#1 Fan Girl

“Are you okay?” Hannah asks. You blink rapidly, trying to wake up.

“What? Me?” You ask sleepily. She stares at you like you have two heads before looking down at your notes that are illegible due to the fact that you’re half asleep.

“Uh, yeah, your notes look like a toddlers art project.” She says. You look down, blinking your eyes into focus.

“Fuck, can you send me pictures of yours later?” You ask. She nods.

“Of course, but like are you sure you’re okay?” She asks again looking concerned.

“Yeah, I was just uh, up late last night.” You say, a blush coming to your face.

“Fuck, Logan don’t stop!” You moan. His hand grabs a fist full of your hair causing your back to arch even more. Logan’s hands on your hips pull you further back against him, nothing but the sound of your combined moans and skin slapping against skin.

“Oh, were you studying for that Ethics exam we have next week?” She asks. Okay you had originally been studying before your sexy ass boyfriend got back from hockey practice looking delicious with his hair still damp and his sweatpants slung low on his waist.

“Uh… a little.” You admit. Hannah looks at you, her eyes narrowing as she smirks.

“Were you having sex all night?” She asks. You blush, looking around to make sure no one heard her.

“Maybe.” You admit. She lets out a cackle, you roll your eyes playfully.

After class, you and Hannah had promised to meet your friend group in the dining hall for lunch. Normally the walk would leave you feeling refreshed after sitting in a lecture hall for an hour but today not so much.

“Damn, why are you limping?” Tucker asks as you set your book bag down next to the chair that Logan has saved for you. He grins up at you, a knowing look in his eyes.

“One more baby, come on.” He coos. You thrash underneath him. His pace is unrelenting, his fingers deftly working your clit.

“Can’t Johnny, too sensitive.” You whimper. His thrusts slow, still deep and hitting every sensitive spot inside of you. He taps your clit.

“One more pretty girl, know you can do it. Let me feel you.” He coaxes. His praise and unrelenting attention to your clit does the trick, sending you over the edge for the third time.

“Oh fuck!” You moan, eyes screwing shut as the pleasure runs through you.

“That’s it, good girl. So pretty when you cum around this cock.” John murmurs, his thrusts slow grow erratic as he spills himself inside of you.

“Probably pulled something a Pilates.” You say shrugging. Allie frowns.

“You didn’t come to Pilates with me this morning? Are you still hurting from yesterday?” She asks voice full of concern. Beside you Logan snorts. Tucker quickly puts two and two together.

“Oh my God! Geez Logan you don’t have to take it out on the poor girl.” Tucker says as you sit next to your boyfriend.

“Okay so it was you two who kept me up last night. I thought it was Allie and Dean.” Garrett says with a shrug. Allie rolls her eyes.

“I am not that loud.” She says gesturing to you.

“Are you seriously limping from sex?” Dean asks laughing. You stare at him.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” You say mocking him before adding, “Dude you guys share a house and the whole locker room situation, you know exactly what’s going on down there.” Dean considers your statement.

“Fair enough.” He says. Dean leans back in his chair, still looking entirely too amused.

“So…” he says, pointing his fork at you. “Hypothetically.”

You already know you aren’t going to like whatever comes next.

“How long before you stop walking like that?” He asks.

You drop your forehead onto the table with a groan. Allie smacks his arm.

“I’m transferring.” You say.

“No you’re not,” Hannah laughs.

“I am. Effective immediately.” You say exasperatedly.

Logan, the traitor, is sitting beside you trying, and failing, not to smile.

“You think this is funny?” you mutter to him narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re cute.” He says with a grin.

“You are the reason I’m being publicly interrogated.” You tell him.

“I’ll buy you lunch.” He says with a wink.

“You can’t buy my complacency with meal swipes Logan.” You say sassily.

“I’ll buy you dinner.” He offers.

“You already do that anyway.” You say. Garrett snorts into his drink.

“Damn, Logan’s negotiating for his life.” Garrett says. Tucker points at Logan.

“No, because look at him. Dude hasn’t stopped smiling for like… twelve hours.” Tucker says raising his eyebrows at Logan.

“I smile all the time.” Your boyfriend exclaims.

“No,” Dean says. “You smirk all the time. This is different.”

Allie squints. Staring at Logan.

“He’s glowing.” Allie confirms.

“People don’t glow.” Logan tells her.

“Hockey players after a win do.” Dean says.

Garrett nods.

“And apparently after whatever happened last night.” Dean adds with a cheeky grin. You make a strangled noise into the table. Logan casually reaches over and steals one of your fries. You smack his hand away without looking.

“You’ve done enough.” You inform him.

“I said I was sorry.” Logan shrugs, popping the fries in his mouth.

“You absolutely did not.” You tell him.

“I was thinking it.” He says grinning at you.

“Oh, good. That fixes everything.” You say sarcastically. The table erupts into laughter. Dean wipes a tear from his eye.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her roast you this hard.” Dean laughs. Garrett nods.

“She’s got him on a leash today.” Garrett says. Logan narrows his eyes at his best friend.

“Like you’re one to talk, G.” Logan simply shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. Garrett just laughs to which your boyfriend replies,

“Totally worth it by the way.” Your head snaps toward him.

“John Logan.” You scold, your face heating with embarrassment.

“What?” He says innocently.

“You cannot say things like that in front of our friends.”

“I wasn’t talking to them.” He says coolly. “I was just making a statement.” He says.

“You were absolutely talking to them.” You laugh. He presses a kiss to your temple. He grins, completely unapologetic. Garrett points across the table.

“He’s never beating the whipped allegations.” Dean says.

“I’m not whipped.” Logan says. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Dude.” Garrett says.

“You made her latte yesterday and delivered it to her in class.” Tucker says.

“So?” Logan says.

“You drove across campus because she forgot her favorite pen.” Dean offers.

“It was important.” Logan says.

“It’s a pen.” Dean says.

“It was her lucky pen.” John clarifies. The entire table falls silent before everyone bursts out laughing. You reach over, squeeze Logan’s hand under the table, and shake your head smiling at your sweet guy.

“Okay,” you admit, smiling despite yourself. “That one was actually kind of sweet.” You say. Logan squeezes your hand back.

“I know.” He says grinning at you. “Not as sweet as you though.” He adds cheekily. Dean groans dramatically.

“Oh great. They’re flirting now.” Tucker stands up with his tray.

“I’m leaving before these two get even more insufferable. And I have class, but mostly because you two are insufferable.” He says.

“You love us,” Logan calls after him.Tucker doesn’t even turn around.

He gives only a perfunctory knock and opens your door without waiting for a reply, too pissed off to care about manners.

All thoughts of berating you disappear at the sight that greets him, however. A glance is all it takes to tell you're unwell — buried under a heap of blankets, your complexion is wan, the eyes that flutter open at his entrance glassy with fever. Used tissues are strewn around the bed.

