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vacation is almost over!! ☀️✈️ i’m coming home tomorrow night, and that means writing officially starts again. if all goes well, you can expect the first update on friday or saturday. i missed writing (and all of you) so much, and i seriously can’t wait to get back into it 🤍
summary — you only wanted beau to pay attention to you during movie night. unfortunately, once he realizes exactly what you’re doing, he has no intention of staying sweet about it.
warnings — 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, teasing, brat-taming, clothed grinding, thigh riding, fingering, oral sex both ways, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, dirty talk, hair pulling, spanking, light choking, rough but consensual sex, overstimulation & aftercare.
word count — 4,011.
author note — honestly, what did i just write?? i hope you like it, because i think i need holy water after this one. also, will i be seeing some of you at the Off Campus convention in Paris next year? 👀
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ULTIMATE MASTERLIST)
The movie had lost you twenty minutes ago.
Technically, that wasn’t Beau’s fault.
He’d picked the movie because you said you wanted something easy, the kind neither of you had to think too hard about. Something that could play in the background while you curled up together on his couch and pretended every small touch didn’t feel like it might turn into something else.
Three months in, and it still didn’t take much for things to get out of hand.
It was his hand on your thigh, his mouth brushing your temple, the low warmth of his body behind yours as he pulled you closer under the blanket because you’d claimed you were cold.
You weren’t cold, not really.
But your sleep shorts were tiny, Beau’s apartment was dim, and the movie had been playing for almost forty minutes while Beau kissed your temple, held you close, and acted like being sweet all night was a reasonable thing to do.
Which was nice.
It was.
Beau was good at being nice, too good sometimes. He had a way of making you feel taken care of without making a whole thing out of it — quiet touches, easy patience, his thumb moving lazily over your hip while the television flickered across the room.
The problem was that his version of nice had started to feel like a challenge, so you shifted against him.
At first, it was subtle, just a small shift under the blanket as your hips settled back against his and your thigh slid over his. Beau gave you nothing, except for the way his arm tightened around your waist.
A few minutes later, you did it again, slower this time, a little less like an accident and a little more like a question.
His hand stilled on your hip, and you kept your eyes on the screen like you hadn’t done anything at all.
Behind you, Beau took a slow breath, his chest rising against your back.
“You good?” His voice was low.
“Mhm,” you hummed, still watching the movie.
“You sure?”
“You sure?”
“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you said, still not looking at him.
His thumb started moving again, slower this time.
You hid your smile against the blanket.
For a little while, Beau let you pretend you were getting away with it.
That was the part that got under your skin.
Beau stayed quiet behind you, warm and solid, one hand resting low on your stomach while his breath brushed the back of your neck. He let you shift, let you press back, let your fingers trail along his forearm like you weren’t very obviously testing him.
One more shift of your hips, and you felt him getting hard behind you.
Beau’s hand tightened low on your stomach while the movie kept playing like either of you still cared.
Neither of you moved until the screen froze, and you blinked at it before realizing Beau had paused the movie.
The silence that followed was awful in a way that made your whole body go hot, especially when his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.
“You’re either going to sit still,” Beau murmured, his voice calm against your ear, “or you’re going to tell me why you keep pressing back against me.”
You kept your eyes on the frozen screen. “Maybe you’re just too close.”
“No?” His hand tightened low on your stomach. “You want me to move?”
“I told you,” you murmured. “I’m cold.”
Beau’s hand slipped from your stomach to your thigh, fingers spreading slowly over the bare skin your shorts didn’t cover.
“Funny.” His voice was low against your ear. “You keep saying cold, but you feel pretty warm to me.”
“What, I can’t cuddle with my boyfriend?”
“You can.” His hand moved higher. “But if you keep rubbing against me like that, I’m going to stop letting you act innocent.”
You swallowed hard.
The change in his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau noticed that too.
A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, before he pulled you fully into his lap. Not rough, not yet — just firm enough that your body went where he wanted it, your back against his chest and your legs tucked over one of his thighs beneath the blanket.
“There,” he said. “If you want to move so badly, use my thigh.”
Your breath caught around his name. “Beau.”
“No, don’t get shy now.” His mouth brushed the side of your neck. “You were brave enough when you thought I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”
The words went straight between your thighs.
You tried to turn your face away, but his hand came up to your jaw, gentle and firm at once, guiding you back just enough for him to watch what his words did to you.
“You wanted my attention.” His voice stayed low. “Now you have it.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
His thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make the rest of your sentence disappear.
Beau’s hand left your jaw and trailed back down, over your stomach, until his fingers reached the waistband of your shorts.
“No?” His voice stayed low. “You didn’t want to feel me getting hard against you?”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
His fingers slipped just beneath the elastic, close enough to make your whole body tense, but still not where you needed him.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
You hated how quickly those words undid you.
“Maybe,” you got out. “A little.”
“A little?” His voice stayed low. “Sweetheart, that didn’t feel like a little.”
You moved before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his thigh as Beau’s fingers flexed at your waist. The pressure hit immediately, dirty and unfairly good for how little Beau was actually doing. You could feel him behind you, hard against your ass, his breathing low and controlled at your ear, letting you use his thigh because you were the one who had started this.
“That’s it.” His voice was low against your ear. “You wanted to move so badly, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.”
The blanket was still pulled over both of you, the paused movie casting pale flashes across the room, and from the outside, it might have looked almost innocent.
It wasn’t. Not with your shorts riding up your thighs, Beau’s mouth against your neck, and his voice dropping lower every time your hips dragged over him.
“Good girl,” he said. “Look at you, acting innocent while you grind against my thigh.”
You made a small, helpless sound.
His hand slipped beneath your shorts, and every part of you went still.
Beau pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Still cold?”
“You’re mean,” you said.
“Not yet.”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed against you through your panties first.
You were already wet enough that there was no pretending otherwise, and the second he felt it, Beau’s breathing changed.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice went rough against your ear. “You were this wet the whole time?”
Your eyes fluttered, and the truth slipped out before you could make it smaller. “I wanted you to touch me.”
“I know.” His fingers dragged slowly over the damp fabric. “You just wanted me to notice first.”
“You were supposed to be watching the movie.”
“I was trying to.” His fingers moved again. “You made that difficult.”
You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers through your wetness.
His other hand settled low on your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.
“That’s it.” His voice had gone rough in your ear. “Don’t hide from me now.”
You weren’t sure you could, not with his fingers circling your clit beneath the blanket and your hips moving helplessly against his hand, the frozen movie still lighting the room like proof of how quickly he’d stopped caring about it.
“You like my fingers here?” His voice stayed rough in your ear. “Touching you under these little shorts?”
“Beau,” you breathed.
“No, answer me.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. “You wanted me to feel what you were doing to yourself, didn’t you?”
Your breath came out shakily. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
He pushed one finger inside you, then another, slow enough that you felt the stretch, deep enough that your head fell back against his shoulder. His mouth moved along your neck while his fingers curled inside you beneath the blanket, slow and deliberate, until your whole body jolted.
“There.” His voice stayed low in your ear. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”
Your fingers closed around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.
Beau knew the difference.
“Next time, tell me you want my fingers.” His mouth pressed to the side of your neck. “Would’ve saved you all that pretending.”
You tried to answer, but his thumb circled your clit again, and the words disappeared.
He touched you until your legs trembled over his thigh, until the blanket was too warm, your breathing too loud, and the hand at your waist the only thing keeping you from squirming out of his lap.
Beau felt it the second you got close, and his fingers slowed.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you, and Beau’s laugh brushed against your skin.
“Needy girl.” His mouth stayed against your skin.
“Don’t stop.”
“Then say please, sweetheart.”
You turned your face into his neck, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please.”
“Please, what, sweetheart?”
“Please,” you breathed. “Make me come.”
Beau’s control slipped just enough for his hand to tighten at your waist.
His fingers moved faster, firmer, his thumb working your clit while he curled inside you, and you came with your face buried in his neck.
“Good girl,” Beau said, his hand tightening at your waist. “Just like that. Keep grinding against my hand. I want to feel you come.”
Your body shuddered against his, the orgasm hitting hard enough that your thighs clamped around his hand.
He slowed, but his hand stayed between your thighs.
You were still breathing hard when Beau moved beneath you and pulled the blanket away.
Cool air hit your skin as he turned you carefully, laying you back across the couch cushions as he’d finally decided to stop being soft.
Your shorts were crooked, your shirt had ridden up, and your hair was messy against the armrest.
Beau looked down at you, and something in his expression went dark.
“You wanted me to stop being nice,” Beau said, his hand pressing against your thigh. “Spread your legs.”
You did.
His gaze dropped, slow enough to make your skin heat, before lifting back to your face. “Pretty girl.”
The praise hit low, making your whole body go hot.
He pulled your shorts down your legs, your panties sliding down with them, and tossed both somewhere near the coffee table. You should’ve felt exposed, but Beau’s hands were on your thighs before the feeling could settle, pushing them apart as he lowered himself between them.
“You were acting like such a brat five minutes ago,” he said, kissing the inside of your knee. “Now you can’t even look at me.”
“Beau,” you breathed. “Please.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “What do you want?”
You hated that he was going to make you say it, and loved even more that he already knew.
“Your mouth.”
His mouth curved, slow and pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The moment Beau put his mouth on you, your head fell back against the couch.
Beau ate you out like he’d been waiting for the chance, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while his other hand pressed your hips back down every time you tried to move. He stayed controlled at first, slow and deliberate, licking into you before dragging his tongue back to your clit until every wet stroke made your thighs shake.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Beau groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.
“Oh my God,” you breathed.
You felt his mouth curve against you, right before he sucked your clit hard enough to make you cry out.
Somewhere above you, the movie started playing again.
Neither of you’d touched the remote, but the pause must have timed out, because the movie suddenly filled the room again with some dramatic line from a character you had completely forgotten existed.
Beau didn’t stop.
If anything, his grip tightened, holding you down harder.
“You wanted something easy to watch, right?” His mouth dragged over your inner thigh. “So watch it.”
You tried to cover your face, but Beau caught your wrist and pulled it gently back down.
“No hiding, sweetheart.”
His tongue pushed back into you, and your back arched off the couch.
“You wanted my attention.” His mouth moved against you. “Now come for it.”
The second one hit faster than the first, sharpened by how sensitive you still were from his fingers. You came on his mouth with your hands twisted in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders while Beau held you there through every second of it.
He only eased off when you pushed weakly at his head.
He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.
His mouth was wet.
His eyes were worse.
You pulled him down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Beau groaned into your mouth, and it sounded like the last of his patience was finally snapping.
Your hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, and Beau let you push them down just enough before you slipped off the couch onto your knees between his legs.
Beau’s hand slid into your hair immediately, not forcing, just resting there.
His thumb brushed your cheek as your hand closed around him. He was hard and heavy in your hand, and the second his jaw tightened, you wanted to hear what it would take to make him lose control.
You looked up at him, your hand still wrapped around him. “Use your words.”
His gaze held yours. “Open your mouth.”
You did.
Beau’s hand tightened in your hair the second you took him, his head tipping back on a rough breath. For once, Beau looked less controlled, less patient, and when you hollowed your mouth around him, his thighs tensed on either side of you, his fingers flexing against your scalp.
“Fuck.” His voice broke roughly around the word. “Good girl. Just like that.”
The praise made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau’s attention dropped there immediately.
“You like this too?” The words came out rough. “Looking up at me with my cock in your mouth?”
You moaned around him, and Beau’s breath left him in a rough rush.
“Careful, needy girl. Keep making those sounds, and I’m not going to last.”
So you did it again.
