The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.

Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."

Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.

One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."

Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.

In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.

His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.

For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.

Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.

2. Self-Care Day with Summer

Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.

All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.

As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.

Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.

Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.

The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."

"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.

"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.

But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...

Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.

3. The Injury

"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.

"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.  

"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.

A dangerous one.

Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."

That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.

His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.

"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.

The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.

The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.

Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.

You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.

Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.

Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.

But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.

4. Tucker’s Deathbed

Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.

Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.

He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.

Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.

Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.

"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.

Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.

You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.

It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.

Oh how you loved being right.

You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.

Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.

It was simply woven into who you were.

"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.

Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.

Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.

Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.

You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.

Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.

5. The Male Gaze

"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.

Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.

Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.

Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."

Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.

"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.

Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.

His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.

"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.

"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.

Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.

One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.

They'd all noticed. Of course they did.

Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.

Jealousy.

Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.

He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.

You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."

Silence.

Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.

"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.

"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.

Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.

He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.

+1 The Hat Trick

The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.

The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.

He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.

How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.

Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.

Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.

Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.

By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.

Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.

Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.

Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.

One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.

He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.

When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.

Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.

With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.

Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.

Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.

The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.

Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.

You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.

Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.

A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.

You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.

His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.

It looked right. Far too right.

"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.

The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.

Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.

"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.

Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"

A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.

You were a masochist. 

Seriously, there was no other explanation for it. 

‘It’ is your willingness to participate in an impromptu road trip with your best friends. A trip which now included Briar Hockey’s core four in addition to the two earth angels whom you met on your first day of freshman year. 

But back to the matter at hand. The road trip; the reason why you were stuck sandwiched in between the boy you’ve been lying to yourself about liking and your best friend who knew. Knew that even though you said being attracted to blonde men was a ‘recession indicator’, the defenseman to your left had been the star of your most inner fantasies as of late. 

Hannah’s first clue?

Your recent over consumption of romantic novels. 

Most notable to the observant brunette, were the love interests of such novels; of a very specific variety. Cocky, emotionally unavailable, built-like-a-brick-shit-house blondes. 

You said it was exam stress. That you had needed a big ole helping of escapism to get through the barrage of tests you were facing; a little harmless pleasure. 

Nevermind that your recent reading binge had begun just after Hannah had formally introduced you and Allie to Garrett and his friends. Friends including Dean. No, no; that was a coincidence. Something to laugh about over sangria with the girls. 

Well, you laughed. They didn’t. All they gave in response were teasing looks.

Now here you are; months later. Friendships forged with Garrett over your mutual love for Hannah, with Tuck through the sharing of family recipes, Logan via him doubling over laughing at you as you asked him what the ‘genie lamp’ symbol on your car’s dashboard meant, and Dean through… Well, everything. 

It started one night in the hockey house after a call from back home. Nothing easy, it never was, and Dean knew. You didn’t say anything; didn’t have to. He knew something was wrong from how hard you were staring at the TV during a group movie night; the flick of the evening supposedly being your favourite, but when your expression hadn’t shifted in the first 15 minutes he knew something was wrong.

And so, you’d talked about it. And kept talking. About the mundane, the serious, anything that made you laugh or think just a little too hard. 

Despite the seemingly shallow charisma that practically oozed from his pores, Dean was smart. He could read you not just like a book, but like a damn billboard posted on the highways of America. Much like the ones you were currently passing. 

Thus made the seating arrangement in the minivan (because yes, mama Tucker had rented a minivan for your road trip) all the more awkward. 

For you at least, strapped between Dean and Hannah in the middle of the van. 

Curse your car sickness. If not for that, maybe you could have been asleep in the rear rather than practically hyperventilating from the forced proximity to your friend. Your hot, hot, blonde, hockey player friend who knew your signature coffee order and what kind of god forsaken reels made you laugh. 

Fuck my life you thought.

Hannah was having smug, silent conversations with Garrett through rearview mirror eye contact alone. But even with all her NOT so subtle galances toward you and Dean, the poor boy still couldn’t get it. 

Tucker was at the wheel with a rod-straight spine and his hands at 10 and 2 like he was 16 again.

Allie was belting High School Musical, playing solely in her own ears via her headphones, and Logan was somehow sleeping through it all across from her in the back seat. 