Dain immediately feels bad for having assumed you skipped formation on purpose. Aside from the relic on your arm marking you as a traitor's child, you've given him no reason to think badly of you. You're always punctual, good about following the rules, and unlike some people in his squad, you never interrupt him or give him the feeling of not being taken seriously when he's giving orders.

You should have reported in sick when you realized you wouldn't be able to attend class today, but Dain can't really blame you for failing to do so. Your arms tremble with effort as you struggle into a sitting position at the sight of him, and the cough that shakes your body doesn't sound good at all. If you tried to get out of bed, you would probably collapse on the spot.

Dain stands awkwardly in the doorway, grasping for something to say. He'd been so caught up in his suspicions that he hadn't planned for the possibility of finding you sick.

"You missed formation," he finally says. The statement comes out flat, but to Dain's ears, it still sounds accusing somehow. Quickly, he adds, "I just wanted to know why. I'll note you down as sick."

You just nod, bleary-eyed and barely awake.

Dain isn't sure you actually comprehended a single word of what he said. It feels strangely intimate to see you so vulnerable, and he can't help but think he's probably one of the last people you'd want to have around while you're in this state.

He should go, maybe tell one of your friends to check in on you when he sees them. It wouldn't be right to leave without making sure you'll be okay on your own in the meantime, though.

A step forward brings him fully into your room, the door creaking shut behind him.

He looks around, feeling like an intruder. The dorms in the quadrant all look pretty much the same, the only real difference being that some have windows and others don't, but in the few months since Threshing, you've made the space your own in a way Dain never thought to do with his own.

You have a window looking out over the ravine, and wooden butterflies of various colors and sizes decorate the curtain rod above it. A bundle of dried lavender sticks out of an empty glass bottle on top of the dresser, sharing the space with neatly lined up daggers and a black stone covered in decorative runes. Above the bed, a few simple but colorful drawings are pinned to the wall. Dain wonders if you made them yourself or received them from a friend.

A rattling cough draws his attention back to you.

Sitting up with a pillow at your back, your blankets — Dain counts at least three — have pooled in your lap, and he can see that the shirt you're wearing is much too big on you, clearly having come from someone else's wardrobe. An uncalled-for surge of jealousy washes over Dain as he contemplates whose it might be. Do you have a partner he doesn't know about? Then his eye catches on the wingleader emblem, and he feels incredibly stupid. Of course it's your brother's. From what he's seen, Riorson and Durran are much too overprotective of you to let you go out with anyone. It wouldn't surprise Dain at all if they secretly disposed of anyone who so much as hints at being interested in you.

It's on the tip of his tongue to point out that you shouldn't wear clothes displaying a rank you don't have, but he stops himself. You're sick and using the shirt as a pajama, not wearing it out and about. Who is he to berate you for that? Squad leader or not, it's none of his business what you wear in private.

Besides, he's still not sure how bad your fever is, whether you're even lucid enough to hold a conversation.

He thinks about feeling your temperature, but immediately dismisses the idea. His signet is supposed to be a secret, but Dain is pretty sure your brother knows what it is, and he doesn't want Riorson to get the wrong idea if you tell him about this encounter. And Dain is curious; if he touched you, he might dive into your memories without even meaning to. He might learn something about what the older marked ones are hiding that way (and he's sure they're hiding something), but it's not worth the risk. Better to keep his hands to himself than to lose them.

"Do you want to go to the healers?" he asks instead.

In Dain's opinion, you definitely should, but you shake your head. Maybe you don't think you need a healer, or you feel too weak to get up even if he helps you, or maybe you don't trust him enough to let him take you to the infirmary. Dain doesn't know, because you still don't say anything.

"Is there anything I can get you? Medicine? More tissues?"

Dain tries to tell himself he's only asking because it's part of his leadership duties to make sure the members of his squad are at their best, but deep down, he knows that's not true. He's worried about you because, against his better judgement, he's drawn to you.

When you were placed in his squad, Dain had expected you to be a little Xaden-clone who would make his life difficult on purpose. And you do make it difficult, just not in the way he'd thought. Everything about you intrigues him. You're reserved, eloquent, and skilled in combat just like your brother, but also entirely unlike him — friendly and polite where he is broody, humble where he is cocky; brave, yet softer than anyone else Dain has met in the Quadrant. Your bright smiles are reserved for a select handful of people only, Dain decidedly not among them, but he gets butterflies at the sight every time nonetheless. He can't get you out of his head, and it's driving him insane.

"I'm fine," you reply. "But thanks."

Dain doesn't think you're fine — your voice is a rasp, the words coming out like someone dragged them over glass and clearly hurting your throat. He should get you some cough drops, at the very least. Would he be overstepping if he did that?

You perk up, seeming to think of something he can do for you after all. "Can you—" You cough again, and yeah, he's definitely getting you something to help with that, regardless of whether or not you ask him to. "Can you not tell Xay I'm sick, please?"

Dain blinks at the nickname. He wouldn't have thought Riorson the type to allow anyone to call him by a nickname, let alone something cute sounding like that, but then, he supposes that as his sister, you're privy to sides of him no one else — certainly not Dain — ever sees.

You seem to interpret his stunned silence as hesitation. Before he can decide whether he should point out that he and Xaden don't exactly speak to each other unless their leadership duties require it, you continue, "Please! He'd get all worried, and he really has enough to worry about as it is."

"Like Violet?"

The question slips out before he can think better of it. He knows it's not right to take advantage of your state to gain information, but despite Violet's claims that Xaden won't hurt her, Dain can't believe it. That man is plotting something, he's sure, and if his best friend is in danger, he wants to know. If you happen to reveal something in your feverish state that you otherwise wouldn't have said in answer to a harmless question, well, then that's not the same as if he went digging through your memories, is it?

No, he doesn't think so, but it still isn't nice. Despite his worries about Violet and how she's chained to Xaden thanks to their dragons, Dain is kind of relieved when you completely misunderstand his question.

"Mhm, I like her. She's totally badass. And sooo smart!"

"That's not what—" Dain shakes his head. No information gained, no harm done. "Nevermind."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. You should rest."

And he should get out of here before he can ask any more questions he doesn't really want you to answer.

Your face scrunches in confusion. "Yeah, that's why 'm in bed."

"Right." Dain clears his throat and inches back toward the door. "Of course. Then I'll just leave you b—"

"Wait!" You sit up as if to stop him, and a stuffed animal tumbles to the floor, dislodged from its place at your side by the sudden movement. "You didn't say if you'll tell Xa— Oh."

Realizing your stuffed animal fell down, you shift closer to the edge of the bed to pick it up. Your movements are slow and careful, as though you're dizzy or nauseous. Dain can barely stand to watch you, fearing you'll fall from the bed if you lean far enough over the edge to reach the stuffie.

"Lie down," he says, crossing the room with a few big steps, "I'll get it."

You sink back into the pillows with a frustrated sigh.