He guided you a little more firmly, just enough to make heat spread through your whole body. He didn’t push too far or take more than you gave him, but you could feel his control thinning with every pass of your mouth.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You looked up at him, and Beau’s breath caught.
For a second, you thought he might let himself finish like that.
But Beau pulled you off him with a rough breath, kissed you hard, and dragged you back onto the couch.
“I need to fuck you.” The words dragged roughly against your mouth.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Beau went still, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t have a condom out here.”
“I’m on birth control,” you rushed out. “I’m clean too. Tested last month.”
His breathing was rough, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Me too. Tested last month. All clear.”
His thumb brushed your jaw, careful even now. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t shake.
“Words.”
“I want you inside me.”
His control slipped for half a second. “Fuck.”
He laid you back across the cushions and pushed your thighs open again, settling between them. The couch was too narrow and too soft, leaving you tangled together with your leg hooked around his hip, one of his hands braced near your head and the other holding your thigh open.
When he pushed into you, both of you went quiet, and the stretch stole your breath.
Beau sank into you slowly, control pulled tight in every line of him, his eyes locked on your face like he wanted to watch every second of you taking him. You clung to his shoulders, your nails catching against warm skin beneath his shirt.
“You feel so good.” he got out. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
You tried to move your hips, but Beau kept your thigh pinned open.
“Slow.”
“You’re the one who said you needed to fuck me,” you managed.
Beau’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re the one who started this.”
He pushed deeper, and whatever you were about to say disappeared.
He fucked you slowly at first, controlled and heavy, making you feel every inch of him. He kept you spread open across the couch, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your throat, fucking you slow enough to make every inch feel deliberate.
“You’re so wet,” he said against your skin. “Taking me so well.”
Your nails twisted in his shirt.
“So pretty when you stop pretending to be innocent,” he said against your throat. “This is what you wanted? Me fucking you because you couldn’t sit still?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“No.” His fingers found your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open, and Beau’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady.
“There you go.” His thumb brushed once along your throat. “Take it.”
His rhythm turned harder, heavier.
The couch creaked beneath you, and the movie kept playing, voices and music meaningless in the background while Beau fucked you into the cushions.
One hand stayed warm at your throat. The other held your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
You were close again too soon, and of course Beau felt it; he slowed just enough to make you whine.
“Already?”
“I’m still sensitive.”
“I know.” His mouth brushed over yours. “Come for me one more time.”
“Beau—”
“Turn over.” His hands found your hips. “I want you on your knees.”
Your knees sank into the couch cushion, your hands catching on the backrest. Beau stood behind you, one hand at your hip, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you bent over the couch.
The first spank landed hard enough to make you gasp, your body jolting forward into the couch.
Beau’s palm followed it, smoothing once over the sting.
“You okay?”
Your breath shook, but your answer was clear. “Yes.”
“Good.” His hand stayed there for one more second before he pushed back into you from behind.
The sound you made was almost embarrassing.
Beau’s hand settled at the back of your neck, firm enough to make your back arch. The angle was deeper this way, rougher, and when his hips snapped into yours, your fingers curled into the couch fabric.
“You were so confident when you were teasing me.” His hips drove into yours again. “What happened?”
You couldn’t answer, and another hard slap landed before you could even pretend to.
“Use your words.”
“I wanted this,” you said, getting out.
“What did you want?”
“I wanted you to be rough with me.”
The sound he made was rough, almost unsteady. “There’s my good girl.”
He fucked you harder after that, rough but controlled, each thrust pressing you deeper into the couch while every filthy word he gave you made your body clench around him.
“You like it when I fuck you like this?”
“Yes.”
“I know.” His rhythm turned sharper. “I can feel how tight you get when I talk to you like this.”
The orgasm built too fast, too sharp, your body still oversensitive from his mouth and fingers. You tried to push back into him, tried to meet every thrust, but by the end, Beau was the only thing keeping you upright, his arm locked around your waist as he fucked you through it.
“Come on, sweetheart.” His arm held you tight against him. “Give me another.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His arm held you steady. “I’ve got you.”
His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers settling over your clit, and your knees nearly gave out.
“Beau,” you gasped.
His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Come for me.”
You did, hard enough that your whole body shook around him while Beau held you against the back of the couch and kept fucking you, rough praise pressed against your skin: how good you were, how pretty, how well you took him even when you were sensitive and shaking.
His rhythm broke after that, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you back into him.
“Inside?” he asked, his control hanging by a thread.
Your breath caught, and you nodded before the word caught up. “Yes.”
“Say it for me.”
“Come inside me,” you breathed.
Beau groaned, low and wrecked, and pushed in as deep as he could when he came, holding you there while his body shuddered behind yours. The heat of it made your knees go weak beneath you once more.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The movie kept playing in the background, someone on screen shouting dramatically about something neither of you had any chance of understanding anymore.
Beau exhaled first, his mouth pressing softly to your shoulder.
“You okay?”
You laughed weakly. “You’re asking that like you didn’t just fuck me on your couch.”
“I did.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck. “Still asking.”
Your chest went warm. “I’m okay.”
“Color?”
“Green.”
His arms tightened around you for one more second before he eased out carefully and helped you sit. Your legs felt useless. Beau’s mouth curved like he knew exactly why, but he disappeared into the bathroom before you could accuse him of looking smug.
When Beau came back, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“Drink,” he said.
You took the glass from him, still boneless against the couch. “You’re bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Beau smiled like he was going to let you have that one and cleaned you up carefully, his touch gentle now in a way that made the roughness from minutes ago feel even hotter instead of less. When he was done, he found your shorts on the floor, looked at them for half a second, then apparently decided against it and handed you one of his shirts instead.
You pulled it on while he settled back onto the couch, and the second you were close enough, he drew you into his side like that was where you’d been meant to end up.
The movie was still going.
You stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of you.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Beau kissed the top of your head, his hand resting warm on your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the room went quiet except for the movie and the sound of both of you breathing your way back to normal.
A few seconds later, his thumb moved lazily over your skin.
“Next time you want attention,” he said, low and close, “just ask.”
Your face heated.
You turned your head to look at him. “Maybe I like teasing you.”
Something in his expression shifted, subtle but immediate, enough to make your stomach flip despite the soreness in your body.
“Careful,” he said.
You smiled.
The movie kept playing, but neither of you reached for the remote.
summary — you only wanted beau to pay attention to you during movie night. unfortunately, once he realizes exactly what you’re doing, he has no intention of staying sweet about it.
warnings — 18+ mdni, explicit smut, established relationship, teasing, brat-taming, clothed grinding, thigh riding, fingering, oral sex both ways, unprotected sex, creampie, praise, dirty talk, hair pulling, spanking, light choking, rough but consensual sex, overstimulation & aftercare.
word count — 4,011.
author note — honestly, what did i just write?? i hope you like it, because i think i need holy water after this one. also, will i be seeing some of you at the Off Campus convention in Paris next year? 👀
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ULTIMATE MASTERLIST)
The movie had lost you twenty minutes ago.
Technically, that wasn’t Beau’s fault.
He’d picked the movie because you said you wanted something easy, the kind neither of you had to think too hard about. Something that could play in the background while you curled up together on his couch and pretended every small touch didn’t feel like it might turn into something else.
Three months in, and it still didn’t take much for things to get out of hand.
It was his hand on your thigh, his mouth brushing your temple, the low warmth of his body behind yours as he pulled you closer under the blanket because you’d claimed you were cold.
You weren’t cold, not really.
But your sleep shorts were tiny, Beau’s apartment was dim, and the movie had been playing for almost forty minutes while Beau kissed your temple, held you close, and acted like being sweet all night was a reasonable thing to do.
Which was nice.
It was.
Beau was good at being nice, too good sometimes. He had a way of making you feel taken care of without making a whole thing out of it — quiet touches, easy patience, his thumb moving lazily over your hip while the television flickered across the room.
The problem was that his version of nice had started to feel like a challenge, so you shifted against him.
At first, it was subtle, just a small shift under the blanket as your hips settled back against his and your thigh slid over his. Beau gave you nothing, except for the way his arm tightened around your waist.
A few minutes later, you did it again, slower this time, a little less like an accident and a little more like a question.
His hand stilled on your hip, and you kept your eyes on the screen like you hadn’t done anything at all.
Behind you, Beau took a slow breath, his chest rising against your back.
“You good?” His voice was low.
“Mhm,” you hummed, still watching the movie.
“You sure?”
“You sure?”
“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you said, still not looking at him.
His thumb started moving again, slower this time.
You hid your smile against the blanket.
For a little while, Beau let you pretend you were getting away with it.
That was the part that got under your skin.
Beau stayed quiet behind you, warm and solid, one hand resting low on your stomach while his breath brushed the back of your neck. He let you shift, let you press back, let your fingers trail along his forearm like you weren’t very obviously testing him.
One more shift of your hips, and you felt him getting hard behind you.
Beau’s hand tightened low on your stomach while the movie kept playing like either of you still cared.
Neither of you moved until the screen froze, and you blinked at it before realizing Beau had paused the movie.
The silence that followed was awful in a way that made your whole body go hot, especially when his mouth brushed the shell of your ear.
“You’re either going to sit still,” Beau murmured, his voice calm against your ear, “or you’re going to tell me why you keep pressing back against me.”
You kept your eyes on the frozen screen. “Maybe you’re just too close.”
“No?” His hand tightened low on your stomach. “You want me to move?”
“I told you,” you murmured. “I’m cold.”
Beau’s hand slipped from your stomach to your thigh, fingers spreading slowly over the bare skin your shorts didn’t cover.
“Funny.” His voice was low against your ear. “You keep saying cold, but you feel pretty warm to me.”
“What, I can’t cuddle with my boyfriend?”
“You can.” His hand moved higher. “But if you keep rubbing against me like that, I’m going to stop letting you act innocent.”
You swallowed hard.
The change in his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau noticed that too.
A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, before he pulled you fully into his lap. Not rough, not yet — just firm enough that your body went where he wanted it, your back against his chest and your legs tucked over one of his thighs beneath the blanket.
“There,” he said. “If you want to move so badly, use my thigh.”
Your breath caught around his name. “Beau.”
“No, don’t get shy now.” His mouth brushed the side of your neck. “You were brave enough when you thought I wasn’t going to do anything about it.”
The words went straight between your thighs.
You tried to turn your face away, but his hand came up to your jaw, gentle and firm at once, guiding you back just enough for him to watch what his words did to you.
“You wanted my attention.” His voice stayed low. “Now you have it.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
His thigh shifted beneath you, just enough to make the rest of your sentence disappear.
Beau’s hand left your jaw and trailed back down, over your stomach, until his fingers reached the waistband of your shorts.
“No?” His voice stayed low. “You didn’t want to feel me getting hard against you?”
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
His fingers slipped just beneath the elastic, close enough to make your whole body tense, but still not where you needed him.
“Use your words, sweetheart.”
You hated how quickly those words undid you.
“Maybe,” you got out. “A little.”
“A little?” His voice stayed low. “Sweetheart, that didn’t feel like a little.”
You moved before you could stop yourself, grinding down against his thigh as Beau’s fingers flexed at your waist. The pressure hit immediately, dirty and unfairly good for how little Beau was actually doing. You could feel him behind you, hard against your ass, his breathing low and controlled at your ear, letting you use his thigh because you were the one who had started this.
“That’s it.” His voice was low against your ear. “You wanted to move so badly, sweetheart. Don’t stop now.”
The blanket was still pulled over both of you, the paused movie casting pale flashes across the room, and from the outside, it might have looked almost innocent.
It wasn’t. Not with your shorts riding up your thighs, Beau’s mouth against your neck, and his voice dropping lower every time your hips dragged over him.
