Jennifer Mikaelson

“Hey, hey. No, no, no.” The familiar voice came from the left and you turned just in time to see Clint Barton fall to his knees at your side. “I need help here. Now,” he said into his comms.

You huffed a laugh then groaned at the stab of pain that accompanied it. “It’s fine, Clint.”

“This is not fine. This is the furthest thing from fine.” He applied pressure to the wound that seemed to be bleeding the worst, pulling another groan of pain from you.

“Ow, you bastard, that hurts.”

“Good. Pain means you’re still alive.”

You watched him for a minute, eyes tracing his face, taking in his panicked expression. “Clint.”

He made a questioning sound but didn’t look at you.

“Clint,” you repeated.

This time his eyes met yours.

“Just let me go. It’s okay. It will be better. Everything will be better.”

His brows snapped together and you watched grief swallow his features followed quickly by sharp, hot anger. “Stop it. Just shut up. You’re not dying. Not today.”

And that was all you heard as the world went black.

You woke slow in a room that was too white with much less pain than you expected. Your hands traced the nearly unblemished skin of your stomach. They must have put you in the cradle. Damn. You huffed out a breath in annoyance. Well, just wasn’t your time, you guessed.

“Do you want to die?”

Your eyes darted to where Clint stood silhouetted against the window, back turned toward you. He stood so silent, you hadn’t even realized he was in the room. You clenched your teeth before sucking in a breath.

“I’m not going to kill myself but I’m not opposed to dying.”

He kept his gaze out the window, shoulders tense, hands clasped behind his back. “What exactly does that mean? You taking stupid risks in the field until it sticks?”

“I wouldn’t put anyone else at risk,” you said, needing him to understand.

That got him to turn, spinning to face you. He had that same grief stricken, angry look on his face. “That’s not what I asked.”

You met his gaze for a long moment before looking away with a hard swallow. “My fucked up head isn’t your problem, Barton.”

“The hell it isn’t,” he snapped, loud and angry, drawing your gaze back to him. He paused, taking a deep breath. “The hell it isn’t,” he repeated at a normal volume. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Everything about you is my problem. Don’t you understand that yet?”

When you just continued to stare at him without saying anything, he headed for the door. “I’ll tell Bruce you’re up.”

The screen begins to dim, and just as you're about to toss it onto the mattress, it lights up, illuminating your face.

Jake: I am. Jake: Can’t sleep?

You: Can’t turn my brain off. You: You?

Jake: I think I forgot how to sleep.

Speech bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear. Gone again. You hum, feeling the same uncertainty about what to say. Then finally...

Jake: Ice cream?

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.

You: Are you trying to solve insomnia with dairy?

Jake: It’s worth investigating.

Your laugh echoes around the room, making it feel empty. Neither of you should be awake at this time of the morning. You each have responsibilities tomorrow. Which is why ice cream sounds perfect.

You: See you in 20.

Jake’s alarm will be ringing in a little over four hours, his apartment still smells faintly of the pizza he’d forgotten to throw away after getting home from work, and every sensible part of his brain is telling him a late-night ice cream run isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s spent the last three nights sleeping in restless twenty-minute bursts.

He ignores those sensible thoughts.

Instead, he finds himself parked outside your apartment building, ten minutes early, which means he definitely broke at least three speed limits getting here. Leaning against the door, he crosses his ankles, trying for casual, though the way he stares at the building's door is anything but.

It’s ridiculous. He’s flown combat missions with his pulse steadier than this.

This is the part he wasn’t prepared for—the waiting. Getting you back isn’t about grand gestures like fancy dinners, long, albeit heartfelt speeches, or dramatic airport chases like in the movies. It’s waiting to see if you text first. It's giving you space so you’ll choose him tomorrow after choosing him today. Being offered a second chance is one thing, but living like he deserves it carries much higher stakes.

He misses you, misses the things he took for granted, the cute notes on the refrigerator when you left before him in the morning, the funny texts that flashed on his screen at the worst possible times, the late-night talks about nothing while eating cold pizza slices, the way you curled into him while watching horror movies, the flash of your smile over the edge of your book when he walked into the room.

The door opens, and he straightens, thoughts now solely in the present. His smile widens as he sees what you're wearing. Nothing fancy, sweats, sneakers, and a hoodie. His hoodie, which makes his pulse hitch a little.

Your expression softens into a smile when you spot him. Not the polite one you’ve perfected over the last few months or the brave one you’d worn while moving boxes out of the apartment. This one reaches your eyes.

It hits him then. He’d spent months wondering if he’d ever be the reason for that smile again. Now it’s walking toward him.

He pushes off the truck, forcing every ounce of nervous energy into something that resembles effortless confidence.

