currently living off campus at Briar U

Today, you had let boredom take the reins and found yourself influenced by a viral trend.

Your boyfriend was one of the most attentive men on the planet. In fact, you’d go as far as to say he was the most attentive. Which meant him forgetting about date night was simply impossible.

If Garrett made a commitment to you, he followed through. Every single time.

Sometimes, it was honestly a little annoying how attentive he could be, because he remembered everything.

The day you first kissed. The first time you said “I love you”. Even the exact moment you stole one of his hoodies and never gave it back.

You weren’t sure if he kept some secret list hidden somewhere or if an entire section of his brain had simply been taken over by thoughts of you, but one thing was certain: if there was a date night planned, Garrett Graham would remember it.

Which was exactly why it would be so funny to convince him he’d forgotten one.

You could already picture the confusion and disbelief on his face. The way he’d rack his brain trying to figure out how he could have possibly let something like that slip his mind.

A few minutes later, a knock sounded at your door.

You quickly adjusted the black dress you were wearing—far too formal for the quiet movie night you’d originally planned with Garrett—and crossed the room to answer it.

The second you opened the door, a smile tugged at your lips.

Your boyfriend stood there, bag slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly handsome for someone who had just spent hours getting checked into boards by grown men.

Almost immediately, his brows drew together as his gaze swept over your dress. But before he could ask any questions, you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

The effect was immediate.

His bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud as one hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer. He kissed you back without hesitation, already melting into the familiar greeting.

When you finally pulled away, you tilted your head.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

Garrett blinked, then he looked down at himself. Gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. Standard post-practice attire.

“Uh... yeah?” He said slowly. “Why?”

You arranged your features into the best combination of confusion and disappointment you could manage. “Did you forget?”

His frown deepened as he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him and shrugging off his hoodie. Beneath it was the black compression shirt he always wore after practice.

A criminal piece of clothing, in your humble opinion.

The fabric stretched across his shoulders and arms far too well, making it significantly harder to stay focused on your prank. For a brief moment, you considered abandoning the whole thing altogether in favour of admiring your boyfriend.

Unfortunately for Garrett, you were committed to the bit.

“Forget what, honey?”

His eyes drifted around your dorm room, taking in details automatically. From the makeup bag spread across your vanity, to the leather jacket draped over your desk chair that looked suspiciously similar to the one currently missing from his closet.

Then his attention returned to you.

“Our date?” You said, tilting your head as if he was the one being ridiculous. Which was especially unfair considering you had invented this entire situation purely for your own entertainment.

You watched him go completely still for a second. 

Then, very slowly, he repeated, “...Our date?”

“Yeah.” You smiled brightly. “I’m really excited. You picked a good spot.”

“I did?”

The uncertainty in his voice nearly made you break. He bent down to grab his phone from his bag before sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Yeah,” you said casually, settling onto your desk chair in front of your makeshift vanity. “You didn’t really forget, did you?”

“No. No...” He shook his head, already scrolling through his phone. “Just checking our reservation.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

“I’m so glad you picked that restaurant. We haven’t been there in forever, and their food is amazing.”

Continuing your performance, you grabbed your mascara and began applying it as if this conversation were completely normal.

Across the room, Garrett was staring at his phone with the concentration of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

“What did you…” He lowered the phone and cleared his throat. “What did you order last time?”

“We ordered a bunch of things to share, remember?”

He hummed, the sound coming out noticeably higher-pitched than usual.

To be fair, it wasn’t an incredibly descriptive answer. Garrett’s appetite was enormous thanks to hockey, and you could never decide what looked best on a menu. Most date nights ended with the two of you ordering half the restaurant and splitting everything between yourselves.

Still, you could practically see him filing the information away, desperately trying to determine whether this was a real memory he’d somehow lost or one you were creating in real time. 

“You’ve been looking forward to this for a while, huh?”

“Mhm.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Do you remember the last time we went?”

“Not really, no.” You unscrewed your lip gloss and began applying it. “But it’s been a while.”

“Huh.” A few seconds passed, then he asked, “And I can’t wear what I’m wearing right now?”

“Garrett, you planned this date.” You turned in your chair to look at him. “You specifically told me to dress semi-formal.”

“Yeah, obviously. I know.” The immediate response was reassuring, but the lingering frown wasn’t. “Just checking,” he added quickly. “Keeping you on your toes and all that.”

You stared at him and he stared right back, attempting what was perhaps the worst act of confidence you'd ever seen.

“Sure…” you said slowly, fighting to keep a laugh from escaping.

Garrett nodded once, as if he’d successfully recovered the situation, immediately grabbing his phone again. Apparently, whatever fictional reservation he was searching for had yet to reveal itself.

“Are you excited?” You asked innocently. “Because from where I’m sitting, you don’t exactly look excited for our date night.”

His head snapped up. 

“What? I’m so excited.”