Dain can't tell if your dismay is aimed at your own helplessness or the fact that it's him helping you, but chooses to believe it's the former. Despite the mutual distrust between him and the marked ones, he never got the impression you dislike him.

Crouching beside the bed, he picks up your stuffed animal. It's a bunny, light brown and so worn you must have had and loved it for a long time. Not wanting to embarrass you, he keeps his thoughts about how recklessly impractical and cute it is that you brought it across the parapet and into the quadrant with you to himself. Wordlessly, he brushes off any dust that might have gotten on it from the floor, and hands it back to you.

You close your hand around its floppy ear with a mumbled thanks, and the bunny disappears between the folds of your many blankets.

Where did you even get all of those? The standard is one duvet and one wool blanket, and Dain doesn't think any of the professors would hand out extras — certainly nothing as pink and fluffy as the blanket that peeks out beneath the regular black one. He decides not to question it.

"I won't tell Xaden you're sick unless he directly asks me," he continues the conversation like nothing happened. "Which I doubt he will. But I can't guarantee he won't find out on his own."

You grimace. "Yeah, he always finds out when I try to hide something. But hopefully not 'till I'm better."

"Like I said, I won't tell him. I doubt he would approve of me being here."

To Dain's astonishment, you giggle. Once the coughing fit it triggers is over, you croak, "No, definitely not. He'd kill you if he walked in right now, no questions asked."

Dain, unable to share your amusement, reflexively glances at the door, as if the mere talk of the wingleader might summon him.

Gods, what is he even doing here? He should have left as soon as he saw you had a valid reason for missing formation, shouldn't have even set foot into the room. The fact that Riorson will likely kill Dain if he finds out he was alone with you in your room aside, he should be on his way to class, not chatting with a sick subordinate. Which reminds him—

"Do you have anyone who'll take notes for you in class?"

"Dunno. I'll figure it out when I feel better. Can't be that much I'll miss in a single day."

Dain shakes his head. He has no idea if you have the flu or just a common cold, but it doesn't take a healer to know you won't be getting over whatever it is in one day. Chances are you'll need to stay in bed for the rest of the week. If you show up to class still sick, Dain will drag you back to your room himself. No way will he let you spread your germs to everyone and get the whole squad sick.

"I'll ask one of the other first-years," he offers.

Probably Violet. Dain doesn't like how involved she's getting with the marked ones, but nothing he can do will change the fact that you two are slowly becoming friends, and her notes will certainly be the most comprehensible. His own friendship with Violet has been strained lately, thanks to his — apparently uncalled for — attempts of protecting her and the thing with Amber, but as her squad leader, she can't avoid him completely. She'll probably be happy enough to help, once she hears it's you she'll be doing a favor.

The fact that his lifelong best friend is suddenly closer with the children of the man who killed her brother than with him is depressing, so Dain turns his thoughts back to more practical matters.

Getting you cough drops and tissues is added to his mental to-do list, but will have to wait until he has time for it. He can bring you the things during lunch, along with something to eat. It's not like there's anyone else who might bring you food, if Dain is the only one aware that you're sick. In agreeing to keep it to himself, he's made himself responsible for taking care of you.

Noticing you don't have anything to drink in reach, Dain fetches you a bottle of water.

"I'll come check on you during lunchtime," he says as he hands it to you, "and I want this to be empty by then."

"Is that an order, squad leader?"

It's hard to tell with how raspy your voice is, but Dain is pretty sure you're teasing.

"Yes. Staying hydrated is especially important while you're sick." He might not be an expert, but he knows that much. "If you feel worse or need anything, just have your dragon tell Cath, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you."

you scan the backyard, and lock eyes with your target.

reclined on a deck chair, he’s pretending to listen to beau’s teammate bitch about how fucking terrible their offensive line has been playing. 

he’s got a half-drank bottle of miller high life dangling from his hand. the condensation of it is a steady drip, drip, drip onto his levis. 

hunter davenport. 

bingo.

you knew it was a fucking stupid idea. the kind of idea your brain only conjures up after taking a shot of room temperature tequila. 

but just because you know what’s good for you doesn’t mean you turn your ass around. 

no, dean deserves this, some deep dark part of you thinks. he deserves to know how shitty you feel every time you see a puck bunny feening for his attention. 

you march up to hunter. plaster a bright a smile on your face, and convince yourself you’re making the right call. ignoring that rotten feeling in your gut screaming at you to find dean. it’s your body betraying you, you decide. you pull the trigger anyway. 

“hunter! it’s so great to see you. you’re usually never at these things.”

you cringe at the truth hidden beneath your words. he’s usually not at these things because these things are at your boyfriend’s house off campus. your boyfriend who wishes hunter davenport was buried six-feet under. your boyfriend who stays up at night plotting how to do it himself.

you squeeze your eyelids shut, bracing for the retort you’re expecting to be slapped in the face with. some mean, cruel comment that hunter is somehow always armed with. 

you pray for a portal to open up, and spit you out into an alien dimension where you have a shred of confidence. 

you really thought you could flirt to hunter davenport. what a fucking stupid idea.

you’re about to raise the white flag, to be noble and walk away, when hunter’s face breaks out in a wide-toothed grin. 

“hey, trouble.”

oh?

he flashes his canines at you, and you swear his teeth glimmer. his eyes trace the outline of your silhouette, figure accentuated by your mesh mini dress. his gaze lands on your breasts. 

you look down. your nipples are pebbled from the cold air. standing at attention through the mesh fabric. 

you’re quick to cross your arms and shield him from the view he thinks he’s so privy to. the view he sees as an invitation. 

“i didn’t realize dean would let you off your leash with so many people around. must be my lucky day.”

oh. right. 

this is why you didn’t talk to hunter davenport. he was a pretentious fucking asshole.

“i’m not–” you sputter at the comment.

“dean doesn’t.. i’m not on a leash," huffing, you set a hand on your hip.

you can see hunter wracking his brain for some quippy comeback. but the smug look is wiped clean off his face the second a shadow overtakes it. 

you feel someone breathing down your neck, and a heavy arm wraps itself snugly against your middle.

dean.

“what the fuck is going on here, davenport? what are you playing at?” dean’s gaze is hard-set on hunter. 

“dean, chill out. it's fi–” hunter is practically cowering under the weight of dean's stare.

“actually, no. y’know what? get the fuck out of my house. i’ll deal with you later.” dean’s voice is steady and cold. he doesn’t yell. he doesn't need to. he points to the back gate, and hunter has already left with his tail between his legs. 

“upstairs. now.” 

you don’t need to hear another word before you’re sprinting through the crowd of strangers. 

your heart is beating in your throat. the lace trim of your dress is itchy on your skin as you take the stairs two steps at a time. you almost trip over the last one on your way up. 

when you get to dean’s bedroom, you’re blurting out apologies before he even gets the chance to shut the door. 