“I’ve been looking for that,” he nods toward the hoodie.

You smile, tucking your hands into the kangaroo pocket. “We established a long time ago that it now belongs to me.”

“Fair.” He huffs a laugh, opening the door for you.

“Is anywhere going to be open at this time?” you ask, moving to slide into the truck.

“I know a place,” he shrugs.

“Of course you do.”

The little ice cream shop sits tucked between a laundromat and a surf shop, its neon OPEN sign humming against the otherwise dark row of beachfront stores.

“You weren’t kidding,” you mutter.

“I rarely kid about dessert.”

“Only everything else.”

The bell above the door jingles as Jake holds it open for you. “Obviously.”

It’s clearly been a slow night because the young man behind the counter looks like he’s smoked one too many joints and has a line of chocolate sauce above his top lip.

“Evening,” he says as you approach.

Jake checks his watch. “Morning.”

“Whatever.”

You don’t even check the menu, and Jake is already shaking his head. “Don’t start, Seresin.”

“It tastes like toothpaste.”

“It’s fresh.”

“It’s dental hygiene.”

“I choose what I like,” you shrug. “You choose chaos, like a teenager who’s been left alone with a credit card.”

“Not today,” he winks, pulling a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill from his pocket. “It’s on Rooster.”

You roll your eyes, “Was it a dangerous or immature bet he lost?”

Jake shrugs. “Bit of both.”

“I’ll take a scoop of mint chocolate chip, please.” Tilting your head toward Jake, you sigh, “And I’m sure he’ll take whatever monstrosity you can pile into one tub.”

Jake stares you down while he orders. “I’ll have strawberry...”

You look surprised.

“With brownie pieces...”

“There it is.”

“...Hot fudge sauce...”

“It’ll be a melting mess.”

“...and Caramel....”

“Can’t forget the caramel.”

“And whipped cream.”

Five minutes later, he walks out carrying a heart-attack-inducing tower while you gently lick at your single scoop cone.

Walking side by side, you wander toward the beach without really deciding to. The waves roll lazily onto the sand, silver beneath the moonlight, and gulls begin to wake for dawn.

He’s forgotten how much he loves doing absolutely nothing with you. No plans, no destination, nowhere to be, just walking.

You finish your cone before he’s managed half of his, and sit on the driftwood someone took the time to carve into a bench. Jake watches intently as you drag your finger through the concoction he's holding, grimacing as you lick the digit clean.

“Oh geez, Jake, that’s disgustingly sweet.”

He smirks, “But delicious.”

Shaking your head, you rest your elbows on your knees, watching as the approaching blue hour blurs the horizon where the sky meets the sea.

For a while, neither of you says anything. The silence settles around you like an old favorite blanket, comfortable enough that neither of you feels obligated to fill it.

“Wanna know something embarrassing?” Jake eventually asks, expertly throwing his empty tub into a steel drum acting as a trash can.

“Always.”

“I almost texted four times before you texted me.”

You chuckle. “Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t wanna seem clingy.”

“You sent me like fifty emojis today. “

“Fifty-nine. I counted.”

That earns him another laugh. God, he’s missed that laugh and being the reason for it. Quicker than he likes, the sound drifts off with the wind. The waves approach and recede, the breeze ruffles your hair, but you remain still.

“I miss talking to you,” Jake says.

You turn your head, resting your chin on your shoulder, and give him a small smile. “Me too.”

“No,” he smiles faintly. “I mean, really talking. The pointless conversations. All the ones I took for granted because I thought we’d have years to do it. I miss the arguments about music, the debates over whether cereal counts as dinner. Which, it absolutely does.”

You laugh, leaning back to put your palms flat and stretch your legs out. You look relaxed, which was his aim. “It absolutely doesn’t.”

He smiles. “Speaking of talking, you never did tell me why you were drinking whiskey on a Tuesday night.”

You avert your gaze to look at the ocean. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, my alarm, that is conveniently at home, isn’t due to go off for,” checking his watch, coaxes the return of your smile, “two and a half hours. So I have time.”

You sigh, shuffling closer to him, and instinctively, he lifts his arm to put around your shoulders. “Can we just enjoy this, be in the moment?”

He kisses the top of your head; it’s so natural it almost hurts. “We can.”

He knows what you're doing, though. The tiny crease between your eyebrows, the anxious way your thumb rubs at the sleeve of his hoodie, lets him know that instead of enjoying the quiet, you're hiding inside it.

He says your name softly, a question.

You take a deep breath. “I got offered another promotion, a division of my own.”

“Congratulations?” He frames it as a question because if it were something you were excited about, you’d have told him sooner.