“Good girl,” he said. “Look at you, acting innocent while you grind against my thigh.”
You made a small, helpless sound.
His hand slipped beneath your shorts, and every part of you went still.
Beau pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Still cold?”
“You’re mean,” you said.
“Not yet.”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric and pressed against you through your panties first.
You were already wet enough that there was no pretending otherwise, and the second he felt it, Beau’s breathing changed.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice went rough against your ear. “You were this wet the whole time?”
Your eyes fluttered, and the truth slipped out before you could make it smaller. “I wanted you to touch me.”
“I know.” His fingers dragged slowly over the damp fabric. “You just wanted me to notice first.”
“You were supposed to be watching the movie.”
“I was trying to.” His fingers moved again. “You made that difficult.”
You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pushed the fabric aside and slid his fingers through your wetness.
His other hand settled low on your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.
“That’s it.” His voice had gone rough in your ear. “Don’t hide from me now.”
You weren’t sure you could, not with his fingers circling your clit beneath the blanket and your hips moving helplessly against his hand, the frozen movie still lighting the room like proof of how quickly he’d stopped caring about it.
“You like my fingers here?” His voice stayed rough in your ear. “Touching you under these little shorts?”
“Beau,” you breathed.
“No, answer me.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance. “You wanted me to feel what you were doing to yourself, didn’t you?”
Your breath came out shakily. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
He pushed one finger inside you, then another, slow enough that you felt the stretch, deep enough that your head fell back against his shoulder. His mouth moved along your neck while his fingers curled inside you beneath the blanket, slow and deliberate, until your whole body jolted.
“There.” His voice stayed low in your ear. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”
Your fingers closed around his wrist, not to stop him, but to hold on.
Beau knew the difference.
“Next time, tell me you want my fingers.” His mouth pressed to the side of your neck. “Would’ve saved you all that pretending.”
You tried to answer, but his thumb circled your clit again, and the words disappeared.
He touched you until your legs trembled over his thigh, until the blanket was too warm, your breathing too loud, and the hand at your waist the only thing keeping you from squirming out of his lap.
Beau felt it the second you got close, and his fingers slowed.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you, and Beau’s laugh brushed against your skin.
“Needy girl.” His mouth stayed against your skin.
“Don’t stop.”
“Then say please, sweetheart.”
You turned your face into his neck, too embarrassed to look at him. “Please.”
“Please, what, sweetheart?”
“Please,” you breathed. “Make me come.”
Beau’s control slipped just enough for his hand to tighten at your waist.
His fingers moved faster, firmer, his thumb working your clit while he curled inside you, and you came with your face buried in his neck.
“Good girl,” Beau said, his hand tightening at your waist. “Just like that. Keep grinding against my hand. I want to feel you come.”
Your body shuddered against his, the orgasm hitting hard enough that your thighs clamped around his hand.
He slowed, but his hand stayed between your thighs.
You were still breathing hard when Beau moved beneath you and pulled the blanket away.
Cool air hit your skin as he turned you carefully, laying you back across the couch cushions as he’d finally decided to stop being soft.
Your shorts were crooked, your shirt had ridden up, and your hair was messy against the armrest.
Beau looked down at you, and something in his expression went dark.
“You wanted me to stop being nice,” Beau said, his hand pressing against your thigh. “Spread your legs.”
You did.
His gaze dropped, slow enough to make your skin heat, before lifting back to your face. “Pretty girl.”
The praise hit low, making your whole body go hot.
He pulled your shorts down your legs, your panties sliding down with them, and tossed both somewhere near the coffee table. You should’ve felt exposed, but Beau’s hands were on your thighs before the feeling could settle, pushing them apart as he lowered himself between them.
“You were acting like such a brat five minutes ago,” he said, kissing the inside of your knee. “Now you can’t even look at me.”
“Beau,” you breathed. “Please.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “What do you want?”
You hated that he was going to make you say it, and loved even more that he already knew.
“Your mouth.”
His mouth curved, slow and pleased. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The moment Beau put his mouth on you, your head fell back against the couch.
Beau ate you out like he’d been waiting for the chance, one arm hooked around your thigh to keep you spread while his other hand pressed your hips back down every time you tried to move. He stayed controlled at first, slow and deliberate, licking into you before dragging his tongue back to your clit until every wet stroke made your thighs shake.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, and Beau groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.
“Oh my God,” you breathed.
You felt his mouth curve against you, right before he sucked your clit hard enough to make you cry out.
Somewhere above you, the movie started playing again.
Neither of you’d touched the remote, but the pause must have timed out, because the movie suddenly filled the room again with some dramatic line from a character you had completely forgotten existed.
Beau didn’t stop.
If anything, his grip tightened, holding you down harder.
“You wanted something easy to watch, right?” His mouth dragged over your inner thigh. “So watch it.”
You tried to cover your face, but Beau caught your wrist and pulled it gently back down.
“No hiding, sweetheart.”
His tongue pushed back into you, and your back arched off the couch.
“You wanted my attention.” His mouth moved against you. “Now come for it.”
The second one hit faster than the first, sharpened by how sensitive you still were from his fingers. You came on his mouth with your hands twisted in his hair, your thighs trembling around his shoulders while Beau held you there through every second of it.
He only eased off when you pushed weakly at his head.
He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.
His mouth was wet.
His eyes were worse.
You pulled him down and kissed him, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Beau groaned into your mouth, and it sounded like the last of his patience was finally snapping.
Your hands found the waistband of his sweatpants, and Beau let you push them down just enough before you slipped off the couch onto your knees between his legs.
Beau’s hand slid into your hair immediately, not forcing, just resting there.
His thumb brushed your cheek as your hand closed around him. He was hard and heavy in your hand, and the second his jaw tightened, you wanted to hear what it would take to make him lose control.
You looked up at him, your hand still wrapped around him. “Use your words.”
His gaze held yours. “Open your mouth.”
You did.
Beau’s hand tightened in your hair the second you took him, his head tipping back on a rough breath. For once, Beau looked less controlled, less patient, and when you hollowed your mouth around him, his thighs tensed on either side of you, his fingers flexing against your scalp.
“Fuck.” His voice broke roughly around the word. “Good girl. Just like that.”
The praise made your thighs press together before you could stop them, and Beau’s attention dropped there immediately.
“You like this too?” The words came out rough. “Looking up at me with my cock in your mouth?”
You moaned around him, and Beau’s breath left him in a rough rush.
“Careful, needy girl. Keep making those sounds, and I’m not going to last.”
So you did it again.
He guided you a little more firmly, just enough to make heat spread through your whole body. He didn’t push too far or take more than you gave him, but you could feel his control thinning with every pass of your mouth.
“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
You looked up at him, and Beau’s breath caught.
For a second, you thought he might let himself finish like that.
But Beau pulled you off him with a rough breath, kissed you hard, and dragged you back onto the couch.
“I need to fuck you.” The words dragged roughly against your mouth.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Beau went still, forehead resting against yours. “I don’t have a condom out here.”
“I’m on birth control,” you rushed out. “I’m clean too. Tested last month.”
His breathing was rough, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Me too. Tested last month. All clear.”
His thumb brushed your jaw, careful even now. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t shake.
“Words.”
“I want you inside me.”
His control slipped for half a second. “Fuck.”
He laid you back across the cushions and pushed your thighs open again, settling between them. The couch was too narrow and too soft, leaving you tangled together with your leg hooked around his hip, one of his hands braced near your head and the other holding your thigh open.
When he pushed into you, both of you went quiet, and the stretch stole your breath.
Beau sank into you slowly, control pulled tight in every line of him, his eyes locked on your face like he wanted to watch every second of you taking him. You clung to his shoulders, your nails catching against warm skin beneath his shirt.
“You feel so good.” he got out. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
You tried to move your hips, but Beau kept your thigh pinned open.
“Slow.”
“You’re the one who said you needed to fuck me,” you managed.
Beau’s gaze sharpened. “And you’re the one who started this.”
He pushed deeper, and whatever you were about to say disappeared.
He fucked you slowly at first, controlled and heavy, making you feel every inch of him. He kept you spread open across the couch, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your throat, fucking you slow enough to make every inch feel deliberate.
“You’re so wet,” he said against your skin. “Taking me so well.”
Your nails twisted in his shirt.
“So pretty when you stop pretending to be innocent,” he said against your throat. “This is what you wanted? Me fucking you because you couldn’t sit still?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“No.” His fingers found your jaw, turning your face back to his. “Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open, and Beau’s hand slid up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and steady.
“There you go.” His thumb brushed once along your throat. “Take it.”
His rhythm turned harder, heavier.
The couch creaked beneath you, and the movie kept playing, voices and music meaningless in the background while Beau fucked you into the cushions.
One hand stayed warm at your throat. The other held your hip hard enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
You were close again too soon, and of course Beau felt it; he slowed just enough to make you whine.
“Already?”
“I’m still sensitive.”
“I know.” His mouth brushed over yours. “Come for me one more time.”
“Beau—”
“Turn over.” His hands found your hips. “I want you on your knees.”
Your knees sank into the couch cushion, your hands catching on the backrest. Beau stood behind you, one hand at your hip, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you bent over the couch.
The first spank landed hard enough to make you gasp, your body jolting forward into the couch.
Beau’s palm followed it, smoothing once over the sting.
“You okay?”
Your breath shook, but your answer was clear. “Yes.”
“Good.” His hand stayed there for one more second before he pushed back into you from behind.
The sound you made was almost embarrassing.
Beau’s hand settled at the back of your neck, firm enough to make your back arch. The angle was deeper this way, rougher, and when his hips snapped into yours, your fingers curled into the couch fabric.
“You were so confident when you were teasing me.” His hips drove into yours again. “What happened?”
You couldn’t answer, and another hard slap landed before you could even pretend to.
“Use your words.”
“I wanted this,” you said, getting out.
“What did you want?”
“I wanted you to be rough with me.”
The sound he made was rough, almost unsteady. “There’s my good girl.”
He fucked you harder after that, rough but controlled, each thrust pressing you deeper into the couch while every filthy word he gave you made your body clench around him.
“You like it when I fuck you like this?”
“Yes.”
“I know.” His rhythm turned sharper. “I can feel how tight you get when I talk to you like this.”
The orgasm built too fast, too sharp, your body still oversensitive from his mouth and fingers. You tried to push back into him, tried to meet every thrust, but by the end, Beau was the only thing keeping you upright, his arm locked around your waist as he fucked you through it.
“Come on, sweetheart.” His arm held you tight against him. “Give me another.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His arm held you steady. “I’ve got you.”
His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers settling over your clit, and your knees nearly gave out.
“Beau,” you gasped.
His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Come for me.”
You did, hard enough that your whole body shook around him while Beau held you against the back of the couch and kept fucking you, rough praise pressed against your skin: how good you were, how pretty, how well you took him even when you were sensitive and shaking.
His rhythm broke after that, his arm tightening around your waist as he pulled you back into him.
“Inside?” he asked, his control hanging by a thread.
Your breath caught, and you nodded before the word caught up. “Yes.”
“Say it for me.”
“Come inside me,” you breathed.
Beau groaned, low and wrecked, and pushed in as deep as he could when he came, holding you there while his body shuddered behind yours. The heat of it made your knees go weak beneath you once more.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The movie kept playing in the background, someone on screen shouting dramatically about something neither of you had any chance of understanding anymore.
Beau exhaled first, his mouth pressing softly to your shoulder.
“You okay?”
You laughed weakly. “You’re asking that like you didn’t just fuck me on your couch.”
“I did.” He pressed another kiss to the side of your neck. “Still asking.”
Your chest went warm. “I’m okay.”
“Color?”
“Green.”