“i’m so so sorry, dean. i didn’t– didn’t think he’d be like that. i didn’t think it through, i swear,” you hiccup as you plead, throat tight and scratchy — straining just to get the words out.

“please, please don’t be mad.”

dean’s got that unimpressed look on his face. massive arms crossed cooly over his chest. his large frame kicked back with one boot against the door. 

he looks so handsome tonight in a creamy white henley and faded jeans. the mean, unforgiving look in his eyes doesn’t suit him. it makes you burst into tears. this is all your fault. 

“you’re un-fucking-believable, you know that? running off to fucking davenport in my house. didn’t realize you were such a little attention whore. can’t handle not having my eyes on you for two seconds, can you?”

a loud sob escapes you. you wanna scream and plead and promise him you want nothing to do with hunter. you were just being stupid.

but you keep your mouth shut and hang your head. try and convince yourself his words are empty. devoid of any real meaning. you’re jumping through hoops trying to tell yourself your boyfriend doesn’t think you’re a whore.

you sniffle and wipe at the flood of tears pouring from your bloodshot eyes. you look like a wreck, you’re sure of it.

maybe dean’s right. none of this would’ve happened if you’d just been good. 

“i’m just so so sorry, dean. i just– i missed you. you were busy and i–”

he gives you an accusatory look that shuts you right up. he’s not interested in excuses right now, obviously.

you try again.

“i wanna make it better. please, let me make it better. i’ll do anything.”

his ears perk up at that. he cocks his head. “you’d do anything, huh?”

you nod furiously. it’s true. you’d do whatever he asked if it meant he’d stop looking at you like this. like you'd disappointed him. 

“anything you want,” you promise.

dean’s toying with you. pretending to weigh his options. maybe he’ll granting you forgiveness. or maybe he’s planning how to make sure you regret ever going up to davenport in the first place.

he pushes his body off the door. walks a few steps over to the end on his bed and slowly lowers himself down. he sits and stares at you. 

you’re standing in front of him, pulling at the mesh fabric of your dress. tracing the pretty cheetah print pattern of it. distracting yourself by thinking of a happier time — last weekend, when dean had bought you this dress at a boutique downtown. he'd chanted sweet nothings to you in the dressing room.

“crawl.”

“w–what?” your eyes pop open.

he’s got his hand beckoning you forward in a come hither motion. his legs are spread wide and you feel yourself start salivating at the bulge in his jeans. 

“crawl to me.”

you weigh it in your brain.

you and dean definitely weren’t vanilla by any means. he was prone to settling a rough hand around your throat every now and then. slapping your ass in doggy. but you’d never delved into anything teetering on bdsm.

you decide dean knows best. 

you gulp in anticipation, legs shaky as you lower yourself onto your knees. 

it feels so primal, having his eyes on you as you bring yourself to all fours. a natural submission. feeling any sense of power slip through your fingers as the fibers of the rug eat at the skin on your palms. knees scraping against the fabric. your bones aching against the wooden floorboards. 

you move toward him, and you see his hand slip under his waistband. lazily playing with his cock. and, god, you want it so bad. 

the heady smell of him hits you when you arrive at his feet, eye-level with his crotch. it’s a woody musk mixed with the denim fabric of his jeans. you want to bury your face in it. 

“sit.”

you immediately obey. panties completely soaked through. slippery arousal dripping down your thighs.

you’re wet. 

the realization is a sucker punch. you pause. the anxious, flighty feeling bubbling up is like dark storm clouds over your head. 

you like this. 

maybe you shouldn’t. 

you’re reeling. navigating the ocean of your brain a million thoughts per second. thinking that you’re dirty. that this is wrong. thinking why the fuck do you like being treated this? 

and the worst one of all — oh god. dean’s really going to think you’re a whore now. 

“hey, where’d you go baby?” dean’s voice is so soft and shaky it makes your guts tangle into something poisonous. he’s touching your face so lightly, dragging his thumb up and down your jaw. 

“you need to stop? shit. baby, i shouldn’t have pushed you that hard.” 

if it weren’t for the panic attack you were on the brink of, you would’ve laughed.

“no, no, dean i–” you take a deep breath in and muster up the courage. “i don’t– i don’t think the punishment is working.”

“god, baby, i’m so sorry. had a feeling that was too far. smack the shit out of me next time i–” 

“dean, i–,” you sigh. “you don’t understand. i liked it.”

god, what were you even saying? how are you supposed to tell your boyrfiend that you like being punished. that you like it when he’s mean to you.

“sorry, what?” dean stops in his tracks. 

fuck it. 

“i think i like it when you.. um– get mean? how terrible is that. god, you probably think i’m disg–”

“oh, baby.” 

he lifts your chin up. looks deep into your eyes.

you hope he doesn’t see the deep rooted humiliation you feel.

no, it seems like he doesn’t. or maybe he’s putting it to the side for now. because he’d got this fond look in his eye. readjusting himself to lean in closer to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

you preen at that, nuzzling your head further  into his hand.

“my girl likes being roughed up a little? likes being on her knees for me?” his thumb forces its way into your mouth and you latch on. swirling your tongue around the digit instinctively.  

“jesus, baby, you’re so fucking hot. just wanna be told what to do, yeah? c’mon then, baby. show me how bad you want me.”

you hear his boot tap against the floorboards, and look down at the laces swinging side to side.

“c'mon. be a good girl for me, baby,” he coaxes. it’s a warm invitation. one you really can’t refuse. you lick your lips at the thought of it. 

taking a shaky breath, you lift your hips, and he’s quick to fill in the gap with his boot. you carefully settle yourself down onto it. wince at the feel of the hard leather against your heat. it’s so much pressure so quickly. it has your pussy throbbing against the laces as you start grinding against it. 

“oh fuck– dean,” you choke out, grasping at his jeans and twisting the denim fabric in your fist. trying to ground yourself.

he leans back with a smirk on his face. 

“ride out your feelings for me, angel. show me what a good puppy you can be.”

you suppose you asked for this. and god it feels so fucking good, riding his boot with his hand tangled up in your hair. your clit snagging between the laces. pussy juices leaking onto the leather. it's probably fucking stain.

dean’s always been a dirty talker. and you’re lucky it drowns out that little voice inside your head telling you how wrong people would think this is. 

“you wanted to be my puppy this whole time, didn’t you? just needed a little guidance, babydoll. fuck– keep rolling your hips like that. make a fucking mess on me, pup. i’ve gotcha.”

you know you’ve never been this wet before. then dean starts bouncing his leg up and down, and a white hot heat burns in you as the leather vibrates against your core. the coil in your tummy is about to snap.

“dean– can’t. i’m gonna, fuck– dean!” you squeal, pain searing deep in your bones and throttling you headfirst into an orgasm. 

a soft command, let go f’me, puppy, is all you need before you’re squirting all over the black leather of his boot. body convulsing and pretty tears welling up in your eyes.