But Dean–

Ooooh Dean was practically vibrating with self satisfaction. Comfortably leaning back in his seat with his right arm across your headrest, bent at the elbow to allow his wrist to rest loosely on your shoulder. All while he smiled happily and whistled to himself as he looked out the window. 

You thought you were going to die here.

Sure you were comfortable with these people. Probably more comfortable with them than you were with anyone else on the planet. 

But this was different. 

Because as much as you’d convinced yourself that it was a trick of the mind—only a consequence of ovulation—you were in fact crushing on Dean, hard. 

As hard as the rigid muscles that had been pressed against your side since before the state border. 

“Gettin’ a little low on gas here guys. I’m gonna take the next exit to top ‘er up.”

Thank. God. 

You thought you could kiss Tucker from the pure relief that flooded you after his statement. But alas, you already wanted to kiss one Briar Hockey player, and that was more than enough for your nervous system at the moment. 

The second Tucker put the car in park, you practically crawled over Hannah’s lap to escape the confines of this soccer-mom-mobile. 

Much to the entertainment of Hannah… and Dean

And the bewilderment of everyone else in the car who was conscious. 

“What the fuck was that all about?” 

Garrett had never been one to sugar coat things, as much was evident as the group watched you practically sprint into the store ahead of you. 

Both Hannah and Dean couldn’t contain their laughter. 

Hannah immediately snapped her eyes over to the blonde positioned a seat over from her. Laughing hard enough to shake blonde tendrils out of his eyes like a golden retriever. 

So he knew. Like really knew. 

Dean didn’t even bother to respond with words. Only throwing a wink her way before he was tossing open the vans sliding door and strutting in after you. 

Tucker was already headed in to put sixty bucks on pump four before Garret could speak again. 

Still confused.

“Again I say, what the fuck was all that about.”

Logan and Allie were still in the back.

Still sleeping.

Still singing.

Hannah couldn’t fight her smile as she responded. 

“Like Allie said. It’s the start of something new.”

-

You hadn’t meant to bolt like that; to high tail it out of there like you were on fire. But to be fair, it sure felt like you were. 

The second Dean slid into the seat next to you, your temperature had gone up. Heat rising to your cheeks because apparently your body couldn’t differentiate between physical proximity to an attractive male, your friend, and being held at gun point. 

You were in dire need of some escapism. Again. 

So naturally, you had found yourself in the print section of the gas station. 

Magazines, newspapers, sudoku books and a slim selection of novels. Romance novels.

Here we go. 

You grabbed the first one that caught your eye. 

It also happened to catch Dean’s eye. Who was roughly three feet behind you, grinning like a jackass as he watched you grope for a novel with a muscle-toned football player on it. 

Football?

He could forgive you for that, he decided, because said football player was blonde. 

Oh so blonde; with hair that swooped in front of his eyes as he seductively dipped the woman on the cover. 

You didn’t even bother reading the synopsis. You’d both seen and read enough novels in your lifetime to know the contents of this one. So, you did what any hormonal, touch-starved, forever friend-zoned woman your age would do. 

You skipped to the good part. 

Right to the centre of the book.

Right to where Dante (because of course that was his name) slowly slid his hand into the back of Mel's jeans. 

You were so entranced in the book it was as if someone was whispering the words into your ear.

“Fingertips edging past her delicate lace-”

Oh dear god.

“Shit!” 

Exactly. Because a shit eating grin is what you saw when you turned around to find that it was Dean of all people who was leering over your shoulder, softly reading to you the straight up smut you had chosen to peruse. In public.

“Hey, wait! It was just getting good.”

That fucking smile.

“Dean. You scared me.”

“Clearly.”

Silence. But you swore that megawatt smile of his had to be humming with electricity.

“Well, what do you want? Perve.”

“Oh I’M the perve?!” He asked giddily, pointing a thick finger at himself, “you’re the one reading porn in the middle of a gas station.”

“Yeah, well, you were the freak reading it to me!” You hushedly screeched back at him.

He didn’t say anything; just stepped closer. Close enough his head tilted further down to keep your gaze.

“I happened to like where it was going. The devilishly handsome blonde jock and his girl, who seems far too oblivious for her own good. Who seriously thinks that said handsome devil would sit in a minivan for four hours listening to country music, because he just wants to be next to his friend.”

This was getting too real. 