Before you could respond, he pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room, coming to stand behind your chair.

“Honey,” he said, resting his hands on your shoulders, “This is going to be the best date of your life.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” The answer came in the most ‘duh’ tone imaginable.

As if the very suggestion that he wouldn't be excited to take you on a date was completely absurd. As if he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes conducting a full-scale investigation into a restaurant that didn't exist.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

At that point, you decided it was probably best to abandon the prank before things escalated any further. Because now Garrett Graham had something to prove.

And knowing your boyfriend, that was a dangerous thing.

Another five minutes and he’d probably be making dinner reservations, buying flowers, and somehow chartering a helicopter just to demonstrate that he was, in fact, capable of pulling off the best date night of your life on a moment's notice.

“It's just…” You rose from your chair and turned to face him, leaving only a few inches between you. Tilting your head back, you met his gaze. “How can you be excited for a date that doesn't exist?”

For a second, Garrett simply stared at you, and then you watched the realization hit in real time. Confusion flashed across his face first, followed quickly by suspicion, before finally settling into understanding as all the pieces clicked into place and he realized exactly what you’d been doing.

His eyes narrowed at the burst of laughter that spilled from your lips.

“Baby, there’s no date,” you admitted, burying your face against his chest as you wrapped your arms around his waist. Looking up at him, you were immediately met with the most offended expression you’d ever seen on your boyfriend.

His mouth opened, then closed again as he searched for a response. For a moment, it looked like he was about to launch into an argument, but instead he simply shook his head, pulled you closer, and wrapped his arms around you.

“There can be, though.”

Another laugh escaped you.

“It’s okay. It was just a prank.”

“Yeah, but you’re already dressed up for that fake date, so…”

“So?” You prompted.

“I’m taking you out.”

You blinked. “Oh, really?”

“Yup.” 

The answer came without a second of hesitation. Still holding onto you with one arm, he reached over and grabbed the leather jacket hanging from your chair, along with his bag.

“Let’s go,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’ll stop by my place so I can change, and then we can go to that place you’ve been wanting to try.”

You huffed out a laugh.

“There is no place, Garrett.”

“Then make one up.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and pointed at you. “You’re the one who invented an entire date night. Surely you can invent a restaurant, too.”

You laughed again as he reached for your hand.

Somehow, despite being the one who’d gotten pranked, your boyfriend had still found a way to turn it into an actual date.

Which, admittedly, was a very Garrett Graham thing to do.

A dramatic moan rips out of his throat. You slap your palm over his mouth and his blue eyes twinkle on yours.

He peels it off his lips, amusement flickering across his face. “You can be rough with me, bun. I can take it.”

“Bun?” You echo with a raised eyebrow as you unclasp your bra.

“Bunny,” he grins, his eyes zeroing on your tits as the lace material falls as well. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, his rough fingers reaching out, looping around the band of your panties at your hips, tugging them lower. A deep groan rumbles out of him, vibrating against your lips.

He dips in kissing his way up your stomach, over your chest, up your neck, his hands resting against your back, pulling you into him.

“I was minding my business, Di Laurentis. You are the one that begged me to come here—”

“I did,” he answers honestly. “And aren’t you glad you did?” The look he gives you makes your heart flutter, dimples popping into his cheeks. “You love me.”

“I like you,” you say, fighting a grin.

“Give it another week. You’ll be at the bar next weekend fighting for my attention. I know it. I’m perfect.” His mouth curves. “Boyfriend material.”

“Boyfriend material? Says the man that’s never asked me on a date,” you whisper as your lips press against his neck. You feel his pulse race and, as cool as he’s playing it, you can tell he’s nervous.

“Lies. Didn’t know that was still an option,” he says as your mouth traces a path over his chest and stomach as you sink to your knees. “You gonna say ‘yes’ this time?”

“You’re keeping score?”

“I always keep score,” he huffs out a breath.

Your fingertips skim along the sharp lines of his hips, making the muscles in his stomach tighten. “You’re growing on me, Dean. What can I say,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift as a stupid-excited laugh slips out of him. Steam curls through the room as the water grows warmer. “You know what?”

“What?” You murmur as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. His breath catches in his chest when you press a kiss on his tip.

“I…” He mumbles, watching you lay out your tongue and glide up the side of him. The thought dies behind his eyes in real time. “S’unimportant,” he murmurs as your lips wrap around him.

You take him in your mouth inch by inch, his lips parting, brows softening. The wet sounds of your mouth on him leave him reaching out and squeezing the edge of the sink for support, his other hand resting on your head.

“There is no way you’re gonna stand there and pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing all night,” he grits out.

You pop off his cock and the breath punches out of him, spitting on his dick before you smile, stroking him lazily with your fist. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” he grins. “You spent three hours winding me up.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he snorts. “You love that shit.”

“Maybe a bit,” you whisper, your breath ghosting across him and making goosebumps fan across his tanned skin.