“you’re such a good girl,” he coos, lightly tapping your damp cheek. “you liked that? making a mess on me?”

you nod dumbly, still grinding out the aftershocks. 

“since you liked it so much, you can clean it up too.”

he raises a brow, daring you. seeing just how far you’ll push yourself for him. 

if he only knew.

you inch yourself backwards. arch your back till your ass is wagging in the air, and you’re eye level with your slick pooling on his boot.

it doesn’t take long before you’re practically making out with it. tongue threading between the laces.

it’s so mindless and oh so fucking hot. you can’t help yourself when you reach down, pushing your panties to the side and rub circles on your raw clit. 

it’s heaven, until you feel the sharp sting of dean smacking your ass and you pout, pulling your hand away from your core. 

NOTES: garrett & the reader will both be written to be bi/have slept with women in the past!

CHAPTERS:

TO BE ADDED

TAGLIST: OPEN! comment/mssg/ask to be added :)

He'd been halfway through a game of NHL in the living room, Tucker yelling at him for taking dumb penalties while Garrett sat upside down on the opposite couch pretending he wasn't waiting for Hannah to text him back.

Logan had disappeared over an hour ago.

Dean hadn't asked where he'd gone.

He didn't need to.

He already knew.

Because, in watching you for so long, Dean came to learn how absolutely blind his teammate and roommate was, in fact.

Logan wasn't subtle when it came to Hannah Wells.

Because while everyone else noticed that Garrett and Hannah were a power couple. 

You noticed the way Logan’s eyes lingered on the girl for much longer than was probably appropriate if he got caught.

He always found his way back to her somehow.

Dean hated it.

Not because Logan liked someone unavailable.

But because Dean could see just how your eyes spoke for your heart. When you forced smule on your lips, forcing all of it down. 

Dean could still see just how much you were hiding. 

Tucker groaned from next to Dean “are you even listening?" The boy asked, snapping his fingers in front of the older boy.

Dean blinked as he licked his lips “what?" He cocked his head as he frowned.

The blonde stared at the tv “the game's over." He'd been staring at the pause screen for almost three minutes.

Dean felt his cheeks grow warm “Right." His phone buzzed.

He checked it, silently praying that it was you.

It wasn’t.

Because he hadn't heard from you in almost four days.

Not because anything had happened.

Just because he'd decided he needed space.

He'd realised, somewhere between studying together in the library and walking you home after movie nights, that he'd started looking for you in every room.

Waiting for your laugh.

Making excuses to sit beside you.

Saving you the last slice of pizza without thinking.

That wasn't friendship anymore.

It was something that didn’t deserve a name, not when the heart Dean wanted was in the hands of someone else.

So he'd backed away.

He figured distance would fix it.

It hadn't.

You felt sick.

Not heartbroken.

Not exactly.

Just embarrassed.

Like if the ground could swallow you up, you were willing to let it happen.

The cold October air bit at your cheeks as you hurried across campus, arms wrapped around yourself.

You replayed the last twenty minutes over and over.

Logan had shown up outside your dorm.

Asked if you wanted to walk.

You'd thought it was strange.

But nice.

He'd been quieter than usual.

You'd talked about classes.

About hockey.

About nothing.

Until he'd stopped underneath one of the campus lights.

He looked at you for a long second.

Then kissed you.

It wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't passionate.

Just confusing.

You'd kissed him back for exactly two seconds before pulling away, “what was that?" You let your fingers linger over your lips. 

Logan had rubbed the back of his neck "I thought maybe,” he looked defeated as he spoke. 

He'd sighed.

"I don't know."

You waited "I thought if I kissed someone else, maybe I'd stop thinking about Hannah." He looked frustrated as he spoke.

Everything inside you had gone still.

He realised what he'd said almost immediately, "No that's not,” he shook his head as he reached out for you. 

But you stepped back as you shook your head “you used me?" Hurt clouded your eyes, making it clear just how personally you took it.

"No."

You glared at him as your lips snarled, "Logan." You raised your hand to stop him from moving.

"I wasn't trying to.”

Part of you wanted to laugh as he acted like his words washed away the crimes of his actions, “you literally just told me you wanted to see if kissing me would help you get over someone else.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, hoping that you were dreaming. 

But no, you were wide awake.

And this was real life.

Silence.

Because there wasn't really another way to phrase it.

You swallowed.

"Did it work?"

He closed his eyes “no." That somehow hurt even worse.

You laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Your nails dug so hard into your palms that you were worried you might end up causing your skin to break. 

But you stuck through it.

Because crying in front of him would've been unbearable, “good to know." You'd walked away before he could apologise. 

You made it halfway across campus before the tears finally came.

You hated crying.

Especially over boys.

Especially over one who hadn't even wanted you.

Your vision blurred enough that you didn't notice the familiar face up ahead of you.

Until you heard it, “wait up!” You looked up.

Beau ran up the pathway towards you “what happened?” He asked as he placed his hands on his hips. 

He stopped right in front of you as you tried smiling.

It failed instantly "I'm fine." You brought your hands up to wipe your face. 

Beau frowned “you've been crying." Beau muttered softly.

His hand squeezed your shoulder “what happened?" He pulled you into his arms.

Because something about the concern in his face made the wall you'd been holding together completely collapse.

"It was Logan."

Once Beau got you to stop crying, he offered to hear you out at a diner, as his treat.

Dean's stomach dropped when he got the text from Beau. 

Beau: your little lover girl got her heart broken

Beau: taking her for a drink 

Beau: will catch you up on all of it when I’ve dropped her off again

He took you further away from campus than you would have assumed.

Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere, nobody from Briar would bother you.

You barely touched your fries.

Beau waited at first.

But he knew that he needed to ask those questions, mainly because Dean would have killed him if he didn’t, “what did he do?" You stared down at your milkshake.

Your fingers touched your lips “he kissed me." Beau blinked as he cocked his head.

His heart hurt for his best friend, who he knew cared for you so deeply “so,” Beau trailed off.

He knew he needed to act happy for you if it was what you wanted "that's good?" He tapped his fingers against the table in front of him.  

You laughed.

It sounded broken “no." Beau really looked at you in that moment. 

Your eyes were swollen.

Mascara smudged beneath them.

You looked humiliated “why isn't it good?" You took a shaky breath.

Your fingers fiddled with a napkin in front of you “because he didn't kiss me because he likes me." Tears flood your eyes as you chewed at the inside of your cheek.

Beau felt his jaw tense “he kissed me because he wanted to stop thinking about Hannah." Beau slowly lowered the fry he'd been holding.

Silence.

Complete silence “he what?" His jaw dropped as he tried to quickly mask his surprise. 

You softly laughed as you looked up at the ceiling “he thought maybe kissing someone else would get Hannah out of his head." You shrugged as you just about wanted to bang your head against the counter. 

You smiled bitterly, “it didn't." You let out a huff as you frowned.