Real enough that your first instinct was to shy away from his eyes. Convinced his flirting was teasing. 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t end well. Trust me, I know.”

Dean softly, but sternly, gripped your chin and raised your gaze back to his own piercing blue one.

“No. You don’t.”

You dropped the book as he released your chin for your hand and tugged you further into the store. Into the bathroom of all places. 

The lock clicked as he softly pressed you up against the door.

“Let me show you how it ends. Really, because I think you’ll find it’s just the beginning.”

The earnestness in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget your surroundings.

Almost. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Dean. There will be no happy ending in this gas station bathroom.”

He released his breath in soft laughter and leaned his forehead against your own. Hands smoothing over your denim clad waist. Meeting a respectable end right above your curves.

“Later then?”

“…We’ll have a lot to talk about first.”

“Hmmmm. How about you write it down first? I’d rather have you read to me this time.”

“As long as it’s not the only time.”

Releasing a pained groan he lowered his face into the crook of your neck. Hot breath at your pulse.

And - 

Unlocked the door behind you.

“Deal.”

-

Grinning in disbelief you let him guide you out of the single bathroom. 

Back into the open, and into the awaiting gaze of John Logan.

So he finally woke up, you thought.

Logan rapidly looked from the toilet behind you two, to your flushed face and back. Rubbing his eyes in between each glance. 

“Did you just desecrate the room where I'm about to TAS?”

TAS?

It didn’t even take 10 seconds to figure it out.

“Let me guess. ‘Take A Shit’.” 

You just shook your head at the steep drop in the conversation.

“Correct. This is a nightmare; an unhygienic nightmare.”

“Maybe your nightmare. But my dream bro.”

Dean’s clarification didn’t help the heat crawling up your skin.

“We didn’t -”

“Yet.”

You should have known by now that glaring at Dean wouldn’t dissuade him, but you tried anyway. 

“Slow down hot shot.”

“Oh trust me, I’ll go slow. You can’t spell Dante without Dean, baby.”

And with the combination of Dean’s gleeful expression and the look of sheer disgust on Logan’s face, you knew you were never going to live this moment down. 

"Why-" Tucker cut himself off hearing a thump and giggle from upstairs. "Ohh."

"Exactly," Logan smiled, avoiding Tucker as he left the room with the bowl of pretzels in his hand.

After a few minutes, the slapping of feet coming down the stairs could be heard.

"Finally..." Tucker grumbled under his breath, annoyed to be the only one making this party presentable. He already finished laying out all of the snack, although the pretzels had mysteriously disappeared.

Dean appeared in the kitchen, you hanging from his tall frame like a baby koala. You arms were wrapped around his strong shoulders and your legs were snug around his hips. Dean smiled at Tucker, holding his hand out for the tap. He kept a hand lightly on your ass, not appearing to actually support any of your weight. He kept it there more as an armrest of sorts.

"Alright, I'll tap the keg." Dean said, leaning over the keg with the tool in his hand.

Tucker just gawked at him. "How are you doing that?"

Dean just glanced at him, focused on the keg. "What? You've seen me tap the keg before-"

"No," Tucker remarked, pointing to you. Your head was tucked into Dean's neck, your hair covering your face in a way that screamed "go away" to outsiders. "Holding her without either hand."

Dean glanced down at you, seeing your eyes peered up from against his throat. He grinned, "Just what a man has to do when he has a clingy girlfriend."

You grumbled, your voice muffled against his chest, "I'm not clingy."

"That's insane." Tucker proclaimed as Garrett and Logan re-entered the room.

"What's insane?" Logan asked.

Tucker gestured to the sight before them of the two most love-sick people on earth.

Logan just shrugged, "They do that all the time. You're usually passed out drunk, but I guess they're starting early in the evening."

Garrett hummed in agreement, the stolen pretzels had somehow ended up in his possession at this point.

"I didn't sleep well." Your muffled voice said.

Tucker snatched the pretzels away from Garrett, "I feel like you guys are punking me."

"Nope," Garrett said, "They're just freaks."

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.

Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you. 

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.

He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

steve harrington masterlist

“Everything will be fine, honey,” you try to reassure him once more, reaching out to place your hand on his thigh and giving it a soothing squeeze, which he takes more as a 'you'll have to be strong and endure this, you got yourself into this.'

