together, both of them with matching expressions of concentration.

Dean smiles, that soft smile he reserves for moments like this. "Send that to my mom. She'll love it."

"Already planning to," you say. "Your dad's going to be so excited that Addy's started skating."

"He's been asking about it every time we talk," Dean admits. "I think he was starting to worry we weren't going to do it."

"Well, now he's done it," you say, looking at your son who's chattering to Dean about how he's going to be the fastest skater ever. "Our little hockey player."

"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he'll decide he hates it next week. He's three. Attention span of a goldfish."

"Fair point."

But watching Addison animatedly describe his skating experience to Dean, his little hands gesturing wildly as he recounts how he "had so much fun, daddy! The most fun!" you have a feeling this is going to stick. He's got the Di Laurentis hockey gene, that love of ice and speed and competition that runs through Dean's family.

Later, after you've gotten Addison changed back into his regular shoes and Dean's packed up the skates, the three of you head out to the parking lot. Addison's holding both of your hands, swinging between you with each step, still talking about skating.

"When we come back, I'm gonna go faster," he announces. "And I'm gonna... gonna do the spinny thing. What's the spinny thing called, Daddy?"

"A spin?" Dean suggests. "Or maybe you mean a hockey stop?"

"Hockey stop!" Addison repeats enthusiastically. "I'm gonna do a hockey stop."

"That's pretty advanced," Dean says. "But we can work on it."

"I can do it," Addison insists with the boundless confidence of a three-year-old who just learned to shuffle forward on ice. "I skate good, daddy."

"You are really good," you agree, squeezing his little hand. "Daddy was impressed, weren't you, Daddy?"

"Very impressed," Dean confirms. "You're going to be better than me someday."

"I wanna be the best," Addison says matter-of-factly, and you and Dean both laugh.

In the car on the way home, Addison falls asleep within five minutes, exhausted from the physical exertion and the excitement. You glance back at him in his car seat, his head tilted to the side, his mouth slightly open, and your heart squeezes.

"He did really well," you say to Dean.

"He did," Dean agrees. "Better than I expected, honestly. His balance was pretty good for a first timer."

"He gets that from you."

"Maybe," Dean says. "Or maybe he's just naturally gifted. Either way, I'm claiming credit."

You laugh softly, not wanting to wake Addison. "Of course you are."

Dean reaches over and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Thanks for doing this. I know you were worried it was too soon."

"I was," you admit. "But you were right. He was ready. And he loved it."

"He did," Dean says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "My kid on skates. That's... that's pretty cool."

"Your kid who looks exactly like you, acts exactly like you, and now skates like you," you tease. "I had no genetic input whatsoever, apparently."

"You gave him his stubbornness," Dean offers. "That's all you."

"Excuse me?"

"In the best way," Dean amends quickly, grinning. "His determination. His refusal to give up even when things are hard. That's you."

That mollifies you somewhat, and you settle back in your seat, watching the city slide past the windows. When you get home, Dean carries a still-sleeping Addison upstairs while you grab the bag with the skates. Inside the apartment, Dean lays Addison on the couch rather than in his bed, knowing he'll probably wake up soon anyway.

You sit on the coffee table across from the couch, just watching your son sleep, and Dean joins you, his arm coming around your shoulders.

"Think he'll remember this when he's older?" you ask quietly.

"Maybe not consciously," Dean says. "But it'll be there somewhere. First time on ice. First time skating with his dad."

"And his mom," you add.

"And his mom," Dean agrees. "Who, for the record, looked very good out there. Maybe we should go skating more often. Just the two of us."

"Is this your way of asking me on a date?"

"Maybe," Dean says. "Would you say yes?"

"Obviously," you say, leaning into him. "Though finding a babysitter might be tough, considering Addison’s a velcro kid."

"We'll figure it out," Dean says, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Addison stirs on the couch, his eyes blinking open slowly. When he sees you both watching him, he smiles, sleepy and content.

"Mama? Daddy?" he says. "Can we go skating again?"

"Soon, buddy," Dean promises. "Really soon."

“Yay," Addison says, and he closes his eyes again. 

You and Dean exchange an amused look. He's definitely a Di Laurentis.

Across the hockey house living room, you laughed at something the guy beside you said, head tipping back slightly. His hand rested on your knee like he belonged there.

Dean’s stomach twisted violently.

Garrett followed his line of sight and immediately groaned. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

Dean scoffed loudly enough to earn a glance from you across the room. “I’m literally not.”