His arms tightened around you for one more second before he eased out carefully and helped you sit. Your legs felt useless. Beau’s mouth curved like he knew exactly why, but he disappeared into the bathroom before you could accuse him of looking smug.
When Beau came back, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“Drink,” he said.
You took the glass from him, still boneless against the couch. “You’re bossy.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Beau smiled like he was going to let you have that one and cleaned you up carefully, his touch gentle now in a way that made the roughness from minutes ago feel even hotter instead of less. When he was done, he found your shorts on the floor, looked at them for half a second, then apparently decided against it and handed you one of his shirts instead.
You pulled it on while he settled back onto the couch, and the second you were close enough, he drew you into his side like that was where you’d been meant to end up.
The movie was still going.
You stared at the screen for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of you.
“Do you have any idea what’s happening?”
“No.”
“Great.”
Beau kissed the top of your head, his hand resting warm on your bare thigh beneath the hem of his shirt. For a moment, the room went quiet except for the movie and the sound of both of you breathing your way back to normal.
A few seconds later, his thumb moved lazily over your skin.
“Next time you want attention,” he said, low and close, “just ask.”
Your face heated.
You turned your head to look at him. “Maybe I like teasing you.”
Something in his expression shifted, subtle but immediate, enough to make your stomach flip despite the soreness in your body.
“Careful,” he said.
You smiled.
The movie kept playing, but neither of you reached for the remote.
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Hi loves! Just a little update: since I’m leaving for France on Thursday and won’t be back until next Thursday, I unfortunately need to postpone the final part of Boyfriend Material.
I’m really trying to give everyone the happy ending they deserve — and I mean Dean and [Y/N] as much as I mean you guys. I don’t want to rush the last part, because it needs to come out right. I want to take my time finishing it, rewriting what needs to be rewritten, and proofreading everything properly, because you deserve a phenomenal ending.
BUT.
A Beau one-shot is coming out on Wednesday, and when I say it’s smutty, I mean smutty.
SUMMARY — You’d known Beau Maxwell almost your whole life. He was Joanna’s younger brother, sweet and quiet, the kind of boy who always noticed when you needed space. Somewhere between childhood sleepovers, family dinners, and holidays at the Maxwell house, he became familiar, too. But when you come back for Thanksgiving, something has shifted. Beau is still soft with you, still protective, still easy to be around in a way you’ve never really had to think about. Except now, that comfort feels different. The old habits don’t feel as harmless as they used to, and pretending nothing has changed gets harder every time he looks at you.
SERIES WARNINGS — 18+ mdni, explicit smut in later parts, makeout, wandering hands, fingering, oral sex, protected sex, praise, dirty talk, soft possessiveness, intimate sex, soft aftercare, mentions of sex, jealousy, emotional confusion, hurt feelings, emotional confrontation, mutual pining.
WORD COUNT — TBD.
STATUS — coming soon.
author note — i know a lot of you wanted me to write more for beau, so here it is ♡ i’m so excited for us to spend the whole summer with him and this series. i really hope you enjoy it. part one will be posted on July 17, the day after i get back from vacation. if you’d like to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post!
(BEAU MAXWELL MASTERLIST)
ᝰ PART ONE — BACK HOME
ᝰ PART TWO — OLD HABITS
ᝰ PART THREE — THE QUIET ONE
ᝰ PART FOUR — THANKSGIVING
ᝰ PART FIVE — THE PORCH
ᝰ PART SIX — NOTHING CHANGED
ᝰ PART SEVEN — FAMILIAR WALLS
ᝰ PART EIGHT — PRETENDING
ᝰ PART NINE — NOT THE SAME
ᝰ PART TEN — HOME FIELD
HOME FIELD TAGLIST (comment if you want to be added): @chrismattnick @tinystayyyy1221 @bootyliciousbutterfly @lastonestandingastheplaywright @aeyoshinyships @nonameishere @mcolbz14 @cosmosnkaz @hinata7346 @run-for-the-hills @mattyskies @flusteredmoonn @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns @katttt9 @junipermarche @outpostsworld @thecraziestcrayon @crimsonmapleleaf @bonsaijoons @ohlookitsasinglepoeceofpopcorn @kmc1989 @notafairyteen @lennonpotterf1 @suns3treading @jaehyunluvs
minors do not interact with 18+ content.
do not repost, copy, translate, or feed my work into ai.
SUMMARY — dean needs a fake girlfriend for one weekend, and you’re supposed to be the last person who’d ever say yes. but pretending with dean starts feeling easier than it should, and walking away becomes a lot harder than either of you expected.
WARNINGS — 18+ mdni, smut in some parts, protected sex, fingering, oral sex, praise, dirty talk, soft aftercare, fake dating, only one bed trope, jealousy, miscommunication, hurt feelings, morning-after tension, emotional confusion, emotional confrontation.
RED RIGHT HAND! | An Off Campus x Criminal Minds AU
CHAPTER ONE: RED RIGHT HAND
Summary: A dirt road, a silver 4Runner with both front doors open and the radio still blasting, and a phone call that sends shivers down David Rossi's spine bring the BAU to the campus of Briar University. A place where he thought his youngest daughter would finally be safe.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Rossi!Reader
Warnings: Abduction of a family member, canon Criminal Minds type violence and assault. Harassment and predatory behavior by a coach.
He was on the FBI jet coming back from a case when she had called, and he would always regret not answering.
YN had been the daughter he never needed to worry about. The one who had her head on straight. She got in to a good school with good friends, and most recently, even Rossi was impressed, a good boyfriend. God knows she'd had her fair share of shitty ones.
She'd fit right in at Briar University, and though Rossi had been hesitant when she told him she wanted to stay in Hastings, he was happy that she had finally found somewhere that she belonged.
YN. Missed Call.
Those words would strike terror into his heart for the rest of David Rossi's days.
As he walked across the tarmac at Quantico, he held his phone up to his ear, not prepared for the panic he was about to hear in his daughter's voice.
"Daddy, I'm scared. Dean and I were on our way back from Boston, and he insisted on taking the back roads. We took a wrong turn and got run off the road. Two of his tires exploded."
In the background, he could hear the voice of Dean Di Laurentis, Briar University's resident hockey star, and a man with a heart of gold. Rossi hadn't liked the boy right away, but by the end of their first meeting, he knew Dean was the perfect match for his daughter.
"Babe, the truck is circling back. Maybe he's going to call for help."
"I have a bad feeling about this, Dean. Please don't get out of the truck."
"I'm not going far, sweetheart. I promise i'll be back in five minutes."
"Dean, no! Please don't open the door! Dean!"
He can't make out what Dean starts to say, presumably heading towards the truck.
But what he does hear is his daughter's peircing scream, coupled with a sob before the line goes dead.
He stops dead in the middle of the tarmac, dropping his phone. His eyes are blurry with tears, and his heart is in his throat.
"I just got a call from YN." His voice is shaking as he bends to pick up his phone. Wordlessly, he passes it to Emily, who listens to the voicemail with the same concerned look on her face.
"I think something terrible has happened to her."
_____
State troopers find Dean Di Laurentis' silver 4Runner on a dirt road surrounded by fields, not a streetlamp in sight. A concerned farmer had called it in when he drove past in his tactor and noticed that two tires were flat, and the doors were wide open.
As soon as the vehicle was identified, it was only a matter of time before Penelope Garcia was on to them.
"Oh, no." She exhales, conscious of the old Italian man pacing the room behind her. "Rossi, I've got something. They've found his car."
David stopped cold. "Was she there?"
Penelope shook her head. "Massachusetts State Troopers were called to a piece of farmland along a dirt road outside of Boston for a report of an abandoned vehicle. The vehicle in question is a silver Toyota 4Runner, registered out of New York to a Dean Di Laurentis."
"That's him. That's YN's boyfriend. They were in Boston for a concert last night. Bon Jovi. She gets that from her mum."
"The car was found with two blown out tires, key still in the ignition. Both occupants of the vehicle vanished without a trace. A purse found inside the vehicle had YN's driver's license in it. Dean's wallet was found on the ground a few feet away."
Rossi felt his knees buckle, and he held on to Penelope's desk for support. When he had tried to call YN back, he hadn't gotten an answer. Even if she and Dean had left the car and tried to call for help, neither of them would have left their wallets behind, and Dean certainly wouldn't have left his car running.
"We have to find her." His voice was weak. "She's my little girl."
"We will." Penelope insisted. "Gather everyone in the bullpen. I'm going to do some nifty computer stuff and get us access to their case."
Rossi was surprised he kept it together long enough for the team to file back into the bullpen. They looked tired and weary, but must have seen enough panic in Rossi's eyes not to question anything as they gathered around the large round table.
"David, what's going on?" Hotch asked quietly. "We can't possibly have another case. I haven't had time to vet any."
"Not officially. This one is personal. More of a favour, really."
He nodded to Penelope, who clicked a button on her computer. The screen filled with a picture of a young couple. He was dressed in tight jeans and a wool sweater, his blonde hair in a messy halo around his head. She was a dead ringer for her father, save and except for the curls that tumbled down her back. They looked happy. And in love.
"This is my daughter, YN, and her boyfriend, Dean Di Laurentis. They went missing last night."
"She looks just like you." JJ smiled sadly. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-two. My youngest. I raised her basically on my own after her mother left. Watching her leave to go to Briar was one of the hardest moments of my life."
Another picture appeared on the screen. A silver 4Runner with New York plates, in a ditch with the doors open, cordoned off with police tape.
"They found the car?" Hotch said stoically. "Anything else?"
"Both wallets and phones were left behind." He inhaled a shaky breath as Penelope pressed another button. "This is the last voicemail she left me before her phone went dead."
"Daddy, I'm scared."
Everyone in the room heard the abject terror in her voice. By the end of the message, it was obvious that Penelope was biting back tears. Hotch bit his lip, and JJ averted her eyes.
"So, what do we do now?" Morgan asked. "We have no jurisdiction."
"She's my daughter." Rossi insisted. "And the Di Laurentis' are very well off. They have a house in St. Bart's for god's sake! We need to find my daughter."
"Done." Hotch's voice was firm. "The jet is done refueling. We're going to Hastings, and we're going to find YN."
Penelope raised a hand. "I'd like to come to. YN needs all hands on deck right now."
HASTINGS. NINE HOURS MISSING
The hockey house was shockingly well kept. At least, that was the first thing David Rossi thought as he walked up the front steps to the house listed as Dean Di Laurentis’ last known address, Prentiss trailing behind him.
He knocked on the door, and he could hear voices yelling, no doubt an argument over which player had to open the door.
The door was finally opened by a well-built young man with tanned skin and a mass of hair. “Dean, what the fuck man, we’ve been worried si- oh shit. You’re not Dean.”
Rossi reached into his suit jacket, pulling out his ID badge. “SSA David Rossi, FBI. This is my colleague, SSA Emily Prentiss. Can we come in?”
“Fuck. You’re YN’s dad. Come in.”
An air hockey table took up most of the living room, the rest of it covered by a sagging suede couch strewn with pillows and blankets. The lights were dim and comforting, and he could smell something good from the kitchen.
“Guys! The FBI are here! Get your asses to the living room!” The boy shouted before he turned to face Rossi and Prentiss. “I’m John Logan. I play hockey with Dean. Is he okay?”
“We should wait for your teammates.” Emily said, gesturing towards the couch. Two other young men joined John Logan in the living room, anxiously exchanging looks as they sat on the couch.
“Why are the FBI here, Logan?” A man built like a linebacker asked. “Did something happen to Dean and YN?”
“That’s YN’s dad.” Logan said quietly. “David Rossi.”
“The profiler? We studied one of his books in psych last semester.”