“Knew it.” Dean smirks, that smug little look he had when he walked out with his arm around your shoulders at Malone’s tugging at his lips again.

“I was just having fun,” you look up at him through your lashes, far too innocently for how you’re working him in your hand.

“Trust me, I noticed. Love when you tease me—love when I get anything from you.”

You roll your eyes, warmth pooling in your cheeks, running your nails up his thighs.

“I’d sit through another three hours of it.”

“That so?” You ask.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his hold on your head gets tighter, guiding you back toward him. You wrap your lips around him and his jaw clicks, eyes rolling back in his head when you let him use you a little. The head of his cock kisses the back of your throat, spit seeping from the corners of your lips.

“So fuckin’ good at suckin’ cock, baby. Jesus Christ,” he rambles breathily, thrusting deeply a few more times before giving you back the reins.

You moan around him and his eyes screw shut, the thick muscles in his thigh shaking as his dick swells on your tongue.

“Not gonna last if you let me use you like this. I’m gonna—Fuck,” he gasps when you release him from your lips, stroking him with your tongue flat and your breasts pressed together.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, white ropes of cum landing on your tongue and chest as steam hangs heavy in the air.

Dean catches your wrists, pulling you up off your feet and into his arms. You wrap your legs around his trim waist, melting into him as he breathes laboriously, coming down from his high.

“Goddamn, baby. You’re so fuckin’ good at that,” he mumbles breathlessly. “Do you know how good you make me feel?”

You hum into the kiss, catching his bottom lip between your teeth as he steps into the shower with you.

The water is warm, remnants of his release rise off your body, swirling down the drain. He tilts in, tongue slipping in your mouth before your lips even touch.

Your gasp breaks the kiss as your back presses against the cool tile wall, so cold it sends shivers straight through you.

Dean reaches for the shower head, taking it off the base and turning it to a steady stream. He sets you down on your feet and your brows furrow in confusion because no matter how many times you've found yourself in Dean Di Laurentis's shower, he's never done this.

He kicks your foot out gently. The corner of his mouth curls as he sees you start to put the pieces together.

“Dean?” You breathe out a laugh.

“You ever done this before?” His voice drops as he grips the detachable shower head in one hand, the other pinned just over your shoulder as he looks down at you.

“I mean maybe,” you admit.

“Well,” he laughs, clearly excited by the idea. “We’re gonna have to talk about that later. No one’s ever done it for you?” His eyes flick down as the warm water sprays against your thigh, working upward.

You bite your lip and shake your head ‘no’.

“How romantic,” he whispers. “I’m your first and only. Love that for me.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, your focus falling to the narrow space between you.

You gasp when the water hits your pussy, surging over your clit and making your knees buckle. Your arms quickly wrap around his neck for support, a moan echoing through the bathroom.

“Baby… Fuck, baby. Too much?”

You shake your head rapidly, feeling your heartbeat climb, nails clawing into his skin. “So good,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”

Dean moves his arm from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer, rocking slowly, increasing and decreasing the intensity, making you throw your head back in pleasure. Dean’s lips quickly lock onto your skin, kissing you harshly before biting down, making you cry out.

He watches your face as you drift closer and closer to your breaking point.

You feel your pleasure building fast, the pressure mounting stronger than anything you’ve felt in a while.

“You like that, huh?” He grunts.

”Mhmm,“ you whimper as your vision starts to cloud.

“I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. This is just a warm-up—”

“Dean!” You cut him off, crying out in pleasure as you wrap your arms tighter, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He lets out a devilish laugh, forcing the stream a little closer. “D-Dean,” you stutter.

“What, angel?” Your body jolts as you fight him slightly in overstimulation, continuing to ride the waves of your orgasm, pussy clenching around nothing. ”Does it feel good, baby?“

“Yes, fuck!”

“Then just take it,” he soothes, your heart pounding in your chest as you reach for air. Dean returns the water head to the base, cranking up the heat, pressing you into the wall once more as you continue to kiss, ears ringing, body tingling head to toe.

“Fuck me?” You whimper, desperation laced in your tone, but he’s already reaching above the shower, patting around the windowsill until he finds a condom.

He brings the package to his teeth and tears it open, watching as you roll it on, the thick weight of his cock squeezed in rubber.

Dean reaches down, taking a grip on your thigh, looping it in his bicep, muscles flexing as he lifts you slightly.

“Shit,” you whine as he circles your sensitive clit with the ribbed rubber on his tip, making him smirk. Dean traces the tip through your folds, teasing your entrance.

“Dean. Please.“

“Please what?” He teases you again.

“Fuck. Me.”

“Baby…” He lets out a gravelly laugh. “Beg harder.” Dean swipes his head across your clit again, making you gasp.

”Dean, can you please fuck me? Ple—” He thrusts his cock into you, rutting up, breasts pressing flush to his broad chest as he steals your breath.