“You absolutely are,” Garrett laughed. “This is incredible. I’ve never witnessed such a sight.”

Dean ignored them both, taking his beer back before shoving himself off the kitchen counter. He needed another drink. Or maybe twelve.

This was ridiculous.

You were single.

He was single.

That was the whole point.

From the beginning, the two of you had agreed this wasn’t serious. No labels. No exclusivity. No clinginess.

Just sex.

Really good sex.

The kind that had somehow turned into movie nights and late-night drives and you stealing his hoodies and Dean memorising your coffee order without meaning to.

Except now there was some finance major touching your thigh like he’d earned it, and Dean suddenly felt borderline homicidal and violently ill.

“You good, D?” Tucker asked as Dean grabbed vodka this time instead of beer.

“Fantastic.”

Tucker looked toward the couch.

“Oh,” he said carefully. “That bad?”

Dean glared at him. “Shut up.”

The worst part was that you looked good tonight.

Dean knew exactly what your skin felt like under his hands. Knew what you sounded like when he got you alone.

And now some other guy was making you laugh.

You spotted him hovering near the kitchen and smiled automatically.

That smile almost made it worse.

You excused yourself from the couch a few minutes later, weaving through the crowd toward him.

“There you are,” you said easily. “You disappeared.”

Dean leaned back against the counter. “You seemed busy.”

One eyebrow lifted immediately.

Uh oh.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like an asshole.”

You folded your arms over your chest. “Dean.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been glaring at Evan all night.”

“Evan,” Dean repeated flatly. “Jesus Christ, even his name sucks.”

You stared at him for a second before realisation slowly crossed your face.

“No way…”

Dean took another drink.

“Oh my God,” you laughed quietly. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Because I’m hooking up with someone else?”

The directness it was harder than he expected.

Dean’s jaw tightened. “I just think you could do better.”

You blinked at him slowly. “Dean. You literally sleep with half the female population of Briar.”

“Not anymore.”

The words slipped out too fast.

Your expression shifted slightly.

Dean immediately regretted opening his mouth.

You stepped closer, voice softer now, your fingers grazing softly over his shirt covered abdomen, “What’s going on with you?”

Dean didn’t know when this had happened.

Didn’t know when you’d become the first person he looked for at parties. Or when his bed started feeling empty without you in it. Or when hearing another guy make you laugh started feeling like someone scraping a knife against his ribs.

He was fucking Dean Di Laurentis.

He didn’t do this. Relationships were messy. Feelings complicated things. Casual was supposed to be easy.

But watching another guy touch you all night had made him feel insane. And maybe worse than insane was hurt.

“You said casual,” he said finally.

Your face softened slightly. “Hey, we both did.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Dean laughed once, bitter under his breath. “Because apparently I’m an idiot.”

You went quiet.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw before looking at you directly for the first time all night.

“I didn’t think I’d care.”

There it was.

Ugly and embarrassing and completely unavoidable now.

Your lips parted slightly.

Behind you, the music blasted and people were yelling.

Dean barely noticed any of it.

Because you were just staring at him.

“You care if I hook up with someone else?” you asked carefully.

Dean gave you a look. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

“Fantastic.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth before you shook your head. “You know what the crazy part is?”

“What?”

“I only started talking to Evan because I thought you were losing interest.”

Dean actually frowned. “What?”

“You stopped sleeping with random girls,” you said quietly. “You started acting weirdly domestic with me and then pulling away after. I figured maybe you were getting bored.”

“Bored?” Dean repeated like the word offended him personally.

You shrugged slightly. “You never said anything.”

“Because I was trying not to turn into a psychopath!”

You laughed softly.

Dean stepped closer before he could stop himself.

“You think I liked watching him touch you?”

Your breath caught slightly.

Dean noticed immediately because of course he did. “I almost put him through a wall, baby.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

Silence settled between you both, your fingers gripping his shirt a little tighter. The space between you was closing.

He knew he had no right to feel this way when he’d been the one insisting on casual from the start.

But standing here now, looking down at you with your mouth slightly pink from the drink in your hand and your eyes fixed on his, Dean realized something horrifying.

“You wanna know something pathetic?” he asked quietly.

You looked wary already. “Probably not.”

“I have your coffee order saved in my notes app.”

You blinked.

Dean pushed forward before he could lose his nerve.