You huff a humorless laugh. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t ask whether it pays more, has a fancy new title, or what other perks it might offer, because only one question really matters.

“Where?”

“Colorado.”

The word hangs. Far enough away to make spontaneous ice cream at two-thirty in the morning impossible. Far enough that weekend visits would be difficult, and military leave and unpredictable schedules suddenly matter. Far enough that it changes everything.

“I’m assuming the whiskey on a Tuesday and a midnight ice cream run mean you’re conflicted.”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t put my life on hold again.”

The surf almost drowns out your words. Jake closes his eyes for the briefest second against the pain, but still, he understands.

“I’d be lying if I said I want you to take it, but you have to do what’s right for you.”

“What if I don’t know what that is? What if I choose wrong? What if I mess it up?”

“I don’t know.” He keeps his voice carefully neutral because this isn’t his decision, no matter how desperately he wants the answer to be that you stay.

He stands up, paces two steps away, and then turns. You look up at him, tears pooling in your eyes, and he hates how conflicted you look.

“Let’s make it simple. Do you want the job?”

You hesitate for only a moment, and he knows it's because you don’t want to hurt him.

“Yes. It’s everything I’ve been working for.”

“And you’ve worked your ass off,” he agrees. “You not only deserve it; you’ve earned it.”

“That doesn’t make the decision any easier.”

He swallows hard, the ice cream churning in his stomach. He can feel you slipping away. “Wh-” his voice catches in his suddenly dry throat. “When do you have to give your answer?”

“Monday.”

He nods like it's okay, but it’s not. Four days isn’t enough time to say goodbye. He moves to kneel in the sand, taking your hands in his, because it seems like a waste not to touch you when he might not be able to soon.

“I love you,” he says quietly, as if he knows he shouldn’t say it. “Selfishly, I want you to stay.” A sad smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. “But I understand that it’s something you need to do for you.” Bringing your hands to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. “This only works if you choose me because I’m the right choice, not because I’m the closest one. I don’t want you to wake up ten years from now wondering what would’ve happened if you’d taken it, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the guy you blame.”

“I hate it when you’re the emotionally mature one.”

“I know.”

“It’s deeply inconvenient.”

A tiny smile finally breaks through. “For the record, if you move to Colorado, I expect unlimited visitation rights.”

You laugh through tears.

“But also,” he strings out the last syllable, "and no pressure,” he smirks, “but Phoenix did threaten to kill me if I mess this up.”

This time, your laugh is deep, the emotion melting away some of the apprehension. “I’ll be sure to let her know she doesn’t need to move you up on her hit list.”

“Appreciated.”

Sitting curled into each other, you silently watch the mesmerizing tapestry of blues and golds as the first rays of sunlight hit the waves. Neither of you has found the answer, but somehow neither of you feels quite so alone looking for it.

A/N 2: I’m sure I’ll be exploring more of these 2 in the future so be sure to get on my tag list so you don’t miss it.

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The movie had lost you twenty minutes ago.

Technically, that wasn’t Beau’s fault.

He’d picked the movie because you said you wanted something easy, the kind neither of you had to think too hard about. Something that could play in the background while you curled up together on his couch and pretended every small touch didn’t feel like it might turn into something else.

Three months in, and it still didn’t take much for things to get out of hand.

It was his hand on your thigh, his mouth brushing your temple, the low warmth of his body behind yours as he pulled you closer under the blanket because you’d claimed you were cold.

You weren’t cold, not really.

But your sleep shorts were tiny, Beau’s apartment was dim, and the movie had been playing for almost forty minutes while Beau kissed your temple, held you close, and acted like being sweet all night was a reasonable thing to do.

Which was nice.

It was.

Beau was good at being nice, too good sometimes. He had a way of making you feel taken care of without making a whole thing out of it — quiet touches, easy patience, his thumb moving lazily over your hip while the television flickered across the room.

The problem was that his version of nice had started to feel like a challenge, so you shifted against him.

At first, it was subtle, just a small shift under the blanket as your hips settled back against his and your thigh slid over his. Beau gave you nothing, except for the way his arm tightened around your waist.

A few minutes later, you did it again, slower this time, a little less like an accident and a little more like a question.

His hand stilled on your hip, and you kept your eyes on the screen like you hadn’t done anything at all.

Behind you, Beau took a slow breath, his chest rising against your back.

“You good?” His voice was low.

“Mhm,” you hummed, still watching the movie.

“You sure?”

“You sure?”

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you said, still not looking at him.

His thumb started moving again, slower this time.

You hid your smile against the blanket.

For a little while, Beau let you pretend you were getting away with it.

That was the part that got under your skin.