Dean grabs your ass and picks you up swiftly, causing you to sink deeper on his cock and moan onto his lips.

He pins you to the wall, tilting in, drilling you into the tile quickly. His strokes are merciless, incredibly deep as you cling to his shoulders again. The hot water cascades down your body, flowing between the two of you, the sensation on your clit alone almost enough to send you over the edge. But it’s not enough. You want to feel him.

“Baby,” you murmur and he melts at the sound of your voice, pushing himself even closer. “Can we… I—” Your voice stutters with each snap of his hips.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs against your mouth.

“I wanna feel you—”

His hips lose their rhythm and his reaction speaks for itself, but he’d never leave it like that. “You serious?” He pants, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you whisper, and he growls out a breath. “Is that okay?”

“Begging too? Fuck me. You even gotta ask?”

“Take it off,” you whisper, and the look on his face is so pleased it nearly makes you laugh.

“Hands against the wall,” he mumbles, chuckling under his breath when he sees your legs trembling after he pulls out.

He grabs the condom by the tip, tugging it off, letting it slip down the drain without a second thought.

Dean grabs your hips impatiently, bullying you toward the wall before pressing himself deep. Your eyes slam shut as you tip your face toward the ceiling. Your mouth falls open as his big hand comes up, curving around your shoulder, the other drifting to your waist, using his hold to fuck into you harder.

“Holy fucking shit,” he pants, every muscle at work, water flying with each rough clap of his hips against your ass, his blonde fringe, wet and messy when you look over your shoulder, his parted lips curling into a smirk.

“Dean…” You sigh, feeling yourself about to cum again, your head throbbing with your heartbeat.

“Yeah? That’s the spot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you whine, cock-drunk, thighs quivering uncontrollably, making you lose your rhythm.

“Let me, baby. Let me,” he groans.

Dean fucks into you, striking the perfect angle, making your muscles tense up. “Shit… Right there, Dean. You’re gonna make me cum.“

“Pussy was made for me. Cum on my cock.”

You let out a cry far louder than intended in a house full of hockey boys. You cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

Dean quickly grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth, shaking his head ‘no’ as he tacks it and the other to the small of your back.

“Never do that again,” he pants through parted lips, punctuating each word with a rough snap of his hips.

The knot in your stomach tightens—threatening to snap. “Dean,” you gasp.

“Me too, baby. Fuck. Me too,” he moans, as his hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, squeezing just enough to have your eyes rolling back.

Your orgasm spills over, your hand coming back to wrap around his wrist, pussy squeezing him so tight he’s hissing out a breath.

“That’s it… Good fuckin’ girl.”

His hips snap into you one last time, filling you with his warmth, his blunt nails digging into your skin as his rhythm stutters out.

You can feel everything at this moment—the spasm of your sex and the throb of his cock. Your head falls between your shoulders in exhaustion, but he uses his hold on your neck to guide you back to his lips instead.

A soft laugh escapes him against your mouth, your post-sex giggles bouncing off the walls of the shower as you soften into his arms.

“Aren’t you glad you came home with me?”

You go to say something smart, but he kisses you instead, stealing the words before they leave your mouth. He turns you back toward him, not letting you get far at all. His big arms wrap around you, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What I tell you, huh?” He grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Shower sex is hot.”

“Mhmm,” you hum into yet another kiss and he can’t stop grinning.

“Tomorrow. Seven PM. You and me. What do you say?”

Your lips brush over the top of his, the tension between you thick and charged as you make him sweat it out a little more. His fingers flex against your waist.

“Okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, unable to hide your smile.

“That a yes?” He asks.

“That’s a yes,” you answer, and he sighs in relief.

“I mean did you wanna hear the speech I had in case you said ‘no’ again?”

“Was it good?” You taunt.

“Amazing—pathetic as hell,” he answers simply, his hand following the rush of water down your skin.

Your fingers drift into his hair, tugging at the root and he smiles, the stupid-pretty dimples popping yet again, making you absolutely weak.

“See? You love me.”

“I like like you at best,” you smile, matching his hushed tone.

And for the first time all night, Dean goes quiet. A smile pulls at his lips as he tilts in, cupping your cheeks in his hands.

“No shit? Like like, huh?” He teases against your mouth, chuckling when he says it back. “That’s pretty goddamn close if you ask me—”

“Don’t start,” you whisper, fighting a smile before he kisses you.

“Give it a week.”

You didn’t do “regret.”

Regret implied failure somewhere along the carefully constructed architecture of your life, it implied you had made a wrong turn and now sat mourning an alternate version of events where you had somehow known better and you hated that mentality. Things happened, people changed, choices got made and you dealt with them. End of story.

Dean Di Laurentis was not one of your regrets.