Rossi cleared his throat. “A silver 4Runner was found last night. Dean’s wallet was found nearby. There’s no sign of Dean or YN.”
“Son of a bitch.” Logan cursed. “We’d hoped they just pulled over to rest or something.”
“Where did they find his car? I’m Garrett Graham. Dean and I have known each other for years.”
Rossi choked back a sob, and Emily took over. “Off of Concession 19.”
“That’s nowhere near Boston.” Garrett said lowly. “What the hell were they doing out there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What concert did they go to?”
Logan bit his lip. “Bon Jovi. At Fenway Park.”
“Concession 19 is farmland.” Garrett added. “They had no reason to go out there.”
Rossi made a frustrated noise, hitting the wall. It startled the hockey players, especially Garrett, who physically recoiled. “Who did this?” His voice was strangled.
“What my colleague means,” Emily cut it, glaring at Rossi. “Is do any of you know of anybody who would have wanted to hurt either of them.”
Logan shrugged. “Deans parents are lawyers. I’m sure they have a lot of enemies.”
“But I bet the same could be said for you, Mr. Rossi. You’re a profiler.”
“Are you saying that my daughter’s disappearance is my fault?” Rossi boomed, glaring at Garrett as he took a step forward.
The third boy, who had stayed silent until now, stepped in between Garrett and Rossi. “This isn’t helping anybody. I’ll take you to their room.”
Rossi followed the boy up the main staircase and to a room at the end of the hall. It was obvious that a man lived there, but his daughters touches were everywhere: the neatly made bed, draped with a plush Juicy Couture blanket, her textbooks stacked neatly next to the nightstand, a cork board chock full of pictures of her, Dean and their friends. He picked up one of her shirts, which was neatly folded on the dresser, breathing in the smell of his daughters laundry detergent before he sat down on the bed with a choked sob.
“Mr. Rossi?”
He looked up.
“John Tucker, sir. Do you think you’re going to find them?”
“I hope so. We caught it early. The first seventy-two hours-“
“Are the most crucial.” Tucker finished, leaning against the doorway. “Listen, this might be nothing, but YN has been having some problems lately with one of the instructors at her boxing gym.”
Rossi snapped to attention. YN called him every week, sometimes multiple times, and this had never once come up.
“What’s his name?”
“Jordan Barker. He’d go out of his way to touch her when the instruction didn’t require it. Always commenting on her appearance and her weight. Nothing obvious enough to make it harassment, but enough that he really freaked her out. She tried to avoid Jordan’s classes, but it was like he knew when she was coming and went out of the way to be at the gym anyways.”
Rossi rose from the bed, leaving the shirt folded neatly on top of the plush blanket. He moved towards Tucker, reaching to shake his hand. “Thank you, John. Where can I find this gym?”
CONCESSION 19, ZERO HOURS MISSING
“Dean, do not get out of the car.”
As soon as they ended up in the ditch, her panic went into over drive. If only one tire had blown, they would have easily been able to affix the spare and be on their way.
When she saw the headlights make a U-turn in the distance and come back towards the 4Runner, she knew something was seriously wrong.
“I’m not going far.” Dean protested. “I’ll be back in five minutes, tops.”
She shouted after him when he opened the drivers door, but Dean didn’t listen. She watched him walk towards the truck, aware that her phone was still recording a voicemail for her dad. Deans phone was still plugged in, the map on his CarPlay showing that they were nowhere near Hastings.
The truck rolled to a stop and the driver got out. Dean moved towards him, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Without a word, the driver lifted up a crowbar and brought it down on Dean’s head. The hockey player crumpled to the ground, and the driver slowly stalked towards the 4Runner.
YN screamed, a wail caught in her throat as she fumbled with the passenger side door. She practically fell out of the car, fumbling to her feet before she took off running, her boots sinking into the mud.
She tried to hid behind the stalks for come growing in the field, eventually cutting back into the road a few feet from where the 4Runner was. She didn’t know where she was running to. She didn’t even know where she was. But she was holding on to the hope that she could flag down another passing car. Maybe she’d get lucky and flag down a state trooper.
She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her, but she felt the hand clamp down over her mouth to muffle her scream, and the cold press of a knife blade to her throat. She started to cry, shaking in the driver’s hold as he yelled at her to shut up.
All she could hope for now was that her dad would get the voicemail, and that the FBI would be able to find them before she died on that dirt road.
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𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 — after a weekend that changed everything, you and dean try to pretend nothing has shifted between you. but hurt feelings, mixed signals, and one overheard conversation make pretending impossible.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — part four is here ♡ this one is definitely a little heavier, and dean is trying… but let’s be honest, y/n isn’t exactly making it easy for him either. i hope you like it, and thank you so much for reading and supporting this series <3
sneak peek | part one | part two | part three
(𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓) | (𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓)
The bathroom mirror didn’t help.
Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.
That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.
Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.
But it was your eyes that gave you away.
You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.
You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.
Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.
Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.
But Dean hadn’t been cruel.
He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.
Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.
He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.
Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.
“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”
He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.
That was the worst part.
You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.
“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”
There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.
“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.
Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.
“You okay?”
You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.
“I’m fine,” you managed.
For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.
“That was a terrible lie.”
Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.
“I’m getting ready,” you called back.
“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.
“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”
“I’m having a moment.”
Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”
You looked at the lock.
Your hand didn’t move.
“No.”
There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.
Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.
But this time, he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said.
Just that.
No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.
You didn’t.
You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.
The worst part was that you still believed him a little.
Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.
Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.
Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.
You remembered lifting the blanket.
You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.
You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.
And then he’d woken up and made a joke.
You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.
By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.
Almost.
“You took forever,” he said.
There it was—the attempt.
You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.
You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”
His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”
The room went quiet again.
You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.
Dean stood.
“About what I said earlier—”
“You don’t have to.”
He stopped.
You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.
“I kind of think I do,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.”
That made you look up.
Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.
You forced a small smile. “Like what?”
His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.
“Like I regretted it.”
There it was.
The word you’d been trying not to touch.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”
“I don’t.”
He said it too fast. Too seriously.
For one awful second, you believed him.
Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.
“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.
His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It’s okay.”
“Stop saying that.”
You swallowed.
Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.
“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”
Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”
He winced. “Yeah.”
“Great choice.”
“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”
The sarcasm should’ve helped.
It didn’t.
Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”
“I know.”
“No, you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”
Your mouth closed.
That was annoyingly accurate.
Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”
You wanted to say yes.
You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.
But his phone rang before you could say anything.
Both of you looked at the screen.
His mother.
Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.
You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”
He didn’t move.
“Dean.”
His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”
You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.
“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”
There was a pause.
His eyes flicked toward you.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”
You were not ready.
You were barely a person.
But you zipped your bag anyway.
Breakfast was worse.
There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.
Dean held your chair out for you.
The gesture was automatic.
So was the way you hesitated before sitting.
He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.
You hated that you saw it.
“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.
You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.
Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”
Fine.
The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.
His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”
Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”
“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”
You froze.
Dean’s head lifted.
His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.
Dean’s mother gave him a look.
“What?” his father asked mildly.
“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.
The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.
At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.
Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.
You took it without thinking.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
His eyes met yours.
For one stupid second, everything softened.
Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.
Dean did too.
His mother saw that.
When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.
“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.
Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”
“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”
You swallowed.
Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.
You looked away first.
“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.
His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”
“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”
She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.
Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.
That seemed more likely.
She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.
Then his parents were gone.
Just like that.
No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.
Dean turned to you slowly.
The lobby felt too quiet.
“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.
You wanted to say yes.
The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”
Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”
The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.
Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.
You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.
They were not.
Your phone buzzed in your lap.
Allie.
allie: are you alive?
allie: and by alive i mean emotionally
allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast
allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast
allie: answer me before i create a theory
You turned your phone face down.
Dean noticed.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”
Silence again.
Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”
You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”
“That’s new.”
“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”
You finally looked at him.
He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.
“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”
Your throat went tight.
“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”
The worst part was that he sounded honest.
Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.
So why didn’t it make you feel better?
Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.
You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”
Dean didn’t answer fast enough.
That was answer enough.
Your lips pressed together.
“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”
You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.
Dean took a breath, slower this time.
“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”
Your chest ached.
He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”
You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.
He didn’t.
Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.
You nodded once, mostly to yourself.
“There it is,” you said softly.
His eyes cut to you. “What?”
“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”
Dean flinched.
You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.
“That’s not fair,” he said.
“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Dean went quiet.
The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.
Almost honest.
Almost enough.
Almost real.
“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Dean inhaled sharply.
You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.
For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.
Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”
That was not enough.
You hated that it wasn’t enough.
“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.
“Okay.”
“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Okay.”
That was all.
And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.
Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.
That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.
Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.
You told him he didn’t have to.
He ignored you.
“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”
“I’m sure.”
“That was patronizing.”
“That was supportive.”
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”
“I’m counting on it.”
For half a second, the banter felt easy.
Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.
Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.
You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.
Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.
You stilled.
His hand dropped.
That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.
You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.
“Can I call you later?” he asked.
Your chest tightened.
“You can,” you said.
Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.
Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”
It disappeared.
You almost apologized.
You didn’t.
Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“It doesn’t feel fair.”
“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”
You looked down at your shoes.
Dean said your name softly.
You hated how quickly you looked up.
“I meant it,” he said.
You didn’t ask which part.
You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.
So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.
For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.
Not okay. Busy.
There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.
Allie called you on Sunday night.
You ignored it.
She texted.
allie: coward
You ignored that too.
allie: i say that with love
You almost smiled.
Almost.
On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.
You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”
Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“It’s an intervention.”
Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”
“You both have intervention faces.”
Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”
Hannah nodded. “A little.”
“Work on that,” you said.
Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”
“Apparently.”
Hannah hugged you first.
You hated that it made your throat tighten.
Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”
You looked down at the coffee lid.
The question should’ve been easy.
No, because Dean had been careful.
Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.
“Not on purpose,” you said.
Allie’s expression shifted immediately.
Hannah’s face softened.
You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.
“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.
You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.
“We broke the rule.”
Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”
“No, the tax fraud rule.”
“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”
You laughed once, but it didn’t last.
Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”
Your face warmed.
Allie inhaled. “Oh.”
“Don’t oh me.”
“It was good,” Allie said.
“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.
Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.
“And then?” Allie asked.
“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”
Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”
“He said he panicked.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe him?”
You didn’t answer.
Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”
That was the worst question.
Because yes.
Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.
“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.
Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.
“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.
Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
Dean texted that night.
dean: can we talk?
You stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then it lit again.
dean: not tonight if you don’t want
dean: just when you’re ready
You typed three different answers.
Deleted all of them.
Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.
You did not sleep much.
By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.
The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.
tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.
That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.
You told yourself Dean might not be there.
That was stupid.
Dean was always there.
He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.
But his face changed, just enough.
His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.
Garrett noticed.
Logan noticed.
You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.
“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”
He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”
Dean went very still.
Logan’s eyes widened.
Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.
You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”
Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”
Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.
“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”
“It was,” Allie said.
Dean hadn’t said anything yet.
You looked at him because not looking was worse.
“Hi,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”
That was it.
Two words.
And somehow, the room felt full of them.
Movie night was terrible.
Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.
He didn’t come closer.
Didn’t sit beside you.
Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.
There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.
And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.
You told yourself that was proof.
Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.
Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.
The kitchen was quieter.
You liked that.
You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.
You didn’t turn around.
“Hey,” Dean said.
You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”
“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
Dean saw it, because of course he did.
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“It was small, but I’m counting it.”
“You’re desperate.”
“Yeah.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
You turned around.
Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
“And then you keep saying them.”
“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“Dean.”
“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because it’s true.”
That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.
He was dangerous.
You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”
He swallowed.
“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”
Dean’s face changed.
“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”
“Then what am I?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean went silent.