Beau stayed quiet behind you, warm and solid, one hand resting low on your stomach while his breath brushed the back of your neck. He let you shift, let you press back, let your fingers trail along his forearm like you weren’t very obviously testing him.

One more shift of your hips, and you felt him getting hard behind you.

Beau’s hand tightened low on your stomach while the movie kept playing like either of you still cared.

Neither of you moved until the screen froze, and you blinked at it before realizing Beau had paused the movie.

The silence that followed was awful in a way that made your whole body go hot, especially when his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.

“You’re either going to sit still,” Beau murmured, his voice calm against your ear, “or you’re going to tell me why you keep pressing back against me.”

You kept your eyes on the frozen screen. “Maybe you’re just too close.”

“No?” His hand tightened low on your stomach. “You want me to move?”

“I told you,” you murmured. “I’m cold.”

Beau’s hand slipped from your stomach to your thigh, fingers spreading slowly over the bare skin your shorts didn’t cover.

“Funny.” His voice was low against your ear. “You keep saying cold, but you feel pretty warm to me.”

“What, I can’t cuddle with my boyfriend?”

“You can.” His hand moved higher. “But if you keep rubbing against me like that, I’m going to stop letting you act innocent.”

You swallowed hard.

The change in his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau noticed that too.

A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, before he pulled you fully into his lap. Not rough, not yet — just firm enough that your body went where he wanted it, your back against his chest and your legs tucked over one of his thighs beneath the blanket.

“There,” he said. “If you want to move so badly, use my thigh.”

Your breath caught around his name. “Beau.”

“No, don’t get shy now.” His mouth brushed the side of your neck. “You were brave enough when you thought I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”

The words went straight between your thighs.

You tried to turn your face away, but his hand came up to your jaw, gentle and firm at once, guiding you back just enough for him to watch what his words did to you.

“You wanted my attention.” His voice stayed low. “Now you have it.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

His thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make the rest of your sentence disappear.

Beau’s hand left your jaw and trailed back down, over your stomach, until his fingers reached the waistband of your shorts.

“No?” His voice stayed low. “You didn’t want to feel me getting hard against you?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His fingers slipped just beneath the elastic, close enough to make your whole body tense, but still not where you needed him.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

You hated how quickly those words undid you.

“Maybe,” you got out. “A little.”

“A little?” His voice stayed low. “Sweetheart, that didn’t feel like a little.”

You moved before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his thigh as Beau’s fingers flexed at your waist. The pressure hit immediately, dirty and unfairly good for how little Beau was actually doing. You could feel him behind you, hard against your ass, his breathing low and controlled at your ear, letting you use his thigh because you were the one who had started this.

“That’s it.” His voice was low against your ear. “You wanted to move so badly, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.”

The blanket was still pulled over both of you, the paused movie casting pale flashes across the room, and from the outside, it might have looked almost innocent.

It wasn’t. Not with your shorts riding up your thighs, Beau’s mouth against your neck, and his voice dropping lower every time your hips dragged over him.

“Good girl,” he said. “Look at you, acting innocent while you grind against my thigh.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

His hand slipped beneath your shorts, and every part of you went still.

Beau pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Still cold?”

“You’re mean,” you said.

“Not yet.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed against you through your panties first.

You were already wet enough that there was no pretending otherwise, and the second he felt it, Beau’s breathing changed.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice went rough against your ear. “You were this wet the whole time?”

Your eyes fluttered, and the truth slipped out before you could make it smaller. “I wanted you to touch me.”

“I know.” His fingers dragged slowly over the damp fabric. “You just wanted me to notice first.”

“You were supposed to be watching the movie.”

“I was trying to.” His fingers moved again. “You made that difficult.”

You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers through your wetness.

His other hand settled low on your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

“That’s it.” His voice had gone rough in your ear. “Don’t hide from me now.”

You weren’t sure you could, not with his fingers circling your clit beneath the blanket and your hips moving helplessly against his hand, the frozen movie still lighting the room like proof of how quickly he’d stopped caring about it.

“You like my fingers here?” His voice stayed rough in your ear. “Touching you under these little shorts?”

“Beau,” you breathed.

“No, answer me.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. “You wanted me to feel what you were doing to yourself, didn’t you?”

Your breath came out shakily. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

He pushed one finger inside you, then another, slow enough that you felt the stretch, deep enough that your head fell back against his shoulder. His mouth moved along your neck while his fingers curled inside you beneath the blanket, slow and deliberate, until your whole body jolted.

“There.” His voice stayed low in your ear. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”

Your fingers closed around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.

Beau knew the difference.

“Next time, tell me you want my fingers.” His mouth pressed to the side of your neck. “Would’ve saved you all that pretending.”

You tried to answer, but his thumb circled your clit again, and the words disappeared.