He wasn’t just some ex-boyfriend reduced to funny anecdotes over cocktails and late-night gossip with friends. Dean had been your first love in every embarrassingly real sense of the word, the one that settled deep inside your bones and permanently rearranged them afterward and you had been his right back. Every awkward discovery, every fumbling touch, every late night conversation about sex, fear and the future had happened side by side, learning each other carefully until it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began.

People always assumed you’d dated longer than you actually had whenever his name slipped into conversation, maybe because of the weight attached to it. The relationship itself had lasted barely over a year but it had consumed enough emotional space to feel infinite.

That single year had carved through your life with enough intensity to feel longer than most marriages.

Before that, there had been years of orbiting each other helplessly and cautiously, dancing around feelings both of you recognized long before either admitted until eventually neither of you remembered who had caved first.

Even now, you would both choose the word “sacred” because you had been each other’s “one and only”.

Even years later, the relationship remained untouched territory between you both, so sacred that your names still occasionally stuck in each other’s throats like some forbidden incantation. Friends joked about exes casually while you and Dean handled each other like loaded weapons.

You had been the one to end it before he left for Briar and it wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That would've made things easier.

Dean had his future lined up with terrifying precision back then, hockey, school, structure and goals stacked neatly one after another while you still felt haunted by pieces of your past you couldn’t quite outrun yet. You loved him enough to know he deserved freedom, deserved college without having to constantly worry about the girl still trying to keep herself afloat hundreds of miles away carrying baggage heavy enough for two people.

Dean had disagreed immediately, actually, “disagreed” was putting it lightly. He had outright said ‘no’ like a breakup required mutual consent.

For six straight weeks afterward, he ignored the fact you’d ended things entirely. He kept showing up after your classes, kept texting you good morning and kept trying to take you to dinner as if stubborn consistency alone could undo heartbreak if he refused to acknowledge it properly. Eventually, you had to stop answering altogether because every time you saw him, you almost folded.

The breakup itself stayed strangely gentle despite that. There had been no screaming, betrayal or dramatic ending, only two people loving each other badly timed.

Years later, you still existed in each other’s peripheral vision through social media and mutual friends. You knew about his hockey career because his face appeared online often enough for avoidance to become impossible. Sometimes you allowed yourself a few extra seconds reading comments underneath interviews or game clips before forcing yourself to scroll away without interacting while Dean did the same.

He knew about your travelling, your art and the gallery work, as well as the occasional blurry appearances of people beside you in pictures. He never believed any of the men lasted very long, not because he was arrogant enough to think nobody else could have you but because somewhere deep down he couldn’t picture anyone understanding you correctly.

When nights got too quiet, he reread old messages he absolutely should’ve deleted years ago but tonight had been particularly bad.

The Briar Hawks had lost earlier that week and apparently half the team decided the healthiest way to cope with that was snapping at each other until morale hit rock bottom. Practices had turned tense, locker room conversations shorter and sharper, everyone carrying irritation under their skin like bruises they kept pressing on purpose. Dean usually handled losses well, but after days of teammates barking at each other and coaches running everyone into the ground, something inside him started feeling worn thin in a way hockey normally never managed, so he escaped. 

By the time he got back to his family’s New York penthouse, he’d convinced himself silence would fix whatever had been clawing at him lately. Instead, the place just felt empty in expensive ways. Too much glass, too much space and too many rooms carrying memories of you around like ghosts that paid rent there.

Especially once he found that old video in his phone. He recognized the exact window immediately because he stood in front of it now, the city spread before him in dark glittering lights while your younger voice filled the room through his phone speakers.

The video shook slightly as you filmed the skyline from his bedroom years ago, your laughter airy and careless while midnight painted the windows black.

“That’s so beautiful,” you’d murmured softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

“Of me?” younger Dean joked instantly, voice muffled into the mattress somewhere next to you. He could practically remember himself face-down and exhausted after sex. “I hope not.”

Your laughter burst out louder then, making the camera jerk slightly.

“And I hope this is one of those things where you’re filming the view but actually calling me beautiful…That’d be romantic.”

“I bet you’d love that,” you cackled.

“Not more than I do you.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. He remembered exactly how that video ended, the laughter dissolving slowly into kissing, into tangled sheets, whispered conversations and love making that lasted until dawn turned the skyline pale blue and gold.

He had never revisited those videos before tonight but something about hearing your younger laugh again cracked open a weak spot he’d spent years trying to reinforce.

Meanwhile, you sat tucked inside a crowded New York bar with old friends, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt while someone retold a story you’d already heard three separate times over the years. Your trip was short, barely a few days for work but it justified reconnecting with people you missed whenever life slowed down long enough to let nostalgia sneak in.

Dean knew exactly where you were because of one Instagram story, one tagged location…and one bad idea.

Your phone buzzed against the sticky wooden table just as you lifted your drink toward your mouth.

The second you saw his name, everything inside you stalled. 

Your laughter cut off so abruptly one of your friends frowned instantly. “Y/n? You okay?”