The boy did everything in his power not to gasp “he told you that?" Beau would have hoped that Logan had a touch more decorum than that. 

You shook your head “I asked if that's why." You explained to him with a shrug

"And?"

"He said yes."

You looked at him with watery eyes.

"I just..."

Your voice cracked.

"I feel so stupid."

"You aren't."

"I kissed him back."

"So?"

"I should've known."

"You liked him?"

A soft laugh escaped your lips “unfortunately, clearly.” You cursed yourself for being in this position 

Your fingers ran along the cold glass of your drink ”and I just thought." You looked away as you cleared your throat.

You licked your lips as you sniffled “I thought maybe he did." And that was what really broke Beau’s heart.

The drive back to campus was silent.

You sat staring out the passenger window as you tapped your thumbs on your thighs "thanks for that." You smiled as you stopped at the front of your dorm building.

Beau shook his head as he put the car into park "you really don’t have to thank me." You managed a tiny smile.

The boy had always had a soft spot for you "I know." You hugged him before you slipped out of his car.

Fifteen minutes after Beau left yours, he arrived at the hockey house. 

Dean had been pacing on the sidewalk when Beau arrived.

The blonde climbed into the passenger seat and listened to everything that Beau had learnt. 

Dean looked beyond pissed through most of it, but still he found a moment to breathe before he finally spoke "I'm gonna hit him." He announced, certain that he would make good on that promise.

Beau let out a soft low snort "no, you're not." He rolled his eyes as he swallowed a laugh. 

Dean shook his head "I'm serious." The look Dean gave Beau made him see that the blonde was being serious.

"I know."

The hockey player looked at his phone, checking if you had texted him again "I've never wanted to punch Logan before." Sure Dean had shoved him during drills, but he had never wanted to bear fist punch the boy.

"You'd regret it."

Dean sucked at his teeth "I don't think I would." He weighed up the potential consequences that he’d face on the team if he did it. 

And they really didn’t seem as damming as getting the chance to put Logan in his place "you would." Dean exhaled sharply as he pressed his head into the back of his chair.

"how did she look?" The question was probably weird but Dean just wanted to know how your words deceived your eyes. 

Because your true tell was the way your eyes spoke "embarrassed." That was exactly what he didn’t want to hear.

Dean frowned as he felt his heart break "I hate that." He wished that he was able to be with you when Beau found you. 

Because then, he could have gotten the chance to hug you "I know." Another minute passed while complete silence consumed the car.

Then Beau sighed "you gonna tell her?" He wriggled his eyebrows as he shook his shoulders.

Dean laughed without humor "tell her what?" He rubbed his hand along his jaw.

Beau rolled his eyes "that you're completely gone for her." Dean looked out the windshield.

"No."

The football player leaned forward "Dean." It was something he should have just accepted.

"No."

Beau let his lips pool into a frown "you've liked her for over a while now." The feelings that Dean held towards you were something he couldn’t quite comprehend. 

Because it was a new type of love that he got to feel. 

"I know."

Dean had to remind himself to breathe so that he didn’t explode "she got used by one of my best friends today." His hands formed fists “she was his damn experiment."

His mind also lingered on the fact that you told Beau you probably needed to be off of men for the next few months "the last thing she needs is another hockey player telling her he likes her." Dean shook his head. 

Beau sighed "you wouldn't be using her." He knew that Dean would treat you better than any guy could even try to.

The hockey player sucked at his teeth "but what if she thought I was." Dean knew that he also had a reputation that wasn’t exactly putting him in the running for being boyfriend material. 

Beau stayed quiet, seeing that the boy next to him had been thinking about this for a while now "if I tell her now," Dean continued.

Because yes he liked you, but he didn’t want to be a rebound or the guy that pitied you "I'm just the next guy waiting in line." It stung to point out as Dean practically winced.

Because he hated how true it sounded "I won't do that to her." He shook his head as he wanted so much more for you. 

He remembered how he you drunkenly said one night that you wanted a guy who spun you off your feet "so you'll just keep pretending?" It was a reality that he hated even picturing.

Dean swallowed hard "I've been pretending for weeks." It had been closer to months but the hockey player didn’t want to admit it.

The boy in the drivers seat frowned "you think that's working?" Beau watched as Dean shook his head. 

"Then why?"

That was the million dollar question.

Dean laughed bitterly "because if I tell her," his eyes lingered on his lap.

His voice dropped "and she says no," Dean felt nauseous bringing the concept to life.

He cracked his knuckles, not even wanting to think about it "I lose her entirely." Silence settled between them.

Finally Beau spoke "you know what I think?" He didn’t know if he wanted to hit Dean or pity him actually.

Dean didn't answer, almost fearing that his best friend would be right "I think Logan screwed up." The blonde nodded once.

"He did."

The brunette pursed his lips together "and I think someday." The song on his playlist changed to some song that you argued was the best for car karaoke.

Beau smiled sadly "he's gonna realise he kissed the wrong girl." If Beau didn’t see you as practically the other half of his braincells he honestly would have been attracted to you. 

Because you were funny, kind, honest and really pretty.

Dean looked down at his phone, mostly surprised that you had texted him. 

You: missed you at lunch with Beau today x

He hoped you were okay.

He hoped you weren't crying anymore.

now, he’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, one hand on the back of your neck and the other braced against the wall.

“when were you gonna tell me how fucking naughty you are, huh? how fucking slutty you’d get for me?” he snarled in your ear.

he takes it in. the bathroom stall is cramped, but your body contorts so prettily to make room for him.

your cheek is pressed against the cold checkered tile of the stall. your once perfectly styled hair now roused and frizzy, damp with sweat.

and you’d spent so much time on your makeup tonight. been so cheeky about it. it’s too bad that what’s left of your glittery eyeshadow is scattered like freckles across the apples of your cheeks. the black skirt you wore is wrinkled, hiked up against the globe of your ass, and your panties are pushed to the side. it’s sinful.

and you look fucking delicious.

“such a pretty mess. what if someone walked in, baby? saw you falling apart on my cock?” he feels the gooey walls of your pussy clench around him. gripping onto him so fucking tight he’s dizzy. “wouldn’t do a fucking thing, would you?”

“you’d make ‘em sit here and watch you fucking take it,” he punctuates each word with a devastating thrust into your heat.

you’re whining and babbling nonsense on his cock, pushing your ass into him to meet every piston of his hips. he thinks he can make out a couple watery so big, deans and a please, please, please.

you’ve always been a crier when things just felt too good.

“can barely understand you, sweetheart. what’s wrong? already fucked you dumb?” he mocks, squeezing his index and thumb tighter against the nape of your neck. it’s fucking predatory, the way he growls. “you wanted this. fucking begged for it.”

“s-so good! feels so good,” you pant, and dean knows you're close by the hitches in your breath. you’re such a good girl for him, wriggling against his body, too high off the feeling of him to even know you’re about to cream on his cock.