He touched you until your legs trembled over his thigh, until the blanket was too warm, your breathing too loud, and the hand at your waist the only thing keeping you from squirming out of his lap.

Beau felt it the second you got close, and his fingers slowed.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you, and Beau’s laugh brushed against your skin.

“Needy girl.” His mouth stayed against your skin.

“Don’t stop.”

“Then say please, sweetheart.”

You turned your face into his neck, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please.”

“Please, what, sweetheart?”

“Please,” you breathed. “Make me come.”

Beau’s control slipped just enough for his hand to tighten at your waist.

His fingers moved faster, firmer, his thumb working your clit while he curled inside you, and you came with your face buried in his neck.

“Good girl,” Beau said, his hand tightening at your waist. “Just like that. Keep grinding against my hand. I want to feel you come.”

Your body shuddered against his, the orgasm hitting hard enough that your thighs clamped around his hand.

He slowed, but his hand stayed between your thighs.

You were still breathing hard when Beau moved beneath you and pulled the blanket away.

Cool air hit your skin as he turned you carefully, laying you back across the couch cushions as he’d finally decided to stop being soft.

Your shorts were crooked, your shirt had ridden up, and your hair was messy against the armrest.

Beau looked down at you, and something in his expression went dark.

“You wanted me to stop being nice,” Beau said, his hand pressing against your thigh. “Spread your legs.”

You did.

His gaze dropped, slow enough to make your skin heat, before lifting back to your face. “Pretty girl.”

The praise hit low, making your whole body go hot.

He pulled your shorts down your legs, your panties sliding down with them, and tossed both somewhere near the coffee table. You should’ve felt exposed, but Beau’s hands were on your thighs before the feeling could settle, pushing them apart as he lowered himself between them.

“You were acting like such a brat five minutes ago,” he said, kissing the inside of your knee. “Now you can’t even look at me.”

“Beau,” you breathed. “Please.”

His eyes lifted to yours. “What do you want?”

You hated that he was going to make you say it, and loved even more that he already knew.

“Your mouth.”

His mouth curved, slow and pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The moment Beau put his mouth on you, your head fell back against the couch.

Beau ate you out like he’d been waiting for the chance, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while his other hand pressed your hips back down every time you tried to move. He stayed controlled at first, slow and deliberate, licking into you before dragging his tongue back to your clit until every wet stroke made your thighs shake.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Beau groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Oh my God,” you breathed.

You felt his mouth curve against you, right before he sucked your clit hard enough to make you cry out.

Somewhere above you, the movie started playing again.

Neither of you’d touched the remote, but the pause must have timed out, because the movie suddenly filled the room again with some dramatic line from a character you had completely forgotten existed.

Beau didn’t stop.

If anything, his grip tightened, holding you down harder.

“You wanted something easy to watch, right?” His mouth dragged over your inner thigh. “So watch it.”

You tried to cover your face, but Beau caught your wrist and pulled it gently back down.

“No hiding, sweetheart.”

His tongue pushed back into you, and your back arched off the couch.

“You wanted my attention.” His mouth moved against you. “Now come for it.”

The second one hit faster than the first, sharpened by how sensitive you still were from his fingers. You came on his mouth with your hands twisted in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders while Beau held you there through every second of it.

He only eased off when you pushed weakly at his head.

He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.

His mouth was wet.

His eyes were worse.

You pulled him down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue.

Beau groaned into your mouth, and it sounded like the last of his patience was finally snapping.

Your hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, and Beau let you push them down just enough before you slipped off the couch onto your knees between his legs.

Beau’s hand slid into your hair immediately, not forcing, just resting there.

His thumb brushed your cheek as your hand closed around him. He was hard and heavy in your hand, and the second his jaw tightened, you wanted to hear what it would take to make him lose control.

You looked up at him, your hand still wrapped around him. “Use your words.”

His gaze held yours. “Open your mouth.”

You did.

Beau’s hand tightened in your hair the second you took him, his head tipping back on a rough breath. For once, Beau looked less controlled, less patient, and when you hollowed your mouth around him, his thighs tensed on either side of you, his fingers flexing against your scalp.

“Fuck.” His voice broke roughly around the word. “Good girl. Just like that.”

The praise made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau’s attention dropped there immediately.

“You like this too?” The words came out rough. “Looking up at me with my cock in your mouth?”

You moaned around him, and Beau’s breath left him in a rough rush.

“Careful, needy girl. Keep making those sounds, and I’m not going to last.”

So you did it again.

He guided you a little more firmly, just enough to make heat spread through your whole body. He didn’t push too far or take more than you gave him, but you could feel his control thinning with every pass of your mouth.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You looked up at him, and Beau’s breath caught.