“What?” You blinked hard, lifting your brows too quickly as you straightened. “Yeah. Yes. I just– excuse me one second.”

You grabbed your phone before you could think better of it and slipped outside into the cool night air of the city, the muffled bass from the bar fading behind you as you pressed answer and raised the phone to your ear.

Ten full seconds of silence followed. There was no greeting or breathing, so naturally you started thinking that maybe he called accidentally or lost his nerve halfway through because surely…this was a bad idea, right?

“How’s New York?” he asked suddenly, voice finally cutting through the silence.

You smiled despite yourself. You had heard his voice plenty over the years through interviews, videos teammates posted and clips floating around online after games but none of those had been meant for you. This was. 

You could hear the exhaustion underneath it now that it wasn’t filtered through screens and public smiles.

“I have a feeling you already know,” you replied calmly, leaning your shoulder against the brick wall outside the bar.

Silence stretched again as you weighed your next words carefully, debating whether to let him hide behind casual conversation or acknowledge that you knew him too well for that. In the end, the defeated undertone in his voice made the decision for you. The Hawks had lost, sure, but Dean didn’t call only because of hockey.

“That bad, huh?” you asked softly.

You heard him exhale quietly on the other end. “It might get worse if I don’t do this.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“Fail at being a proper ex.” The soft laugh escaping him pulled one from you too before you could stop it.

“We’re awful at it,” you admitted.

Dean laughed properly then, low and warm through the speaker. “It’s pathetic,” he said. “On my part, at least…Seems like you’re doing alright.”

You looked down at the pavement, smiling faintly to yourself. “I still picked up on the first ring.”

“It rang three times on my end,” he argued. He tried sounding teasing about it but you caught the truth underneath. For a second there, he’d genuinely thought maybe you finally wouldn’t answer anymore.

You laughed softly. “Once on mine. And I’m pretty sure I was the one who called last time…or the one before that.”

Dean leaned his head back against the penthouse window behind him, smiling helplessly to himself. God, you still sounded exactly the same…same voice and cadence, same way of speaking that made him feel seventeen and stupidly in love all over again.

“I’ll always pick up,” you reminded him quietly, turning your head to glance through the bar windows at your friends inside. “You know that.”

“And I’ll always call,” he admitted. “Hoping you’ll come.”

The honesty in it hit you straight in the chest. You heard him clear his throat awkwardly afterward, probably rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt too exposed.

“I’m at The Heyward…if you–”

Your thoughts disappeared entirely. One second you had common sense and self-preservation and the next your brain had turned into static. Seeing him tonight became the only coherent thing left glowing obnoxiously bright in the middle of it all.

“I can…” you interrupted softly before you could stop yourself. You almost heard your own better judgment trying to physically drag the words back down your throat.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

“I can be there in maybe…thirty minutes.”

The relief on the other end was immediate even if Dean tried hiding it. He let out a breath you were pretty sure he’d been holding since you answered.

“I can text you the address.”

You chuckled quietly, your hand already resting on the handle of the bar door. “I’ve never had trouble finding my way back.”

Both of you fell silent for half a second after. There it was…the truth neither of you had ever really escaped. You thought you were over it and done, you thought you were through. Thought maybe distance, years and other people would've eventually worn the feelings down into something manageable but there was no denying perfection once you’d already had it.

“No,” Dean murmured under his breath. “That you haven’t.”

You were grateful the night had already started winding down by the time he called.

Back inside, you announced vaguely that you were exhausted, that work had drained you and you needed sleep before your meetings tomorrow. Conveniently, your departure encouraged a few other people to call it a night too, which kept anyone from paying too much attention to your sudden need to leave.

You paid your tab, hugged your friends goodbye and stepped into a car fully aware you were actively driving toward the destruction of every sensible decision you’d made over the past few years…and worse? You didn’t even feel guilty about it.

The route to Dean’s place came back to you embarrassingly easily, every turn felt familiar enough to make your chest tighten. Somewhere during the drive, you realized there had been dozens of opportunities to stop this before it happened, yet you ignored every single one.

By the time you walked into the building lobby, your mind had gone almost completely blank again.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless, your pulse hammering harder with every passing second which was enough time to turn around, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea but when the doors slid open… there he was.

Standing barefoot in the doorway already waiting for you, completely unaware of the plans he was wrecking and probably even less aware of how deeply fucked up this whole thing was.

Dean smiled the second he saw you and you were sure you’d seen much hotter men…you just really couldn’t remember when!

He carried you into the bedroom, bodies fused together as you kissed with a desperation that bordered on starvation. It was as if the air in the room had vanished, leaving only the scent of him and the heat of your skin as the only things keeping you alive. The room was slick and modern, all clean lines and muted tones but the atmosphere between you was chaotic and primal. Your tongues clashed and danced, a familiar rhythm that felt like coming home after a lifetime in exile.