“give it to me, baby. c’mon,” dean whispers, fucking into you even faster. you’ve got that far-off look in your eyes, and your legs are shaking so viciously it looks like you’re about to collapse in your five inch heels.

“fucking come for me,” he murmurs and buries himself to the hilt. your eyes pop open and you let out a choked out cry.

spacey and riding the high of your orgasm, dean is already cleaning you up. readjusting your skirt and thumbing glittery tears off your cheeks.

“You’ve been such a bad, bad girl,” Allie purrs as she crawls over your naked form on the bed until she has her thighs on either side of your head as she straddles your face. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and eat mommy’s pussy?”

You do not waste another second, and dive in between your girlfriend’s thighs. Your tongue finds her clit and she shudders over you, her hips rocking against your face.

Meanwhile, Dean is watching intently from the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock as he strokes slowly. A smirk ghosts over his lips as he unwraps his hand from his length, and he utters a single word in a rough, low voice, “Stop.”

Allie’s hips still immediately, and so do you, your tongue instinctively freezing against her cunt. You feel a whine bubbling in your throat, but you quickly swallow it down—you really do not need to be in deeper trouble than you already are.

“Allie-cat, why don’t you fetch me your favorite pairs of handcuffs?” Dean purrs from the edge, his dark eyes fixed on you still laid on the back. “Stay still. You’re perfect right there.”

The lack of a nickname for you is like a bucket of cold water thrown over you, and your heart drops when you realize that you are deep in it this time—you have pushed their buttons so far tonight. You have been on a bratty streak the past few days—leaving them on delivered for hours, teasing them in public, touching yourself despite being explicitly told not to. But tonight—wearing an insanely short dress that leaves little to the imagination, using your fuck me heels at the club, deliberately flirting with various people on the dance floor, keeping your eyes on your partners as you do so—easily tops them all. You had enjoyed seeing their darkened eyes on you, their jaws clenching, their grips tight around their glasses, but now, it is time for you to pay the price.

Allie eagerly swings her legs off the bed and drops to her knees, sliding an unsuspecting storage box from under Dean’s bed. She lifts the lid and spots two pairs of fuzzy handcuffs.

“Good girl.” Dean grins as he looks directly at Allie. “Cuff her to the bed frame,” he talks *about you like you are not in the same room as them, and your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to alleviate the growing pressure between them—him outright ignoring you makes you wetter than you’d like to admit.

“You look so pretty like this,” Allie coos, locking the cuffs into place. She ghosts her lips over your skin enough to make you squirm and whine softly. “Shh, toys don’t complain.” She wraps her slender fingers around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Now, what do you say?”

“Release me.” You smirk as you look up at your girlfriend, whose eyes darken even more, the browns of her irises almost completely swallowed by her dilated pupils.

“I see you’re still being a bad girl,” she whispers, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips as she releases your throat. Just as you begin to relax on the bed, she grips your chin tightly, her manicured nails digging slightly into the skin. She holds your soiled panties in her other hand as she speaks firmly, “Open.”

You do not budge for a few seconds before gasping when her palm connects with your cheek.

She takes this moment to shove the fabric into your mouth and grins as she leans back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now, you’re tied up and quiet.”

“Did such a great job, gorgeous,” Dean growls, beckoning her over with two fingers. “Come here, baby. You deserve a reward.”

You watch as Allie crawls over to where Dean is seated on the bed. You keep your gaze fixed on them as the latter pulls her into his lap, her bare cunt settling over his hardened cock.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs, his lips meeting hers in an urgent kiss. “Allie-cat, tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispers against him, her hips grinding instinctively against his, and they both moan at the sensation. “Fuck, I need you.”

“Your wish is my command, babydoll.” Dean grins as he grips her hips, guiding her down on his length. “Holy shit,” Dean groans, while Allie sinks down on him. “Allie, fuck, you are choking my dick, baby.” He laughs, all drunk and dazed on the sensation.

Meanwhile, you squirm on the bed, tugging on your restraints, and whining into the fabric of your panties stuffed into your mouth. “Please,” your plea is muffled behind the makeshift gag, but you whine anyway. “Please.”

However, neither Dean nor Allie pay attention to you, too wrapped up in each other to notice you.

Allie pushes Dean on his back, bracing both her hands on his chest as she starts riding him. “You are so fucking big,” she moans, “So deep.”

“Yeah?” Dean breathes out, still gripping Allie’s hips like his life depends on it. He is guiding her movements on top of him. “You love that I’m filling you up so good, huh?” He growls. “I know you can do that better, baby. Show me how much you love this.”

And so Allie does—she rides him harder, her hips now lifting off him, only to slam back down. Her hands are still braced firmly on his chest, her nails digging into the skin. “Holy fuck, you’re even deeper!” She gasps, throwing her head back at the delicious feeling of his dick stretching her out, reaching spots inside her she didn’t even know existed before Dean—and before you.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, planting his feet steadily on the bed to meet her downward strokes with upward thrusts. “Oh, yeah? Feels good? Uh-huh?” He grins when Allie’s moans rise in volume as she gets closer and closer to her peak.

“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hips now rolling and grinding against his lap. A few more rolls of her body have her cumming around Dean’s cock, who groans loudly.

“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, one of his hands sliding up her back, and tangling into her curls. He pushes the back of her head to crash his lips against hers, his moans and groans now muffled by her mouth.

You are watching all this with tears of frustration in your eyes. You tug helplessly at the cuffs, groaning muffledly when they do not budge—the rattling of metal against the bed frame just irritates the hell out of you.

At the sound of your frustration, Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out. He keeps his eyes on you as he grips Allie’s hips tightly, keeping her still on his lap as they cum together, their sounds blending in.

It takes a few minutes for them to come down from their highs, and when the waves of pleasure subside, Dean gently maneuvers Allie off of him and lays her on the mattress beside him. He then moves over to you, and your heartbeat spikes as the familiar heat pool in your core, but your heart drops when your boyfriend speaks,

“I’m going to take those cuffs off you, then I’m going to run you both a bath.”

“W-what?” You sputter weakly, watching as he unlocks the handcuffs and massages your wrists gently as he laughs mockingly.

“Oh, baby,” he croons, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Did you really think I would let you cum after that stunt you pulled tonight? Cute. You’re lucky I didn’t leave a vibrator buzzing on your little clit.” He leans down, teasing your skin with a featherlight kiss as he whispers, “You don’t get to cum until we say you can. I don’t care if it takes a week—you’re going to earn that fucking orgasm.”

“Doin’ so good for us, baby…” she murmured against you, adjusting herself so her lips could reach your forehead. You whimpered at the contact, burying your head into her chest while your body bounced softly from Dean’s thrusts. “You waited so patiently, yeah?”