“You leave hair ties all over my apartment and I don’t throw them out anymore. Tucker asked why there’s strawberry yogurt in our fridge because I don’t eat strawberry yogurt but you do when you’re studying. Garrett says I smile differently when you text me.” He paused. “And apparently seeing another guy touch you makes me physically ill.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “That’s pretty much how I felt too.”

For a second neither of you moved.

Then quietly, “So what now?”

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

Then his eyes flicked toward the living room where Evan was still sitting on the couch waiting for your return.

“Now,” Dean said calmly, “I’m gonna walk over there and tell him to stop looking at my girl.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Your girl?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth lifted slightly.

By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

The second was when he assumed he’d be okay when you actually listened.

Maybe it’s because you were hurt, more maybe it’s because you wished it didn’t. Because it wasn’t like you had been dating him. There were no labels, promises or even declarations of love.

There was just Dean.

Dean, who had to get smuggled into your building past curfew at two in the morning when he ‘couldn’t sleep.’

Dean, who dragged you into his lap during movie nights at his.

And most importantly, Dean who kissed you like he meant it.

But none of that was enough to make the blonde want something real. So rather than putting up a fight, you left. Disappeared from the house and his life as if yours depended on it.

So gone were the movie nights, and sitting on his lap as the boys argued about whatever video game they were playing. Your naps on his bed while you waited for him to finish studying drills also vanished, just like his focus.

Because after eight days of radio silence, he was miserable and people noticed “this is getting weird.” Garrett announced on the ninth afternoon from where he sat eating lunch.

Logan glanced up from the couch “what is?” He furrowed his eyebrows a little confused, “she hasn’t been over in a week.” Garrett didn’t even need to say your name.

Dean froze as he grabbed a water from the fridge, knowing that they were talking about you. Nobody acknowledged how his whole body tensed, “actually where is she?” Tucker frowned as he basically lost his sous chef with your departure.

Garret couldn’t help it when he finally laughed, seeing the blonde, “oh my god.” It made Dean shut the fridge harder than usual “what did you do?” The captain added seeing how his teammate gripped his fingers around his water bottle.

Dean’s face formed a scowl “I didn’t do anything.” He grumbled, making all the boys sigh.

Logan made his way into the kitchen “that tone means you definitely did something stupid.” He pointed out as his hands rested on his hips.

The blonde rolled his eyes “guys just drop it.” He made his way to the living room, hoping the boys wouldn’t follow.

But of course they did “no seriously where’s your girl?” They knew him for far too long to know what was up “she’s not my girl.”

The words slipped from his lips too fast and too defensively, making all three boys visibly wince, “oh you definitely did something to fuck it up.

Dean’s jaw tightened as he knew they were right “I just told her I wanted to keep things casual.” It made everyone cringe when he threw himself onto the couch.

Silence took over the room as the boys sighed “you really said that to her?” Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

The blonde frowned immediately “what’s wrong with that?” He asked as the boys looked at him like he was clinically stupid “Dean.” Garrett groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dean shrugged, “what’s wrong?” His arms crossed as he grew a little annoyed, “you know she practically lived here right?” The boys didn’t say it as a bad thing even, they loved having you around.

“And?”

Logan rolled his eyes “and you looked at her like she hung the moon.” He grumbled as if the blonde had fucked up everything for himself.

Dean scoffed but there wasn’t much conviction behind it “we were just hanging out.” He argued back as his arms crossed.

Tucker made a face “she wore your hoodie for like three days in a row.” When Dean went home once for a break the boys saw you live in the blondes clothing as it smelt like him.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

Garrett swore in that moment that if Dean wasn’t his friend, he’d hit him “you are so stupid it’s wild.” He muttered as he shook his head.

It made Deans irritation flare instantly, “she said she was fine with casual!” He grumbled, growing annoyed that he was the only one getting interrogated.

Logan let out a snort, “yeah cause every girl loves hearing that from the guy they like.” The boy had seen how you watched Dean when he went off on these tangents about hockey, it was as if his words were gold.

Dean opened his mouth to argue before he closed it again. Because that part had been obvious, hadn’t it?

You liked him, hell, Dean liked you too. Which is exactly why he panicked.

Things with you stopped feeling casual weeks ago. Somewhere between the late-night conversations and memorising how you took your coffee to waking up with you curled up against his chest. Dean realised he was in trouble.

Real trouble, where his stupidity may have lost you, and that would actually hurt.

So rather than talking through it, he tried to put distance between you both before he could get too attached. Except now you were actually gone.