Clothes were stripped away in a frantic blur of grasping hands and impatient tugs, discarded carelessly on the polished floors. The moment your skin was bare, he didn't waste a second. He pressed you back onto the bed, mouth immediately finding your breasts. He sucked your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peaking tips with a hunger that made your toes curl. You arched your back, breath hitching in jagged gasps as he alternated between biting and sucking, marking you as his own again.

He moved then, sliding down the length of your body and knelt at the foot of the bed, his presence commanding and focused. He reached down, large hands gripping your thighs, massaging the soft flesh with a firm pressure that forced your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze.

As he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours with a deep, piercing stare that communicated everything the silence couldn't. There was an intense, wordless understanding in his expression, a recognition of every curve and every hidden need of your body. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and exactly how to break you.

When his tongue first made contact with your clit, a violent shiver racked your entire frame. He licked you with long, slow strokes, savoring the taste of your arousal. He began to suck the small, sensitive nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent electric shocks straight to your core. You let out a loud moan, fingers diving into his hair, gripping the strands tightly and pushing his face harder against your pussy.

He responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you. The intrusion was sudden and perfect, filling you up while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He began to pump his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hitting your G-spot with a precision that made your hips jerk uncontrollably to meet him halfway.

The world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was no past or future, only the friction of his fingers and the wet, sliding warmth of his tongue. You watched him through hooded eyes, seeing the way he focused on your pleasure, the way his jaw tightened as he worked to bring you to the edge.

Your moans became a constant, melodic soundtrack to the act, filling the modern silence of the room. You couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, the mental noise had been drowned out by the sheer intensity of the physical sensation. Your mind stopped processing language, stopped questioning and fearing. Even your internal monologue dissolved into a single, echoing "ah" that vibrated through your soul.

He increased the pace, fingers fluttering inside you while his tongue flicked faster and harder against your clit. He was driving you toward a cliff and you were leaning into the fall. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, legs shaking as the tension built into an unbearable coil in your lower belly.

The orgasm hit you hard. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of ecstasy. You screamed into the quiet room, your back arching off the mattress as your vision blurred. Every nerve ending fired at once, a blinding explosion of white light and heat that left you breathless and trembling. You collapsed back into the sheets, your chest heaving, staring down at him with wide, glazed eyes as the aftershocks continued to ripple through your body.

He didn't let you linger in the afterglow for long. He began to crawl back up the bed, lips trailing a path of fire across your inner thighs, your stomach and your breasts, kissing every inch of skin as if he were reclaiming territory. When his lips finally crashed against yours, the kiss was different, no longer just desperate but possessive and deep. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your tongue tangling with his, while your hand slid down between your bodies to find him.

The moment your fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of need shot through you. It was thick, pulsing and scorching hot. You gripped him firmly, jerking him with a rhythm that spoke of a hunger you had suppressed for far too long. During the months you had spent with other men, you had tried to bury the memory of this specific weight, this specific hardness but the second you touched him, the comparisons were devastating. No one else compared to this.

He let out a low groan right into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. With a sudden, powerful movement, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach. You gasped as your chest hit the mattress, your face now aligned with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked out at the view you loved so much, to the city lights shimmering like fallen stars but the scenery was secondary to the weight of him pressing you down.

Dean moved to your ear, licking the lobe before sucking it deeply, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He trailed kisses behind your ears and down the nape of your neck, his hot breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. You were both breathing heavily, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and arousal.

He reached for a pillow, shoving it swiftly under your hips. The movement propped your ass up, arching your back and tilting your pelvis perfectly toward him. In one fluid, decisive motion, he aligned his head against your still pulsing, dripping wet cunt and thrusted home.

The impact was seismic. You both groaned in unison, a raw, primal sound of relief. Your head fell onto the mattress and he collapsed his forehead against your shoulder blades, both of you frozen for a moment as you breathed through the sheer intensity of the fullness. He was bare, sliding deep into your heat without any barrier and the feeling of skin-on-skin friction was overwhelming. Any thought of consequences or logic was incinerated, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled every single void inside you.

As he began to move, the friction was exquisite. He started with slow, heavy thrusts that seemed to reach your very soul, pulling back until he was almost out before slamming back in. You let out throaty whines as your fingers clawed at the sheets and your vision began to blur, making the city lights outside merge into a haze of color that mirrored the fog settling over your mind.

He reached down, hand searching for yours. Instead of letting you grip the linens, he interlocked his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the bed. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his cock in your pussy, was too much.

"Holy...angh, fuck!" you breathed shakily, squeezing his fingers as his large hand completely encompassed yours.

"I know you’ve missed this," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin.

"How...?" you managed to gasp out between broken moans, hips instinctively bucking back against him, begging for more.

"Because I have..." he groaned, pace quickening as the sound of your wet bodies slapping together filled the room. "And fuck...you're so tight. Reminds me exactly whose cock you were molded for first."