The thickness of Dean’s fingers was nothing compared to his cock—it was thick and heavy, reaching deeper depths that you never thought existed within you. The slow pace that he was digging into your body made it even more obvious—making you feel every ridge of his cock.

Allie waited for Dean to agree with her, only to look up at the man and see him drooling against your ankle, brows scrunched softly, basking at the feel of your soft velvet walls. He was completely gone; moans spilling freely from his open mouth as his tongue lolled out.

The sight was enough to undo her. Watching her boyfriend completely lose his mind inside her best friend’s pussy had her clit throbbing as though it had its own heart.

You keened when she chuckled lowly, mouth parting in search of hers, never closing even as she ignored you. Her arm that draped beneath your neck stretched until she could twist your nipple between her thumb and index as the other cupped Dean’s jaw.

Your muffled hearing could barely pick up your moans, let alone Dean’s slurping when Allie got him out of his head.

“Baby…” she whispered, a subtle scolding in her tone. “We’re s’pposed to be taking care of her, remember?”

Dean mumbled a response, shaking his head lightly to focus at the sight beneath him—and it almost made him come.

Your hazy eyes were darting between looking up at him and Allie, completely glazed and shot as quiet “ah’s” slipped from your lips with his every thrust. You looked completely wrecked in Allie’s arms, melting with her every touch—letting out a broken moan when the woman’s fingers parted your folds before circling your puffy nub.

Dean watched as your leaden hand copied Allie’s movements, only this time, you shoved two fingers into her still hot entrance, making her moan. His grip tightens on your hip, almost losing himself again—cock swelling inside your warmth.

You feel him twitch inside your cunt when your parted mouth reveals your tongue reaching for Allie’s nipple, closing around the fat flesh. You revel at the moan she let out—at the wetness that coated your fingers when you did so, throat muscles working at sucking and keeping her tit in your mouth.

She slumped against you once more, fingers still languidly working your bundle of nerves—still twisting your nipple between her fingers.

You keep your fingers buried in her pussy, keeping their mixed juices intact, even as you feel her start to doze off against you. Dean thrusts hard—a knee-jerk reaction to the sight, and it caused a choked moan out of you, the hand that wasn’t inside Allie pawing at his chest.

“Please—” you needed him closer; to be sandwiched between their warmth properly—suffocate you for all you care. You’ve never felt this much pleasure from sex before and there’s no way you won’t drag it out.

And thankfully, he obliged, letting you pull him in by wrapping your leg around the small of his back, forcing him further into you, cock kissing that spongy spot deep in you.

“Oh—ohfuuu—hah!” he cried out, temple against Allie’s—moaning right against her ear, though she never woke up, only nuzzling more into your combined touch in her sleep, even as your own groan vibrated against her breast.

Dean’s hand gripped the sheets above you helplessly, thrusts growing faster and sloppier simultaneously. His other hand shot up from its grip on your hip to cup your cheek, forcing your mouth off Allie’s chest and slotting his mouth against yours, ignoring your pained whine at the loss of his girlfriend’s flesh.

He swallows each whimper that helplessly leaves you with each thrust, groaning when your wet muscle meets his own. Your back arches when the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, forcing an angle that would likely bruise it—you didn’t care. Not when his sweaty chest graze your nipples with every hump, veins burning with each brush.

Dean’s lips never part from yours, whispering “Goo—good fucking gir—” in between breaths, forehead pressed firmly against your own furrowing one.

You could feel the tight rope in your belly unravelling. His breathless and choked groans a sharp edge to the already burning sensation that seeped through your bones.

He was moaning—a melting whimper, really—as though he’d been deprived of your pussy for so long. Like his girlfriend wasn’t sleeping next to you, like you didn’t have two fingers shoved deep in her cunt that kept in motion with his thrusts—like you didn’t always end up like this whenever you had the chance to.

His thrusts, once lazy and pounding, were now deduced to a melting sloppy humping. Dean couldn’t bear being apart from your warm skin. Not the stickiness that spread across his pelvis and dripped down his thighs from your arousal, nor your limbs keeping him firm against you—nails digging into the tacky skin of his back before it held him against you by his ass.

You let out a choked gasp when you parted from him, but you didn’t let him get far, fingers claiming the hair on his nape and keeping his forehead against yours, your other hand unmoving from Allie’s cunt.

“Dean—hah-please…” you plead. For what? You aren’t sure. Thankfully, he did.

The loss of contact was brief, only necessary so he doesn’t faceplant while trying to adjust you hips higher against his, the angle change, somehow, had him sinking into you more—like your pussy was stretching just to accommodate his neediness.

Every grind of his hips caused the coarse hairs at the base of his cock to rub against your clit, eliciting a high pitched moan from you that you would’ve felt embarrassed of had it not been them you were between of.

You feel his hips stutter, huffed out whimpers slipping from his lips as it falters against yours. Your fingers met in a fist in his tresses, trying to pull him back when he leaned away, but he was determined.

Dean wanted to watch you fall apart on his cock, not for his ego, but for the sight of you being at your most vulnerable. He’d seen you come apart plenty of times before but something about tonight felt more exposed than the rest.

Maybe it’s how openly he’s fucking you as his girlfriend sleeps next to you, or maybe it was your clinging to Allie earlier—just as lost as he was in you despite just thrusting into you.

Maybe, maybe it was how you waited so patiently for your turn, making Allie come enough times for her to doze off, sticking to you like glue.

It didn’t matter what it was, all that mattered was that the way your face scrunched and then softened as bliss shot through your entire body, momentarily consumed by the white that flashed behind your eyes, chest pressed against his as a silent moan wracked through your body.

You felt Dean’s groan vibrate against your chest, his hips thrusting once, then twice before holding his hips flush against yours, swollen tip bursting ropes of cum and flooding your walls white.

Dean let a out a breath that melted into a whine, forehead coming down to rest against your chest as his hips continued a circular motion, drawing out your high.

It was only when you whined in overstimulation did he let up, though he still kept himself inside you, forehead moving from your chest to the crook of your neck, parallel to where Allie’s head now rested.

You finally remove your fingers from Allie’s entrance, indifferent to your now pruney fingers as you took a digit into your mouth, tasting her essence. The hum you let out alerted the man who was just about to fall asleep, making him whine and open his mouth in permission.

Not wasting a second, you pressed your soaked fingers against his waiting tongue, thumb playfully booping his flushed nose when he immediately wrapped his lips around your flesh.

A breath leaves your chest when you settle against their shared warmth, relishing the skin-to-skin contact that they, despite their unconscious state, seem to seek habitually. Dean’s weight acted like a heated blanket—one that kept you warm from the inside out with his cock—a complete contrast to Allie’s soft comforting skin that made you shiver whenever she nuzzled further into your skin.

It was dangerous to stay—even more dangerous to get used to their affections—but for now, you’ll give yourself grace. And Allie and Dean were both grateful that you did.

💌 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞: wrote this in a day. . .while my other wips drown in the sea😝

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.