The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.
Your heart dropped slowly.
“Right,” you said.
“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
“Then say it.”
Dean’s mouth opened.
Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.
“Dean?”
Dean’s eyes closed briefly.
You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”
Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.
Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” you said.
Dean looked at you.
The words tasted awful.
You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”
“Don’t.”
It came out fast. Too fast.
Garrett’s expression sharpened.
You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.
Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.
“What the hell is going on?”
You froze.
You shouldn’t have stayed.
You knew that.
After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.
But then Dean spoke.
“Nothing.”
Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“The captain thing.”
“The captain thing?”
“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”
Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”
Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”
Your fingers curled around the railing.
Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”
Dean didn’t answer immediately.
The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.
Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
Your breath caught.
Garrett said, “Dean.”
“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”
You should’ve left.
You stayed.
“What happened?” Garrett asked.
Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”
Garrett was silent.
“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”
“What kind of joke?”
“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”
Your throat tightened.
Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.
“I said we should blame the wine.”
Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”
You closed your eyes.
The hallway blurred for a second.
Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”
“I tried.”
“Try better.”
Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then tell her.”
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”
Everything inside you went still.
The house noise faded.
The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.
It’s not real.
We had a deal.
For a second, you couldn’t move.
You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.
Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.
Garrett said something after that.
You didn’t hear it.
Dean answered.
You didn’t hear that either.
Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.
You stepped back quietly.
Then again.
The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.
Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.
You walked until the house was behind you.
Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.
Allie.
You declined it.
Then Hannah.
You declined that too.
Then Dean.
You stopped walking.
His name filled the screen.
For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.
Then the call ended.
A text appeared almost immediately.
dean: where did you go?
Another came before you could breathe.
dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that
You stared at the message.
A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.
Please tell me you didn’t hear that.
Not, please let me explain.
Not, I didn’t mean it.
Just proof that there had been something to hear.
Another message appeared.
dean: I need to talk to you
You locked your phone.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.
It buzzed again.
You looked down before you could stop yourself.
dean: it’s not what you think
Your vision blurred.
That was the thing, though.
You had heard him.
Clearly.
You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.
Maybe all of that was true.
Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.
Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.
summary — after a weekend that changed everything, you and dean try to pretend nothing has shifted between you. but hurt feelings, mixed signals, and one overheard conversation make pretending impossible.
author note — part four is here ♡ this one is definitely a little heavier, and dean is trying… but let’s be honest, y/n isn’t exactly making it easy for him either. i hope you like it, and thank you so much for reading and supporting this series <3
sneak peek | part one | part two | part three
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
The bathroom mirror didn’t help.
Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.
That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.
Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.
But it was your eyes that gave you away.
You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.
You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.
Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.
Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.
But Dean hadn’t been cruel.
He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.
Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.
He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.
Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.
“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”
He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.
That was the worst part.
You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.
“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”
There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.
“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.
Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.
“You okay?”
You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.
“I’m fine,” you managed.
For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.
“That was a terrible lie.”
Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.
“I’m getting ready,” you called back.
“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.
“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”
“I’m having a moment.”
Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”
You looked at the lock.
Your hand didn’t move.
“No.”
There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.
Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.
But this time, he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said.
Just that.
No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.
You didn’t.
You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.
The worst part was that you still believed him a little.
Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.
Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.
Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.
You remembered lifting the blanket.
You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.
You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.
And then he’d woken up and made a joke.
You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.
By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.
Almost.
“You took forever,” he said.
There it was—the attempt.
You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.
You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”
His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”
The room went quiet again.
You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.
Dean stood.
“About what I said earlier—”
“You don’t have to.”
He stopped.
You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.
“I kind of think I do,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.”
That made you look up.
Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.
You forced a small smile. “Like what?”
His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.
“Like I regretted it.”
There it was.
The word you’d been trying not to touch.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”
“I don’t.”
He said it too fast. Too seriously.
For one awful second, you believed him.
Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.
“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.
His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It’s okay.”
“Stop saying that.”
You swallowed.
Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.
“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”
Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”
He winced. “Yeah.”
“Great choice.”
“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”
The sarcasm should’ve helped.
It didn’t.
Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”
“I know.”
“No, you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”
Your mouth closed.
That was annoyingly accurate.
Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”
You wanted to say yes.
You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.
But his phone rang before you could say anything.
Both of you looked at the screen.
His mother.
Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.
You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”
He didn’t move.
“Dean.”
His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”
You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.
“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”
There was a pause.
His eyes flicked toward you.
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”
You were not ready.
You were barely a person.
But you zipped your bag anyway.
Breakfast was worse.
There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.
Dean held your chair out for you.
The gesture was automatic.
So was the way you hesitated before sitting.
He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.
You hated that you saw it.
“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.
You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.
Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”
Fine.
The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.
His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”
Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”
“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”
You froze.
Dean’s head lifted.
His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.
Dean’s mother gave him a look.
“What?” his father asked mildly.
“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.
Dean’s jaw tightened.
You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.
The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.
At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.
Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.
You took it without thinking.
“Thanks,” you murmured.
His eyes met yours.
For one stupid second, everything softened.
Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.
Dean did too.
His mother saw that.
When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.
“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.
Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”
“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”
You swallowed.
Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.
You looked away first.
“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.
His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”
“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”
She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.
Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.
That seemed more likely.
She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.
Then his parents were gone.
Just like that.
No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.
Dean turned to you slowly.
The lobby felt too quiet.
“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.
You wanted to say yes.
The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”
Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”
“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”
The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.
Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.
You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.
They were not.
Your phone buzzed in your lap.
Allie.
allie: are you alive?
allie: and by alive i mean emotionally
allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast
allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast
allie: answer me before i create a theory
You turned your phone face down.
Dean noticed.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”
Silence again.
Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”
You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”
“That’s new.”
“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”
You finally looked at him.
He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.
“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”
Your throat went tight.
“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”
The worst part was that he sounded honest.
Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.
So why didn’t it make you feel better?
Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.
You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”
Dean didn’t answer fast enough.
That was answer enough.
Your lips pressed together.
“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”
“It’s fine.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”
You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.
Dean took a breath, slower this time.
“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”
Your chest ached.
He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”
You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.
He didn’t.
Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.
You nodded once, mostly to yourself.
“There it is,” you said softly.
His eyes cut to you. “What?”
“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”
Dean flinched.
You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.
“That’s not fair,” he said.
“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Dean went quiet.
The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.
Almost honest.
Almost enough.
Almost real.
“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Dean inhaled sharply.
You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.
For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.
Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”
That was not enough.
You hated that it wasn’t enough.
“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.
“Okay.”
“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Okay.”
That was all.
And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.
Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.
That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.
Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.
You told him he didn’t have to.
He ignored you.
“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”
“I’m sure.”
“That was patronizing.”
“That was supportive.”
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”
“I’m counting on it.”
For half a second, the banter felt easy.
Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.
Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.
You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.
Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.
You stilled.
His hand dropped.
That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.
You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.
“Can I call you later?” he asked.
Your chest tightened.
“You can,” you said.
Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.
Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”
It disappeared.
You almost apologized.
You didn’t.
Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“It doesn’t feel fair.”
“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”
You looked down at your shoes.
Dean said your name softly.
You hated how quickly you looked up.
“I meant it,” he said.
You didn’t ask which part.
You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.
So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.
For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.
Not okay. Busy.
There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.
Allie called you on Sunday night.
You ignored it.
She texted.
allie: coward
You ignored that too.
allie: i say that with love
You almost smiled.
Almost.
On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.
You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”
Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“It’s an intervention.”
Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”
“You both have intervention faces.”
Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”
Hannah nodded. “A little.”
“Work on that,” you said.
Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”
“Apparently.”
Hannah hugged you first.
You hated that it made your throat tighten.
Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”
You looked down at the coffee lid.
The question should’ve been easy.
No, because Dean had been careful.
Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.
“Not on purpose,” you said.
Allie’s expression shifted immediately.
Hannah’s face softened.
You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.
“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.
You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.
“We broke the rule.”
Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”
“No, the tax fraud rule.”
“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”
You laughed once, but it didn’t last.
Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”
Your face warmed.
Allie inhaled. “Oh.”
“Don’t oh me.”
“It was good,” Allie said.
“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.
Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.
“And then?” Allie asked.
“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”
Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”
“He said he panicked.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know.”
“Do you believe him?”
You didn’t answer.
Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”
That was the worst question.
Because yes.
Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.
“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.
Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.
“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.
Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
Dean texted that night.
dean: can we talk?
You stared at it until the screen dimmed.
Then it lit again.
dean: not tonight if you don’t want
dean: just when you’re ready
You typed three different answers.
Deleted all of them.
Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.
You did not sleep much.
By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.
The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.
tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.
That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.
You told yourself Dean might not be there.
That was stupid.
Dean was always there.
He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.
But his face changed, just enough.
His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.
Garrett noticed.
Logan noticed.
You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.
“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”
He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”
Dean went very still.
Logan’s eyes widened.
Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.
You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”
Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”
Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.
“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”
“It was,” Allie said.
Dean hadn’t said anything yet.
You looked at him because not looking was worse.
“Hi,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”
That was it.
Two words.
And somehow, the room felt full of them.
Movie night was terrible.
Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.
He didn’t come closer.
Didn’t sit beside you.
Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.
There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.
And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.
You told yourself that was proof.
Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.
Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.
The kitchen was quieter.
You liked that.
You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.
You didn’t turn around.
“Hey,” Dean said.
You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”
“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
Dean saw it, because of course he did.
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“It was small, but I’m counting it.”
“You’re desperate.”
“Yeah.”
The word hit harder than it should have.
You turned around.
Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.
His jaw tightened. “I know.”
“And then you keep saying them.”
“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“Dean.”
“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because it’s true.”
That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.
He was dangerous.
You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”
He swallowed.
“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”
Dean’s face changed.
“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”
“Then what am I?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean went silent.
The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.
Your heart dropped slowly.
“Right,” you said.
“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
“Then say it.”
Dean’s mouth opened.
Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.
“Dean?”
Dean’s eyes closed briefly.
You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”
Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.
Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” you said.
Dean looked at you.
The words tasted awful.
You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”
“Don’t.”
It came out fast. Too fast.
Garrett’s expression sharpened.
You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.
Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.
“What the hell is going on?”
You froze.
You shouldn’t have stayed.
You knew that.
After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.
But then Dean spoke.
“Nothing.”
Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“The captain thing.”
“The captain thing?”
“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”
Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”
Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”
Your fingers curled around the railing.
Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”
Dean didn’t answer immediately.
The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.
Then, quietly, “Yeah.”
Your breath caught.
Garrett said, “Dean.”
“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”
You should’ve left.
You stayed.
“What happened?” Garrett asked.
Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”
Garrett was silent.
“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”
“What kind of joke?”
“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”
Your throat tightened.
Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.
“I said we should blame the wine.”
Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”
You closed your eyes.
The hallway blurred for a second.
Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”
“I tried.”
“Try better.”
Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Then tell her.”
Dean was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”
Everything inside you went still.
The house noise faded.
The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.
It’s not real.
We had a deal.
For a second, you couldn’t move.
You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.
Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.
Garrett said something after that.
You didn’t hear it.
Dean answered.
You didn’t hear that either.
Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.
You stepped back quietly.
Then again.
The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.
Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.
You walked until the house was behind you.
Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.
Allie.
You declined it.
Then Hannah.
You declined that too.
Then Dean.
You stopped walking.
His name filled the screen.
For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.
Then the call ended.
A text appeared almost immediately.
dean: where did you go?
Another came before you could breathe.
dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that
You stared at the message.
A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.
Please tell me you didn’t hear that.
Not, please let me explain.
Not, I didn’t mean it.
Just proof that there had been something to hear.
Another message appeared.
dean: I need to talk to you
You locked your phone.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.
It buzzed again.