And the house felt like it wasn’t a home anymore. It was far too quiet.

Dean hated how he noticed that.

He hated how he kept glancing to the front door, hoping you’d walk through it as you spoke about your day before you kissed his cheek.

Hated how nobody sat on the counter as Tucker cooked anymore.

Hated that the berries in the fridge you used to eat straight out of the punnet with Garrett were now being put into smoothies so they didn’t go off.

Hated how nobody sat handing Logan his tools as he fixed things around the house.

Most of all, though, he hated that you actually meant it.

Because usually you’d be back after a day, roll your eyes as you called Dean an idiot before you kissed him.

But this time there was nothing.

No texts, or random appearances, you were gone.

Garrett watched Dean’s expression carefully “you miss her.” His words came out slowly as his face softened.

Dean immediately glared at the brunette, “shut up.” He shook his head as there was a gasp, “you actually do.”

“I said shut up.”

Tucker couldn’t help it when he laughed, “are we witnessing Dean have actual feelings?” He teased as Logan nodded “think I’m gonna be sick.” He pretended to gag.

It made the blonde sink further into the couch “can everyone get off of my ass?” He groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

Garrett was quick to scoff “no because if you chased her off permanently, we will never let you live it down.” In a weird way, the only thought in Deans head was that if he dated you and you broke up, the boys would take your side.

Dean groaned “just fuck off guys!” He grumbled as he headed back up to his room, not wanting to talk to them anymore about it.

But that night he couldn’t fall asleep in his bed as he found himself staring at your contact. The picture was one he took of you when you convinced him to accompany you on a late-night Dairy Queen run.

You had this grin that was contagious as you held your blizzard in your hand.

The memory should have made him smile as that night turned into a make-out in the parking lot after Dean got ice cream on your nose.

But instead, he found himself staring at the fact that you hadn’t sent him any new messages. The last text sat painfully untouched.

You: thanks for tonight

Dean: glad you made it back in one piece

That should have been his first warning sign when you said you’d walk yourself back to your dorm.

It was at lunch that he ruined everything “I think we should keep things casual.” It was said with such ease that it almost made you feel sick.

He said it like it didn’t change your expression entirely. Dean remembered how your smile faltered, and the way you recovered too quickly, “oh.” You looked at your salad that all of a sudden didn’t look appetising, “okay.” Your voice was soft as his hand reached for your knee.

Like an idiot, he carried on talking, “I just don’t want things to get complicated.” He shrugged and you swore you were about to laugh.

Like things hadn’t already gotten so complicated, like Dean didn’t already know what your laugh sounded like in a crowded room. As if he didn’t sleep better, knowing you were next to him. As if he didn’t almost let “I love you” slip from his lips two weeks ago when you fell asleep on his chest.

Dean couldn’t help it when his head hit his wall as he groaned; he had royally screwed up.

By day 13 of ignoring Dean, you were finally forced to see him again. You weren’t intending on coming along to Beau and Dean’s birthday but when the former cornered you in the cafe and begged to come, you couldn’t say no. Not when he said he wanted you there because he missed you and then proceeded to apologise for whatever his friend did.

You knew that you should have said no, you should have put everything you had in yourself to keep on avoiding Dean. But when your friends found out that you were all going, that’s how you ended up in the little red dress and devil horns.

Dean’s strategy that night was to try to focus on any girl around him. The distraction worked for the first fifteen minutes, until you walked in.

The blonde swore the music stopped, “shit.” Garrett patted the boy’s back as he smirked. You looked good in those thigh high boots that Dean always used to get so frustrated trying to take them off.

Dean swore you looked so good that he forgot the conversation he was in.

You hadn’t even bothered to look at him, far too busy laughing at something your friend said. And that seemed to finally make the culmination of what Dean felt the last few days hit him like a tidal wave. He realised he let go of a breath that he had been holding in when you finally looked at him.

Dean swore his body was finally calm again when you looked at him. Through the crowd of people, it should have felt like there were more people around. But out of nowhere, you smiled, it was the sweet one which knew how to make him weak in the knees.

He was ready to walk over to you and talk this all through, but instead, you walked away. Drowning into the crowd as come boy got your attention.

Garrett laughed as he shook his head, “you didn’t think that this was going to be easy right?” The captain shook his head as he went back to get another drink.

You played Dean’s game just as he did. As he flirted with girls, you let guys pull you closer as you danced against them. Because after all, if Dean was going to set what you guys were, you were going to listen.