For a second, you thought he might let himself finish like that.

But Beau pulled you off him with a rough breath, kissed you hard, and dragged you back onto the couch.

“I need to fuck you.” The words dragged roughly against your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Beau went still, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t have a condom out here.”

“I’m on birth control,” you rushed out. “I’m clean too. Tested last month.”

His breathing was rough, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Me too. Tested last month. All clear.”

His thumb brushed your jaw, careful even now. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t shake.

“Words.”

“I want you inside me.”

His control slipped for half a second. “Fuck.”

He laid you back across the cushions and pushed your thighs open again, settling between them. The couch was too narrow and too soft, leaving you tangled together with your leg hooked around his hip, one of his hands braced near your head and the other holding your thigh open.

When he pushed into you, both of you went quiet, and the stretch stole your breath.

Beau sank into you slowly, control pulled tight in every line of him, his eyes locked on your face like he wanted to watch every second of you taking him. You clung to his shoulders, your nails catching against warm skin beneath his shirt.

“You feel so good.” he got out. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You tried to move your hips, but Beau kept your thigh pinned open.

“Slow.”

“You’re the one who said you needed to fuck me,” you managed.

Beau’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re the one who started this.”

He pushed deeper, and whatever you were about to say disappeared.

He fucked you slowly at first, controlled and heavy, making you feel every inch of him. He kept you spread open across the couch, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your throat, fucking you slow enough to make every inch feel deliberate.

“You’re so wet,” he said against your skin. “Taking me so well.”

Your nails twisted in his shirt.

“So pretty when you stop pretending to be innocent,” he said against your throat. “This is what you wanted? Me fucking you because you couldn’t sit still?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“No.” His fingers found your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, and Beau’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady.

“There you go.” His thumb brushed once along your throat. “Take it.”

His rhythm turned harder, heavier.

The couch creaked beneath you, and the movie kept playing, voices and music meaningless in the background while Beau fucked you into the cushions.

One hand stayed warm at your throat. The other held your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

You were close again too soon, and of course Beau felt it; he slowed just enough to make you whine.

“Already?”

“I’m still sensitive.”

“I know.” His mouth brushed over yours. “Come for me one more time.”

“Beau—”

“Turn over.” His hands found your hips. “I want you on your knees.”

Your knees sank into the couch cushion, your hands catching on the backrest. Beau stood behind you, one hand at your hip, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you bent over the couch.

The first spank landed hard enough to make you gasp, your body jolting forward into the couch.

Beau’s palm followed it, smoothing once over the sting.

“You okay?”

Your breath shook, but your answer was clear. “Yes.”

“Good.” His hand stayed there for one more second before he pushed back into you from behind.

The sound you made was almost embarrassing.

Beau’s hand settled at the back of your neck, firm enough to make your back arch. The angle was deeper this way, rougher, and when his hips snapped into yours, your fingers curled into the couch fabric.

“You were so confident when you were teasing me.” His hips drove into yours again. “What happened?”

You couldn’t answer, and another hard slap landed before you could even pretend to.

“Use your words.”

“I wanted this,” you said, getting out.

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to be rough with me.”

The sound he made was rough, almost unsteady. “There’s my good girl.”

He fucked you harder after that, rough but controlled, each thrust pressing you deeper into the couch while every filthy word he gave you made your body clench around him.

“You like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes.”

“I know.” His rhythm turned sharper. “I can feel how tight you get when I talk to you like this.”

The orgasm built too fast, too sharp, your body still oversensitive from his mouth and fingers. You tried to push back into him, tried to meet every thrust, but by the end, Beau was the only thing keeping you upright, his arm locked around your waist as he fucked you through it.

“Come on, sweetheart.” His arm held you tight against him. “Give me another.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His arm held you steady. “I’ve got you.”

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers settling over your clit, and your knees nearly gave out.

“Beau,” you gasped.

His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Come for me.”

You did, hard enough that your whole body shook around him while Beau held you against the back of the couch and kept fucking you, rough praise pressed against your skin: how good you were, how pretty, how well you took him even when you were sensitive and shaking.

His rhythm broke after that, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you back into him.

“Inside?” he asked, his control hanging by a thread.

Your breath caught, and you nodded before the word caught up. “Yes.”

“Say it for me.”

“Come inside me,” you breathed.

Beau groaned, low and wrecked, and pushed in as deep as he could when he came, holding you there while his body shuddered behind yours. The heat of it made your knees go weak beneath you once more.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The movie kept playing in the background, someone on screen shouting dramatically about something neither of you had any chance of understanding anymore.

Beau exhaled first, his mouth pressing softly to your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You laughed weakly. “You’re asking that like you didn’t just fuck me on your couch.”