You looked down before you could stop yourself.
dean: it’s not what you think
Your vision blurred.
That was the thing, though.
You had heard him.
Clearly.
You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.
Maybe all of that was true.
Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.
Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.
watched the stanley cup finals last night and can’t stop thinking about bruins garrett winning a cup and meeting him down on the ice 🥺
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐏
𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 — garrett graham x fiancée!reader
𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 — garrett wins the stanley cup with the bruins, but before he even gets to the cup, he looks for the person who was there long before all of it.
𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺 — 18+ mdni, future garrett, established relationship, fiancée!reader, stanley cup win, emotional fluff, public kissing, possessive garrett, short smut scene, hotel room celebration, praise, soft dominance, unprotected sex.
𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻 — 2,090.
𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 — this one was requested a few weeks ago, and i thought it would be a cute little fic to write between bigger updates. i really hope you like it. thank you for always being so patient with me and for all your support <3
(𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓) | (𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓)
The final buzzer sounded, and for a second, you stood there, unable to breathe — not because you hadn’t seen it coming, but because you’d watched the clock bleed down for the last minute, your heart lodged in your throat with every brutal second.
The Bruins had been up by one, the other team’s goalie pulled, the entire arena on its feet and screaming so loudly you could feel it more than hear it. But when the horn finally went off, when the gloves started flying, and the bench spilled onto the ice, you went completely still.
Garrett Graham had won — the boy you’d known at Briar before Boston, before the cameras, before the whole world started saying his name as they’d always known who he was. The boy who’d carried more than he ever let anyone see and still acted like nothing hurt badly enough to keep him off the ice.
After everything, Garrett had won the Stanley Cup.
Around you, the arena erupted. People were crying and hugging, screaming into their phones, grabbing at your shoulders like you needed someone to tell you what’d just happened, but you understood what this meant, maybe better than anyone else in the arena. You understood the late-night phone calls after bad games, the ice packs, the silent drives home, and all the nights Garrett walked through the door, exhausted but still trying to smile, because he hated making you worry.
And on the ice, half buried beneath his teammates and a mess of black-and-gold jerseys, Garrett was laughing.
You caught glimpses of his face between helmets, his mouth open in a grin that looked almost too big for him, eyes bright, and damp hair a mess from where someone had ripped his helmet off in the chaos. One of his teammates caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, only for another to crash into him from behind, arms locking around him as laughter, shouting, and tears blurred together around them. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone kept yelling Garrett’s name.
And then, in the middle of all that noise, Garrett turned.
He wasn’t looking for the Cup.
His eyes searched the glass, the family section, the blur of hands and towels and camera flashes, and your hand came up to your mouth before you realized you were moving, because there he was, looking right at you.
The noise, the cameras, the crowd — all of it fell away.
His grin changed the second his eyes landed on yours, still bright with disbelief, but softer now, as if in the loudest moment of his life, he’d found the one quiet thing he needed.
You didn’t realize you’d started crying until the glass blurred in front of you.
Garrett pointed at you, then at the ice beneath him, like you were supposed to know exactly what he meant.
Get down here.
You laughed through the tears, shaking your head because your shoes were absolutely not made for championship ice, but Garrett only said something you couldn’t hear, his face making the meaning clear.
Baby.
He gestured again, more impatient this time, and you laughed through your tears because, obviously, he wasn’t going to let this go.
By the time someone helped you down to the ice, your hands were shaking. You stepped forward carefully, gripping the boards with one hand while the other pressed uselessly to your chest, like that might keep your heart where it belonged.
Garrett was already skating toward you, still in full gear, sweaty and breathless and looking at you like the Cup could wait.
“Careful,” he said, laughing as he caught you by the waist. “I didn’t win the Cup just to watch you eat shit on national television.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. “You won.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, like he was still trying to believe it. “I won.”
He pulled you against him hard enough that the pads made it clumsy, and somehow that only made you cry harder. You clutched the back of his jersey, your fingers brushing over the name across his shoulders — GRAHAM — like you needed to feel it before you could believe it.
“You did it,” you whispered.
Garrett’s arms tightened around you. “We did it.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Garrett.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes were red now, and he looked almost annoyed about it, which was so painfully him that you nearly laughed. “You were there for all of it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No.” His gloved hand came up carefully, clumsy against your cheek. “You were there for everything that mattered.”
The tears came harder. Someone was calling for Garrett to lift the Cup, but all you could feel was his hand against your cheek, still shaking from the win and trying to be gentle with you even through the gloves.
“You should go,” you whispered, even though you still hadn’t let go of him. “They’re waiting for you.”
Garrett looked over his shoulder, where his teammates were already gathering around the Cup, bright under the arena lights and waiting for him, before looking back at you.
“I wanted to see you first.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your face despite the cold coming off the ice. “Baby, I just won the Stanley Cup. You really thought I wasn’t coming to you first?”
You kissed him because if you tried to answer, you’d only cry again.
Garrett made a rough sound against your mouth and kissed you back like he didn’t care who was watching, like he’d spent the last minute of the game holding himself together and you were the first place he could finally let go. One hand stayed at your waist while the other slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the arena roared around you.
When you pulled back, Garrett was grinning again, all breathless and stupidly pleased with himself.
“There she is,” he murmured, his grin softening.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a Stanley Cup champion.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, still grinning. “You’re an idiot.”
You glanced down at your ring, glittering under the arena lights, then back at him. “Apparently.”
Garrett laughed, bright and breathless, and it hit you all over again how happy he was.
Someone yelled his name again, louder this time, and Garrett groaned like having to leave you to lift the Stanley Cup was a personal inconvenience.
You pressed a hand to his chest. “Go.”
He pointed at you, already backing away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m standing on ice, Garrett. Trust me, moving is not my priority.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
Heat rushed to your face so fast you were grateful for the noise around you.
His eyes darkened for half a second, just enough to make your stomach dip, even with half the arena watching. Then he kissed your forehead and skated backward, still watching you until one of his teammates finally shoved him toward the Cup.
The rest of it blurred after that.
The rest of it blurred after that: the photos, the champagne, the locker room interviews, Garrett lifting the Cup over his head with a laugh like he still couldn’t believe it was real. And still, between every obligation, he found you — a hand at your waist as he passed, a kiss to your temple, his fingers squeezing yours like he needed to make sure you were still there.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, his medal was still around his neck, his dress shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was damp from a shower he’d clearly rushed through, because patience had never been one of Garrett Graham’s strengths after a win.
He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, his eyes dragging over you like he was finally allowed to look.
You kicked off your heels, trying not to smile under the weight of his stare. “What?”
Garrett shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.”
“You’ve been staring all night.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over you, slow enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m not done.”
He crossed the room before you could answer, catching you by the waist and pulling you into him. The medal pressed cold between your bodies, and you gasped into his mouth. Garrett smiled as he knew exactly why.
“You know,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his damp hair, “most Stanley Cup champions would be downstairs celebrating.”
“Most Stanley Cup champions don’t get to come back upstairs to you.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Not bad.”
“It was smooth,” Garrett protested.
“You used the Cup. That’s cheating.”
Garrett kissed you again, deeper this time, until whatever smart comment you had left disappeared against his mouth. He tasted like champagne and mint, and his hands moved over you with the kind of hunger that made it obvious he’d been holding himself back all night, every camera, every interview, every hand pulling him away only making him want you more.
His mouth found your neck, and your head tipped back before you could stop yourself.
“Garrett,” you breathed.
He hummed against your skin. “Again.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Your name?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem of your dress, warm on your thigh. “Everyone’s been saying my name all night. I like it better from you.”
Your fingers tightened in his damp hair.
His mouth curved against your throat. “That’s it.”
The bed hit the back of your knees, and Garrett followed you down, still careful despite the adrenaline humming under his skin. That was Garrett — possessive enough to make your whole body go hot, gentle enough to wreck you.
He pushed your dress higher, spreading your thighs with a slow, deliberate kind of focus before pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin there. “Everyone kept wanting the Cup,” he murmured, voice low.
“And what did you want?”
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “I wanted my girl.”
The words hit low in your stomach, and his mouth followed, kissing higher until your breath caught. After that, there wasn’t much room left for teasing — only his hands on you, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and the medal pressing cool against your stomach when Garrett moved back over you. He kissed you through every shaky sound he pulled from you, murmuring praise against your lips like he couldn’t get enough of being the reason you came apart.
When he finally slid into you, slow and careful despite the way his whole body was tense with wanting, his forehead dropped to yours.
“You with me?”
You nodded, breathless and overwhelmed. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightened; his body held tense above yours. “Use your words, baby.”
Your heart twisted, because even now, with all that want shaking through him, he was still Garrett — careful where it mattered.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”
His control slipped just enough for his next thrust to go deeper, rougher, stealing the breath from your lungs. After that, he kept the same relentless rhythm, pushing you closer every time you tried to swallow a sound and he caught you doing it.
“No,” he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand. “Let me hear you.”
“Garrett—”
“That’s it,” he breathed.
You came around him with his name breaking out of you, the medal pressed cool between your bodies as your nails dragged down his back and he held you through every second of it. Garrett followed not long after, face buried in your neck, your name coming out rough and wrecked against your skin, the sound making your chest ache.
Downstairs, the celebration was still going. Up here, Garrett stayed pressed against you, his breathing slowly evening out against your skin.
You touched the back of his neck, smiling softly. “You won the Stanley Cup.”
He lifted his head, eyes soft and smug and fixed entirely on you.
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ring. “And somehow, this is still the best part of my night.”
You rolled your eyes, even as your throat tightened. “That was terrible.”
Garrett grinned and kissed you again.
“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”
Before the Cup, before the cameras, before everyone else got to celebrate him, Garrett had looked for you first.
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watched the stanley cup finals last night and can’t stop thinking about bruins garrett winning a cup and meeting him down on the ice 🥺
STANLEY CUP
pairing — garrett graham x fiancée!reader
summary — garrett wins the stanley cup with the bruins, but before he even gets to the cup, he looks for the person who was there long before all of it.
warnings — 18+ mdni, bruins!garrett, established relationship, fiancée!reader, stanley cup win, emotional fluff, public kissing, possessive garrett, short smut scene, hotel room celebration, praise, soft dominance, unprotected sex.
word count — 2,090.
author note — this one was requested a few weeks ago, and i thought it would be a cute little fic to write between bigger updates. i really hope you like it. thank you for always being so patient with me and for all your support <3
(TAGLIST) | (MASTERLIST) | (ORIGINAL MASTERLIST)
The final buzzer sounded, and for a second, you stood there, unable to breathe — not because you hadn’t seen it coming, but because you’d watched the clock bleed down for the last minute, your heart lodged in your throat with every brutal second.
The Bruins had been up by one, the other team’s goalie pulled, the entire arena on its feet and screaming so loudly you could feel it more than hear it. But when the horn finally went off, when the gloves started flying, and the bench spilled onto the ice, you went completely still.
Garrett Graham had won — the boy you’d known at Briar before Boston, before the cameras, before the whole world started saying his name as they’d always known who he was. The boy who’d carried more than he ever let anyone see and still acted like nothing hurt badly enough to keep him off the ice.
After everything, Garrett had won the Stanley Cup.
Around you, the arena erupted. People were crying and hugging, screaming into their phones, grabbing at your shoulders like you needed someone to tell you what’d just happened, but you understood what this meant, maybe better than anyone else in the arena. You understood the late-night phone calls after bad games, the ice packs, the silent drives home, and all the nights Garrett walked through the door, exhausted but still trying to smile, because he hated making you worry.
And on the ice, half buried beneath his teammates and a mess of black-and-gold jerseys, Garrett was laughing.