The words fueled the fire. He began to fuck you with a relentless, driving force, each thrust hitting your G-spot with bruising precision. The feeling of being claimed after so long was intoxicating, this wasn't just sex, it was an erasure of everyone else who had touched you in his absence. You felt stretched, filled and completely dominated.

As the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before, he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Enjoying the view?" he whispered, feeling the internal muscles of your pussy begin to squeeze and ripple around him in desperate spasms.

You let out a breathless, broken laugh that dissolved into a loud moan. "Can't...can't really focus on liking anything but you right now."

That confession broke his last shred of restraint. He abandoned the slow rhythm for a frantic, punishing pace, his fingers squeezing yours so hard it almost hurt but you welcomed the pain. 

You were spiraling, the pleasure building into a towering wall of heat.

The climax hit you both simultaneously. You screamed into the mattress as your walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic contractions. He let out a loud grunt, thrusting one last time as deep as he could go, filling you with his hot, thick cum. You both shook violently, locked together in a crushing embrace, the world outside the window disappearing entirely as you drowned in the sensation of finally being whole again.

For a few long, heavy seconds, neither of you moved. You remained as you were, the only sound in the room was the ragged, synchronized gasping of your breath. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight pressing you firmly into the mattress, chest heaving against your back. You could feel him still pulsing, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending waves of heat through your core as he continued to leak his thick, hot cum deep into your womb.

Slowly, he began to move, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull out. The sensation of his thick cock sliding against your sensitized walls was almost too much to bear yet the friction was delicious, dragging against every nerve ending that was still screaming from the climax. But as he withdrew, he found he couldn't fully let go. The tight, wet grip of your pussy was clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.

He let out a low, shaky breath and instead of pulling away completely, he began to slowly fuck the remaining cum back into you. “Don’t you spill a single drop.”

He pushed in, a slow and agonizingly deep slide that filled you to the absolute brim.

"Ugh fuck…" you moaned, the sound raw, vibrating through the mattress. The feeling of being stretched wide again, combined with the slickness of his seed acting as a lubricant, made the sensation incredibly intense.

He paused for a heartbeat, letting you feel the sheer girth of him, before he slid back out almost entirely, until only the head remained teasing your entrance and then slammed back in with a heavy, wet thud.

"Mmmh…" you whined, voice breaking.

The sounds were obscene, the loud, squelching slap-squish of your wet bodies colliding echoing through the quiet room. Every thrust sounded like a splash, the excess cum and your own juices bubbling around the point of impact. It was a primal, messy sound that only served to heighten the eroticism of the moment.

You couldn't find words anymore. Instead, you began to hum, a low, vibrating sound in the back of your throat that mirrored the pleasure radiating through your lower body. Your entire frame began to quake, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and traveled up your spine.

Inside, your pussy was in chaos. The walls were spasming, clamping down on his cock in involuntary, rhythmic pulses. Each time he pushed in, your muscles gripped him with a desperate, milking intensity, squeezing him tight as if trying to draw every last drop of pleasure from his body. You were a trembling mess beneath him, completely undone, shivering through the exquisite torture of those slow, wet and deep thrusts.

In between slow kisses and another round of loving, unhurried sex beneath the steaming spray of the shower, you somehow found your way back to his bed again, skin damp, limbs heavy and loose from exhaustion and familiarity. The city lights spilled through the massive windows in streaks of gold and white, cutting across the sheets and over Dean’s bare chest as he laid facing you, one arm tucked beneath his pillow while the other traced lazy paths up and down your naked arm, fingertips catching on goosebumps every now and then. 

Your own hand moved over his face just as slowly, mapping features you already knew by heart but still wanted to relearn anyway, the sharper line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the mouth that always looked seconds away from either a grin or trouble. Time had matured him in unfair ways. He looked older now, rougher around the edges, broader everywhere and yet the expression in his eyes while looking at you still carried traces of the boy who once refused to let you break up with him for six straight weeks.

“What were you thinking?” you asked softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beneath you both.

Dean’s eyes stayed on yours while his thumb dragged slowly over your shoulder. “That I needed to get you,” he admitted quietly. “The screen wasn’t cutting it anymore.”

Your thumb lowered to his lips, tracing the soft fullness of them while silence settled comfortably around you again. The truth was neither of you had been thinking much at all tonight. You had simply tripped into each other all over again, like muscle memory, like every version of yourselves somehow still led back here no matter how much distance or time you forced in between. Every conversation with Dean eventually became this strange gravity neither of you ever fully escaped.

His hand slid from your shoulder higher, warm palm settling around your neck as he tugged you closer across the pillows. “What’s so bad about a little lovin’?” he murmured with a crooked grin, the words brushing teasingly against your lips before he kissed you again, slow at first and then deep enough to make your chest ache.

Your heart practically sighed at the feeling while your brain cursed it immediately after. 

“I only see him as a friend” it told you, which was the biggest lie it ever said.

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.