“I did.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck. “Still asking.”

Your chest went warm. “I’m okay.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

His arms tightened around you for one more second before he eased out carefully and helped you sit. Your legs felt useless. Beau’s mouth curved like he knew exactly why, but he disappeared into the bathroom before you could accuse him of looking smug.

When Beau came back, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“Drink,” he said.

You took the glass from him, still boneless against the couch. “You’re bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Beau smiled like he was going to let you have that one and cleaned you up carefully, his touch gentle now in a way that made the roughness from minutes ago feel even hotter instead of less. When he was done, he found your shorts on the floor, looked at them for half a second, then apparently decided against it and handed you one of his shirts instead.

You pulled it on while he settled back onto the couch, and the second you were close enough, he drew you into his side like that was where you’d been meant to end up.

The movie was still going.

You stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of you.

“Do you have any idea what’s happening?”

“No.”

“Great.”

Beau kissed the top of your head, his hand resting warm on your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the room went quiet except for the movie and the sound of both of you breathing your way back to normal.

A few seconds later, his thumb moved lazily over your skin.

“Next time you want attention,” he said, low and close, “just ask.”

Your face heated.

You turned your head to look at him. “Maybe I like teasing you.”

Something in his expression shifted, subtle but immediate, enough to make your stomach flip despite the soreness in your body.

“Careful,” he said.

You smiled.

The movie kept playing, but neither of you reached for the remote.

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The bathroom mirror didn’t help.

Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.

That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.

Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.

But it was your eyes that gave you away.

You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.

You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.

Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.

Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.

But Dean hadn’t been cruel.

He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.

Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.

He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.

Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.

“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”

He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.

That was the worst part.

You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.

“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.

“You okay?”

You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.

“That was a terrible lie.”

Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.

“I’m getting ready,” you called back.

“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.

“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”

You looked at the lock.

Your hand didn’t move.

“No.”

There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.

Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.

But this time, he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.

You didn’t.

You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.

The worst part was that you still believed him a little.

Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.

Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.

Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.

You remembered lifting the blanket.

You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.

And then he’d woken up and made a joke.

You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.

By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.

Almost.

“You took forever,” he said.

There it was—the attempt.

You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.

You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet again.

You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.

Dean stood.

“About what I said earlier—”

“You don’t have to.”

He stopped.

You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.

“I kind of think I do,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

That made you look up.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

You forced a small smile. “Like what?”

His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.

“Like I regretted it.”

There it was.

The word you’d been trying not to touch.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”

“I don’t.”

He said it too fast. Too seriously.

For one awful second, you believed him.

Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.

“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.

His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.”

You swallowed.

Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.

“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Great choice.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

The sarcasm should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“No, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”

Your mouth closed.

That was annoyingly accurate.

Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.

But his phone rang before you could say anything.

Both of you looked at the screen.

His mother.

Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.

You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Dean.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”

You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.

“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”

There was a pause.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”

You were not ready.

You were barely a person.

But you zipped your bag anyway.

Breakfast was worse.

There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.

Dean held your chair out for you.

The gesture was automatic.

So was the way you hesitated before sitting.

He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.

You hated that you saw it.

“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.

Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”

Fine.

The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.

His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”

Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”

“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”

You froze.

Dean’s head lifted.

His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.

Dean’s mother gave him a look.

“What?” his father asked mildly.

“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.

The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.

At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.

Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.

You took it without thinking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes met yours.

For one stupid second, everything softened.

Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.

Dean did too.

His mother saw that.

When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.

“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.

Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”

“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”

You swallowed.

Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.

You looked away first.

“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.

His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”

“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”

She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.

That seemed more likely.

She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.

Then his parents were gone.

Just like that.

No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.

Dean turned to you slowly.

The lobby felt too quiet.

“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.

You wanted to say yes.

The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”

Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”

The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.

Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.

You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.

They were not.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Allie.

allie: are you alive?

allie: and by alive i mean emotionally

allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast

allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast

allie: answer me before i create a theory

You turned your phone face down.

Dean noticed.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”

Silence again.

Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”

You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s new.”

“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”

You finally looked at him.

He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”

The worst part was that he sounded honest.

Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.

So why didn’t it make you feel better?

Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.

You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”

Dean didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Your lips pressed together.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.

Dean took a breath, slower this time.

“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”

Your chest ached.

He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.

You nodded once, mostly to yourself.

“There it is,” you said softly.

His eyes cut to you. “What?”

“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”

Dean flinched.

You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Dean went quiet.

The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.

Almost honest.

Almost enough.

Almost real.

“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean inhaled sharply.

You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”

That was not enough.

You hated that it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.

“Okay.”

“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

That was all.