You caught glimpses of his face between helmets, his mouth open in a grin that looked almost too big for him, eyes bright, and damp hair a mess from where someone had ripped his helmet off in the chaos. One of his teammates caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, only for another to crash into him from behind, arms locking around him as laughter, shouting, and tears blurred together around them. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone kept yelling Garrett’s name.
And then, in the middle of all that noise, Garrett turned.
He wasn’t looking for the Cup.
His eyes searched the glass, the family section, the blur of hands and towels and camera flashes, and your hand came up to your mouth before you realized you were moving, because there he was, looking right at you.
The noise, the cameras, the crowd — all of it fell away.
His grin changed the second his eyes landed on yours, still bright with disbelief, but softer now, as if in the loudest moment of his life, he’d found the one quiet thing he needed.
You didn’t realize you’d started crying until the glass blurred in front of you.
Garrett pointed at you, then at the ice beneath him, like you were supposed to know exactly what he meant.
Get down here.
You laughed through the tears, shaking your head because your shoes were absolutely not made for championship ice, but Garrett only said something you couldn’t hear, his face making the meaning clear.
Baby.
He gestured again, more impatient this time, and you laughed through your tears because, obviously, he wasn’t going to let this go.
By the time someone helped you down to the ice, your hands were shaking. You stepped forward carefully, gripping the boards with one hand while the other pressed uselessly to your chest, like that might keep your heart where it belonged.
Garrett was already skating toward you, still in full gear, sweaty and breathless and looking at you like the Cup could wait.
“Careful,” he said, laughing as he caught you by the waist. “I didn’t win the Cup just to watch you eat shit on national television.”
You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. “You won.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, like he was still trying to believe it. “I won.”
He pulled you against him hard enough that the pads made it clumsy, and somehow that only made you cry harder. You clutched the back of his jersey, your fingers brushing over the name across his shoulders — GRAHAM — like you needed to feel it before you could believe it.
“You did it,” you whispered.
Garrett’s arms tightened around you. “We did it.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Garrett.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes were red now, and he looked almost annoyed about it, which was so painfully him that you nearly laughed. “You were there for all of it.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“No.” His gloved hand came up carefully, clumsy against your cheek. “You were there for everything that mattered.”
The tears came harder. Someone was calling for Garrett to lift the Cup, but all you could feel was his hand against your cheek, still shaking from the win and trying to be gentle with you even through the gloves.
“You should go,” you whispered, even though you still hadn’t let go of him. “They’re waiting for you.”
Garrett looked over his shoulder, where his teammates were already gathering around the Cup, bright under the arena lights and waiting for him, before looking back at you.
“I wanted to see you first.”
Your breath caught. “What?”
His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your face despite the cold coming off the ice. “Baby, I just won the Stanley Cup. You really thought I wasn’t coming to you first?”
You kissed him because if you tried to answer, you’d only cry again.
Garrett made a rough sound against your mouth and kissed you back like he didn’t care who was watching, like he’d spent the last minute of the game holding himself together and you were the first place he could finally let go. One hand stayed at your waist while the other slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the arena roared around you.
When you pulled back, Garrett was grinning again, all breathless and stupidly pleased with himself.
“There she is,” he murmured, his grin softening.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a Stanley Cup champion.”
“You’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, still grinning. “You’re an idiot.”
You glanced down at your ring, glittering under the arena lights, then back at him. “Apparently.”
Garrett laughed, bright and breathless, and it hit you all over again how happy he was.
Someone yelled his name again, louder this time, and Garrett groaned like having to leave you to lift the Stanley Cup was a personal inconvenience.
You pressed a hand to his chest. “Go.”
He pointed at you, already backing away. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’m standing on ice, Garrett. Trust me, moving is not my priority.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”
Heat rushed to your face so fast you were grateful for the noise around you.
His eyes darkened for half a second, just enough to make your stomach dip, even with half the arena watching. Then he kissed your forehead and skated backward, still watching you until one of his teammates finally shoved him toward the Cup.
The rest of it blurred after that.
The rest of it blurred after that: the photos, the champagne, the locker room interviews, Garrett lifting the Cup over his head with a laugh like he still couldn’t believe it was real. And still, between every obligation, he found you — a hand at your waist as he passed, a kiss to your temple, his fingers squeezing yours like he needed to make sure you were still there.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, his medal was still around his neck, his dress shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was damp from a shower he’d clearly rushed through, because patience had never been one of Garrett Graham’s strengths after a win.
He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, his eyes dragging over you like he was finally allowed to look.
You kicked off your heels, trying not to smile under the weight of his stare. “What?”
Garrett shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.”
“You’ve been staring all night.”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over you, slow enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m not done.”
He crossed the room before you could answer, catching you by the waist and pulling you into him. The medal pressed cold between your bodies, and you gasped into his mouth. Garrett smiled as he knew exactly why.
“You know,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his damp hair, “most Stanley Cup champions would be downstairs celebrating.”
“Most Stanley Cup champions don’t get to come back upstairs to you.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Not bad.”
“It was smooth,” Garrett protested.
“You used the Cup. That’s cheating.”
Garrett kissed you again, deeper this time, until whatever smart comment you had left disappeared against his mouth. He tasted like champagne and mint, and his hands moved over you with the kind of hunger that made it obvious he’d been holding himself back all night, every camera, every interview, every hand pulling him away only making him want you more.
His mouth found your neck, and your head tipped back before you could stop yourself.
“Garrett,” you breathed.
He hummed against your skin. “Again.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Your name?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem of your dress, warm on your thigh. “Everyone’s been saying my name all night. I like it better from you.”
Your fingers tightened in his damp hair.
His mouth curved against your throat. “That’s it.”
The bed hit the back of your knees, and Garrett followed you down, still careful despite the adrenaline humming under his skin. That was Garrett — possessive enough to make your whole body go hot, gentle enough to wreck you.
He pushed your dress higher, spreading your thighs with a slow, deliberate kind of focus before pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin there. “Everyone kept wanting the Cup,” he murmured, voice low.
“And what did you want?”
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “I wanted my girl.”
The words hit low in your stomach, and his mouth followed, kissing higher until your breath caught. After that, there wasn’t much room left for teasing — only his hands on you, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and the medal pressing cool against your stomach when Garrett moved back over you. He kissed you through every shaky sound he pulled from you, murmuring praise against your lips like he couldn’t get enough of being the reason you came apart.
When he finally slid into you, slow and careful despite the way his whole body was tense with wanting, his forehead dropped to yours.
“You with me?”
You nodded, breathless and overwhelmed. “Yeah.”
His jaw tightened; his body held tense above yours. “Use your words, baby.”
Your heart twisted, because even now, with all that want shaking through him, he was still Garrett — careful where it mattered.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”
His control slipped just enough for his next thrust to go deeper, rougher, stealing the breath from your lungs. After that, he kept the same relentless rhythm, pushing you closer every time you tried to swallow a sound and he caught you doing it.
“No,” he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand. “Let me hear you.”
“Garrett—”
“That’s it,” he breathed.
You came around him with his name breaking out of you, the medal pressed cool between your bodies as your nails dragged down his back and he held you through every second of it. Garrett followed not long after, face buried in your neck, your name coming out rough and wrecked against your skin, the sound making your chest ache.
Downstairs, the celebration was still going. Up here, Garrett stayed pressed against you, his breathing slowly evening out against your skin.
You touched the back of his neck, smiling softly. “You won the Stanley Cup.”
He lifted his head, eyes soft and smug and fixed entirely on you.
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ring. “And somehow, this is still the best part of my night.”
You rolled your eyes, even as your throat tightened. “That was terrible.”
Garrett grinned and kissed you again.
“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”
Before the Cup, before the cameras, before everyone else got to celebrate him, Garrett had looked for you first.
💌 leave a comment under the taglist post if you want to be added
The hockey house was too quiet when Dean got back, which really should’ve been his first warning.
The living room lights were still on, ESPN muted on the TV, and a half-finished beer sat sweating on the coffee table. Dean let himself in without thinking; it was his house, too, and nobody around here knocked anyway.
His wallet was right where he’d left it, sitting on the small hallway table outside Garrett’s room, half-buried under an old receipt and a roll of hockey tape.
He grabbed it, shoved it into his pocket, and should’ve left right then. Later, he’d keep thinking about that part: he’d had what he came for, so there was no reason to stay. No reason to look toward Garrett’s room. No reason for his eyes to catch on the door, cracked open.
Except then he heard her — low and muffled behind the door — and for a second, he couldn’t make out the words. Just a soft, breathless sound that made his hand tighten around his wallet before his brain had time to catch up.
For half a second, he let himself think she might’ve been laughing. Then the sound came again, lower this time, with a neediness underneath it that made Dean go very still.
The door was cracked open a couple of inches, but nowhere near enough for Dean to see anything clearly. It was only enough for light to spill into the hallway and for him to catch a sliver of Garrett’s bed from where he stood.
He hadn’t meant to look. That would’ve been his first argument, if anyone had asked. He didn’t step closer, didn’t push the door open. For a second, he barely let himself breathe.
Garrett was on his knees between her thighs, and Dean’s brain went blank before he could make himself look away.
Dean wasn’t exactly innocent. He’d seen plenty in his life, probably more than his mother would ever want confirmed, which made it deeply inconvenient that his whole body still went tight the second he realized his best friend was on his knees, eating his girlfriend out like Dean hadn’t just walked close enough to hear her fall apart.
But this felt different.
Because this was [Y/N].
[Y/N], her sweatshirt bunched high around her ribs, her thighs spread around Garrett’s shoulders, one hand tight in his hair as he pulled another helpless sound out of her. Her head was tipped back against the pillow, mouth open on a breathless moan, her bare stomach tightening beneath the sweatshirt every time his tongue moved over her, like he knew exactly how to make her come apart. One of Garrett’s hands was spread wide over her hip, holding her steady with the sure, practiced ease that made Dean’s stomach twist, because Garrett knew every little way her body wanted to move when it got too intense.
Dean should’ve turned around. He knew that. The thought came through sharp and clear: leave.
Instead, he didn’t move.
Garrett’s mouth moved between her thighs, slow and deliberate, pulling another shaky moan out of her while her fingers tightened in his hair. [Y/N]’s back arched, her breath catching in a way that sounded completely ruined, and Dean felt it under his skin before he could remind himself he had no right to feel anything at all. His hand tightened around the wallet until the leather bent beneath his fingers.
“Oh—God, Garrett.”
Dean’s stomach dropped.
Her voice. The way Garrett’s name broke out of her, helpless and breathless, like the whole world had shrunk down to his mouth between her legs, his tongue dragging her closer, her thighs trembling around his shoulders while her hand stayed fisted in his hair like she couldn’t take it and still needed more.
Garrett hummed against her clit, low and deliberate, and her thighs tightened around his shoulders as her hips gave a helpless little lift toward his mouth.
Dean forgot how to breathe entirely.
That was when he realized the worst part wasn’t that he’d looked.
It was what he wanted to keep looking at.
The thought hit him so hard he actually took a step back.
Shame hit him fast after that, hot and ugly and deserved. Dean turned from the door so quickly his shoulder almost clipped the opposite wall, wallet clenched in his hand, pulse roaring in his ears. He moved down the hallway quietly at first, then too fast once he reached the living room, and the front door shut behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like a confession.
Outside, the cold air hit his face, sharp enough to drag him back into himself. Dean stood on the porch, staring at his car across the driveway, and tried to breathe like someone who hadn’t just seen exactly what he’d seen.
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but it was long enough.
hi loves ♡
since boyfriend material part three came a little later than planned, i wanted to give you a small teaser as a thank you for being patient with me.
this is from the garrett x reader x dean smutty one-shot that won the poll.