Steve grabs your hand as he focuses on the road ahead and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a loving kiss on your knuckles. Then he brings your joined hands back to you, placing them on your growing belly.

Your cute little bump is now visible, and it's at the point where everyone can tell that you're definitely pregnant.

“Will he notice?” Steve bites his lower lip, visibly agitated.

“He’ll definitely notice, daddy,” you reply with a giggle, intertwining your fingers over his on your five-month baby bump.

Steve beams at the title, the nerves momentarily eclipsed by pride. 

“God,” he exhales with a goofy smile. “Don't say that, it makes me so happy and horny.”

“Steve,” you call out disapprovingly, even the way you say it is so mom-like that it drives him crazy, with that unforgettable smile curving your lips covered in that cute lip gloss he loves.

“I'm just joking—I'm nervous,” he shrugs and shakes his head. “I just… I really want him to be happy for us.”

You turn your body toward him as much as the seatbelt—and your baby bump— allows, studying his face, the crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightens when he’s nervous. You’ve seen Steve face monsters, literal ones, without flinching. But this? This matters in a way Demogorgons never did.

“He loves you,” you say gently. “He always has. You’re not stealing anything from him. You’re just… joining the family.”

That gets his attention. He looks at you fully now, sunglasses pushed down his nose so you can see his eyes, glossy and sincere.

“What if he thinks we rushed things?” he blurts out. “Or that I’m not ready? Or that I’m gonna screw this up somehow? I mean, my dad was—he is kind of a jerk to me. I don't want Dustin to think that I—”

“Steve, baby, you are already an amazing husband,” you say, voice steady and warm. “And you’re going to be an incredible dad. Dustin knows you. He’s not going to think any of those things. We're family.”

“Family,” he repeats, tasting the word. Then he swallows and nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Yeah. Okay. Family.”

The massive tires of the Winnebago crunch against the gravel of the university parking lot. Steve kills the engine, but his hands remain white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath, looking at you with a mix of terror and excitement.

Steve gets out of the driver's seat, adjusting his sunglasses with that characteristic confidence of his, although his smile suggests that he is more nervous than usual. He walks around the vehicle and opens the passenger door with exaggerated delicacy.

“Careful, sweetheart. Slowly,” he reminds you, offering you his hand as if you were made of porcelain.

“Steve, I'm just pregnant, I haven't broken my leg,” you chuckle, holding his hand and stepping down from the motorhome.

“Hey, you're carrying a national treasure, so you have to be careful, baby” he answers in an affectionate tone, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before turning toward the big building of the Purdue University.

Not a minute goes by before Dustin runs up through the crowd of college students, carrying a huge backpack and a huge smile lighting up his face, so happy to see you two after months of phone calls, letters, and postcards.

“Hey, buddy—oh! ” Steve greets him, hugging Dustin with joy, and Dustin hugs him back tightly, giggling in delight.

“Harrington, you're here!” the young man exclaims excitedly, “You're both here.”

His eyes wander from the huge camper behind you both and finally come to focus on you. His eyebrows furrow for a second, momentarily confused by the extra volume in your midsection, until the realization finally sinks in. 

And his mouth drops open, dumbfounded, stammering your name.

“Oh shit, is that... a baby?” His voice rises three pitches. “Is there a baby in there?!”

You can't hide your excitement and open your arms, fully revealing your pregnancy state. “Surprise, Dusty! You're going to be an uncle.”

Dustin drops his backpack, which hits the ground with a thud.

“Oh shit! Are you kidding me?!” he lunges toward you, carefully wrapping you in a hug that avoids putting pressure on your belly but transmits all his emotion.

His hands tremble slightly as he gestures toward your cute bump.

“May I...?” he requests with sparkling eyes.

You nod gently and Steve draws closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and looking at Dustin with a huge smile, his lips trembling with happiness.

Dustin places a hand on your bump with near-religious reverence. Right then, you feel a little kick, as if the baby is greeting his favourite —and only—uncle.

“Oh my God! It moved!” Dustin leaps back, half scared, half euphoric. “My niece or nephew just communicated with me via tactile vibration!” he chirps enthusiastically. “That’s a sign of high intelligence, definitely a Henderson trait!"

Steve finds himself relaxed at last, realizing that Dustin isn't upset, but rather the opposite, beaming with happiness for the baby. 