And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.

Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.

That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.

Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.

You told him he didn’t have to.

He ignored you.

“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure.”

“That was patronizing.”

“That was supportive.”

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

“I’m counting on it.”

For half a second, the banter felt easy.

Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.

Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.

You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.

Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.

You stilled.

His hand dropped.

That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.

You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.

“Can I call you later?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

“You can,” you said.

Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.

Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”

It disappeared.

You almost apologized.

You didn’t.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“It doesn’t feel fair.”

“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”

You looked down at your shoes.

Dean said your name softly.

You hated how quickly you looked up.

“I meant it,” he said.

You didn’t ask which part.

You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.

So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.

For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.

Not okay. Busy.

There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.

Allie called you on Sunday night.

You ignored it.

She texted.

allie: coward

You ignored that too.

allie: i say that with love

You almost smiled.

Almost.

On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.

You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”

Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“It’s an intervention.”

Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”

“You both have intervention faces.”

Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”

Hannah nodded. “A little.”

“Work on that,” you said.

Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”

“Apparently.”

Hannah hugged you first.

You hated that it made your throat tighten.

Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked down at the coffee lid.

The question should’ve been easy.

No, because Dean had been careful.

Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.

“Not on purpose,” you said.

Allie’s expression shifted immediately.

Hannah’s face softened.

You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.

“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.

You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.

“We broke the rule.”

Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”

“No, the tax fraud rule.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”

You laughed once, but it didn’t last.

Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”

Your face warmed.

Allie inhaled. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me.”

“It was good,” Allie said.

“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.

Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.

“And then?” Allie asked.

“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”

Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”

“He said he panicked.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe him?”

You didn’t answer.

Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”

That was the worst question.

Because yes.

Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.

“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.

Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.

“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.

Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Dean texted that night.

dean: can we talk?

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then it lit again.

dean: not tonight if you don’t want

dean: just when you’re ready

You typed three different answers.

Deleted all of them.

Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.

You did not sleep much.

By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.

The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.

tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.

That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.

You told yourself Dean might not be there.

That was stupid.

Dean was always there.

He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.

But his face changed, just enough.

His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.

Garrett noticed.

Logan noticed.

You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.

“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”

Dean went very still.

Logan’s eyes widened.

Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”

Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.

“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” Allie said.

Dean hadn’t said anything yet.

You looked at him because not looking was worse.

“Hi,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”

That was it.

Two words.

And somehow, the room felt full of them.

Movie night was terrible.

Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.

He didn’t come closer.

Didn’t sit beside you.

Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.

There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.

And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.

You told yourself that was proof.

Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.

The kitchen was quieter.

You liked that.

You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Dean said.

You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”

“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Dean saw it, because of course he did.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“It was small, but I’m counting it.”

“You’re desperate.”

“Yeah.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

You turned around.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“And then you keep saying them.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Dean.”

“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.”

That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.

He was dangerous.

You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”

Dean’s face changed.

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean went silent.

The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.

Your heart dropped slowly.

“Right,” you said.

“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“Then say it.”

Dean’s mouth opened.

Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes closed briefly.

You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”

Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean looked at you.

The words tasted awful.

You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Too fast.

Garrett’s expression sharpened.

You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.

Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on?”

You froze.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You knew that.

After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.

But then Dean spoke.

“Nothing.”

Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The captain thing.”

“The captain thing?”

“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”

Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Your fingers curled around the railing.

Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Your breath caught.

Garrett said, “Dean.”

“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”

You should’ve left.

You stayed.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”

Garrett was silent.

“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”

“What kind of joke?”

“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.

“I said we should blame the wine.”

Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”

You closed your eyes.

The hallway blurred for a second.

Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”

“I tried.”

“Try better.”

Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then tell her.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”

Everything inside you went still.

The house noise faded.

The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For a second, you couldn’t move.

You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.

Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.

Garrett said something after that.

You didn’t hear it.

Dean answered.

You didn’t hear that either.

Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.

You stepped back quietly.

Then again.

The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.

Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.

You walked until the house was behind you.

Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.

Allie.

You declined it.

Then Hannah.

You declined that too.

Then Dean.

You stopped walking.

His name filled the screen.

For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then the call ended.

A text appeared almost immediately.

dean: where did you go?

Another came before you could breathe.

dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that

You stared at the message.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that.

Not, please let me explain.

Not, I didn’t mean it.

Just proof that there had been something to hear.

Another message appeared.

dean: I need to talk to you

You locked your phone.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.

It buzzed again.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

dean: it’s not what you think

Your vision blurred.

That was the thing, though.

You had heard him.

Clearly.

You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.

Maybe all of that was true.

Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.

Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.

But you’d heard enough.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For once, you decided to believe him.

💌 lmk if you want to be added to my taglists

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