Which meant that when you ended up playing beer pong with some guy who looked far too happy to be with you. Dean looked like he was ready to snap the guy in half “she’s doing this on purpose.” Dean grumbled as he left some girl to go and talk to Logan instead.

It made the brunette roll his eyes “genuis, she moved on because you told her not to expect anything.” He spoke in a duh tone as he sighed.

Dean hated that sentence because the truth was that he really didn’t expect you to do it. He thought you’d still be his.

Which was stupid and selfish.

Because he had gotten used to you. Used to the late-night calls, the way your legs tangled with his, and the way your eyes used to immediately find his in a crowded room.

But now you were smiling at someone else. Letting someone else touch you. And that made something ugly crawl up in Dean’s throat.

He knew he had no right to care, but he missed you, and honestly, as you bit your glossed lip, Dean knew the taste of like it was like water, he was going to be damned if he sat around and let someone else think that you were up for the taking.

So Dean moved through the crowd before he could even think about it “oh shit.” Logan let his eyes grow wide as he looked at Garrett “should we stop him?” He asked as the older boy shook his head.

They knew they should stay close to each the blonde though, in case something did happen.

You looked up when Dean came over, “can I talk to you?” He asked as he gripped his solo cup.

You blinked slowly “I am in the middle of something.” You turned your attention back to the brunette in front of you.

Dean laughed “should I go?” The boy asked from next to you.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Both of you looked at each other “I’ll just go.” The boy nodded to himself as he had a feeling that something was going on that he didn’t want to get into.

You sent Dean a glare, “no Dean here will leave.” You nodded as your eyes narrowed at the blonde.

Dean thought about it for a minute, “fine.”

His hand wrapped around yours as he pulled you away from the younger boy, “you cannot be serious Dean!” You grumbled as you tried to plant your feet “either you come with me and we talk.”

He turned around as he licked his lips “what if I don’t?” You raised your eyebrows as you raised your eyebrows.

It taunted him like a challenge, “I’ll throw you over my shoulder and then everyone can watch us have this conversation.” The warning made your thighs squirm, knowing that he was serious.

So instead, you opted to be quiet as you finally listened to him.

He pulled you into the bathroom as he shut the door behind him “you seemed pretty comfortable out there.” Dean crossed his arms as you leaned against the counter.

His words made you roll your eyes “you could say the same damn thing to you.” You shot back knowing that you were going to regre this.

You sucked at your teeth “you’re just mad because I didn’t get upset when you decided I wasn’t worth making yours.” You stepped closer to the boy “so you don’t get to sit here and get pissy that I look good tonight.”

The words were true, and boy did Dean wish you weren’t right “that’s not what happened.” He sighed as he stepped back against the door when you stepped closer to him.

He had the perfect sight of your boobs that made the dress look perfect “so you didn’t tell me you didn’t want me?” You pressed your finger into his chest.

Dean sighed “I didn’t want to screw things up with you.” His confession made him feel small “god I fucking think about you all the time and you’re not mine.” His cheeks felt warm as he was setting all of his cards out in front of you.

It made your expression soften slightly “I was always yours, you idiot.” You grumbled as you shook your head, letting out a defeated laugh “all you had to do was say the word.” You were it was dangerous when you fell for him, but somehow you still let yourself do it.

Dean smiled “you really mean that?” His hands reached for your hair but he was careful to not touch you “unfortunately, I do.”

Dean felt his heart pound in his ears “if I let you back in you better not fuck it up.” Your warning made him nod as he finally let his hands rest on your hips.

He licked his lips “trust me, the boys would kill me.” If the last week was meant to tell him anything, it was that the boys had favourites. And in the competition between you and him, you won by a country mile.

It made you laugh, “they missed you.” His confession brought a smile to your lips; you had missed those boys a lot more than you thought you would.

“just them?”

The question lingered in the air as the boy tucked your hair behind your ear “if you weren’t here tonight, it would have killed me.” His words made you feel better because, as much as you tried to avoid it, you had felt the same as him.

You ran your fingers over his jumpsuit. Top Gun was a movie you introduced him to as it was in your top ten list of all time greats, “Goose or Maverick?” You asked as you pulled the boy closer by his suit.

Dean swore he almost forgot how to speak “whichever one you want me to be honey-” you cut him off with a kiss.

It was needy as you pulled him forward when you arched your back, “well then, take me to bed or lose me forever.”