He lets out a huff of laughter, “I'm pretty sure all babies do that, buddy.”

You laugh as well, leaning back into Steve’s chest and admiring the scene with soft eyes. “We wanted to tell you in person.”

Dustin looks back at you, his face softening. “I can't believe it. This is going to be the best road trip ever! I already have a list of books we need to read to the bump. Starting with The Hobbit, obviously."

Steve rolls his eyes but pulls you both closer. “Alright, Uncle Genius. Load your gear. The passenger VIP is getting hungry, and we have a long drive ahead.”

As Dustin climbs into the camper, already rambling about "prenatal brain stimulation" and the specific frequency of music he’s going to play for the baby, Steve pauses at the door. 

He turns back to you, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, revealing eyes that are shimmering with tears he’d never admit to.

“We did it,” he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “He’s happy.”

“I told you he would be,” you say against his mouth.

ຣ bnd!steve who still invites you to his birthday parties even though his friends think you’re weird (you kind of are, because you are a horse girl).

there’s probably a year where he does this to explicitly be a little mean bc he is a teenage boy.

he’s turning 14, you’re 13, and he the invitation he sends you says that the party starts at 6PM. when you arrive, you’re very obviously late, and he and his other friends snicker a little while steve says, loudly in front of everyone, that the party started at 3, and you live right next door, how could you get it so messed up?

ຣ bnd!steve, who invites you to his family parties from there on out, because he’s known you so long that it just makes more sense for you to celebrate with his cousins than his friends, who don’t understand you or his friendship with you anyway. he pulls you aside and apologizes for the previous year, and even though it’s a whole year late, you just shrug it off. you get him back at your birthday party anyway by making him comply with the theme (still horses, because your mom kind of can’t take a hint that you’ve outgrown that kind of thing).

ຣ goddamn fucking bnd!steve inviting his girlfriend(s) over to his house to go swimming when it’s hot enough (and even when it’s not, because nothing is more conducive to misbehavior than teenagers off from school and home alone while their parents are at work). watching him from the too-hot, still air of your bedroom, your fan barely making a dent in the heat while they splash around in the water. her pushing steve off the diving board, steve splashing her in retribution. her untying her bikini top and tossing it out of the pool, and steve crowding her against the wall of the deep end, his face pressed to her neck while you try and try to just read your honors english assignment you were given to do over break.

ຣ bnd!steve whose bedroom is directly across from yours, and it was never a problem until he was 18 and you were 17 and the day comes when you accidentally see into steve’s room when he brings a girl in there, post-pool antics. after that you always keep your curtains drawn. because you didn’t see anyone’s parts but well, you sure were about to.

ຣ bnd!steve who agrees to go to your prom with you when your mom asks, but you freak OUT about it bc you did NOT want to ask him. you definitely don’t even like him! not like that!

your mom going behind your back to ask steve to your prom for you on your behalf is mortifying. you refuse to let him take you so you do go alone with your friends, but when you leave and need a ride home bc you’re the Only one who went stag, you discover steve was there the whole time in the parking lot waiting, just in case.

ຣ bnd!steve not coming over the day in late summer when you’re leaving for college but just stepping out onto the porch to casually give you a wave as your dad’s car starts driving off with you and all your crap in the backseat. he doesn’t go back inside until your dad turns at the end of the block, and you keep looking out the side window at him until you can’t anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve who, in the only way he can get your attention through the closed window with your curtains drawn, starts shining a flashlight at the side of your house. it’s late, christmas eve, but he knows you’re in your room because he saw the light turn on and then off a few minutes later.

tentatively, you peel the drapes back and see him there, window open, half hanging out of it with the flashlight waving in your face.

you push up the glass pane and lean your hands on the sill.

“what?” you ask, half annoyed and half endeared. you guys haven’t talked much since you started keeping your window all buttoned up.

“just wanted to say merry christmas,” steve calls back, and you soften.

you pause just a beat. “merry christmas,” you say back, and he smiles at you, then nods and waves and you both retreat into your bedrooms.

ຣ bnd!steve who comes thisclose to asking your mom for your school address so he can write you a letter when you head back to college in the spring.

ຣ bnd!steve who never realized or considered he may have had a crush on you until he sees you with some other guy, your boyfriend who comes to visit you over summer break after your freshman year.

it just leads to steve coming to terms with the fact that he may have always considered you a sure thing or “his” because you were always there, always at his beck and call, always around for him. he decides to just take the L because you seem happy with your college bf.

ຣ bnd!steve who overhears you on the phone with your best friend talking about how you wanted to try sex when your boyfriend was there that summer, but it was seriously underwhelming. your bedrooms still face each other after all, it’s not his fault your window is open and the drapes you have handing over your VERY OPEN window don’t do much to smother the sound of your voice, which maybe he’s been attuned to for longer than he realizes.

and steve goes from “i shouldn’t be listening to this” to “what an asshole” to “i can do BETTER” to “wait i shouldn’t be thinking that”

because you’re telling your girlfriend about how he made you feel really comfortable and excited and then once he got on top of you, he just turned into this selfish lump of a guy who only got himself off, asked “you finished too, right?” and then when you told him no, just barely fingered you and you had just told him you came because it was so pathetically bad that you didn’t even want to anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve seeing you out by the fire pit alone toasting a marshmallow on the hazy early august evening, that’s basically burnt to a crisp bc you’re zoned out bc your bf just dumped you. over the phone. because you didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. (he’d been visiting for a week! how did he expect to have sex in your parents’ house without getting caught? yes, he overheard that conversation too.)

ຣ bnd!steve meandering over into your backyard like it isn’t past midnight and sitting next to you without saying a word. just staying silent as you murmur a shaky “hey” and just finally toss the stupid marshmallow and stick into the fire and ask what he’s doing there, it’s late.

“looked like you could use an old friend, maybe” is the answer he gives you, and when you just huff he starts to tell you a story about a time you forgot: when he was 8 and you were 7 and he caught a frog in his yard. how it wriggled out of his hold and escaped into your yard. how you captured it again and handed it to him through the hole in the fence and ever since then he’s owed you, and so he’s finally paying you back.

like he didn’t embarrass himself at your horse-themed birthday party.

like he didn’t show up to your prom even though you didn’t want him to.

like he didn’t stop bringing girls over to his room once he realized that was probably why you’d started to keep your curtains firmly closed.

and this frog story. it’s really stupid and doesn’t help but it does remind you of all the history you have with him and when you get up from your lawn chair after a few minutes of contemplative silence and move it closer to his, he just lets you hold his hand and watch the fire until it burns down to embers.

you’re half asleep on his shoulder, his face buried in your hair until you sit up and look at him in the moonlight. he squeezes your hand but doesn’t move, because as much as he wants it he doesn’t expect anything.

nor should he. you’ve been his girl forever, but never really his girl.

ຣ bnd!steve’s breath catching in his throat when you tip your chin up and kiss him. soft, featherlight.

ຣ bnd!steve kissing you easy and slow by the smoldering fire, the stick you were using to try and roast your marshmallow little more than ash now. the bag of the rest of them is still off to the side somewhere, forgotten—tomorrow, your mother will ask how you forgot an entire bag of marshmallows outside, all stuck together, partially melted from the dew and then the sun beaming down on them in the heat of late summer, and you’ll have to lie and tell her you were just tired.

because you are. you stay outside with steve until the sun starts coming up over the horizon, the deep blue sky turning pink and then white right before the blue lightens.

he tugs you closer by your hoodie pouch, hands curling into it as he guides you from your lawn chair to his, settling you onto his lap. it isn’t too much. it isn’t an attempt to seduce you or entice you or anything. he just tucks his hands into your pocket and when yours join them in there, you lace your fingers with his as you straddle him, and he doesn’t let you move close, instead keeping the distance between you even as you let him kiss you over and over, everywhere he can reach.

“it’s—weird?” he asked you.

“no,” you say. “is it?”

“maybe,” he answers, and you laugh together, silencing him with a kiss because your parents’ bedroom window is open and they have no idea you’re outside, much less outside with a boy.

“we stayed up all night,” you tell him, unnecessarily.

“duty called,” steve says.

“i’m your duty now?” you ask.

but he only smiles, to himself, you think. “something like that.”

ຣ bnd!steve waiting on his back deck until he sees your curtains flick to the side, your face peeking out of the darkness down at him. you wave, he waves, and then he disappears through the sliding glass door. what he doesn’t expect, what you didn’t make a conscious decision to even do, is when he looks out his window at yours, you’re still standing there, peeking around the the jamb with your curtains pulled open for the first time in months. and even though he’s startled at your presence, you share a secret little smile before you both turn in for the night. well, morning.

because he’s been your boy forever, but never really your boy.

until now.

&&

You’ve been trying to get her settled down for nearly an hour now, but she was not having it - fighting you with every fiber in that tiny body of hers.

You take a deep breath, sitting on the floor next to her, “Baby, he’s at work. Remember?”

“No!” She screams at you, kicking her feet dramatically against the floor of her room.

She was officially on the verge of being in the trenches of her ‘threenager’ stage, and her mood swings were all over the place. One minute she was clinging to you desperately - refusing to let you go, and the next she was wailing her lungs out because she didn’t want you to say goodnight to her, she wanted Steve.

The problem was that Steve was currently coaching a late night baseball game at the middle school.

They were rare, but you absolutely dreaded them. It meant you were on the bed time shift by yourself - in a house full of kids who were grumpy over not getting to see their dad the whole day. And in your girl’s brain, she just couldn’t understand why it wasn’t physically possible to see Steve right now.

“Babe,” you say softly, “I know you miss Daddy, but he’s gonna be back so soon, and he’ll come give you a big hug. I promise.”

The cries that are escaping her quiet a little at your assurance, but she still hiccups out, “Want him now.”

“I know you do,” you coo, trying to validate her feelings while she’s calming down - scooching yourself across the carpet to tentatively brush her hair back.

She lets you, and you somehow coax her to cuddle up to you - sniffles escaping her while your hand runs up and down her back soothingly.

You’re unsure of how much time has passed with her resting in your arms, but a quick glance at the clock makes you wince - realizing it’s way past her bed time.

“It’s time to go to sleep, sweet girl,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her cheek, but unfortunately, she hasn’t forgotten her original mission of seeing Steve.

She worms herself out of your arms and starts yelling again, “No, want Daddy!”

“You and me both,” you grumble under your breath, giving up and leaning against her dresser.

You pull your knees up to your chest, trying to settle your own frustrations with her - willing yourself not to snap because that won’t make the situation any better.

She continues to shriek in protest, sufficiently working herself up to the point where she’s struggling to catch her breath, and you feel your own throat tighten at her refusal of you. You know better than to take it personally, know that kids say things they don’t mean when they’re upset, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear that your child doesn’t want you.

“Are you yelling at my wife?” Steve asks sternly, blessedly appearing in the doorway to her room.

He had come home during the tantrum - could hear his girl’s wails from downstairs, drowning the house in an aggravated cacophony of noise. When he heard her calling for him, he hustled up the stairs - heart twisting at seeing you curled in on yourself, feeling defeated from the useless effort of trying to get her to listen to you.

When she sees Steve, her attitude immediately shifts - picking herself up and running towards him. He hauls her up into his arms, cradling the back of her head while she collects herself in the comfort of his hold.

“You don’t scream at my wife,” he tells her firmly, ducking his head to meet her gaze.

She looks away guiltily, eyes flicking over to you before trying to burrow herself in his chest - not liking the reprimand.

“Look at me,” Steve instructs, gently prompting her head up.

She makes a soft noise of recognition at the command, peering up at him from under her eyelashes that are still wet with her tears.

He raises his eyebrows at his girl before continuing, “Don’t scream at her.”

Her lower lip wobbles at being scolded, but she nods her head, “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, babe. It’s okay to miss me. It’s okay to feel sad, but you can’t yell at Mommy like that,” he says calmly, tone of assertiveness mixed in.

Her little fists curl tightly onto his jacket, “Makes Mommy sad too?”

“Yeah, it makes her sad when you do that,” Steve replies, casting a glance your way.

You’d been watching the scene unfold - tears from being overwhelmed streaking down to your chin, and when your girl notices, she squirms in Steve’s arms - trying to get down again. He lets her, and she waddles her way over to you, arms wrapping around your neck in apology.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she whimpers, hiding her face in the crevice of your neck.

You stand up with her still grasping onto you, “Thank you for apologizing, baby.”

Steve comes over to you, arm curling around your lower back to tug you to him, “Hey, honey.”

“Thank god you’re here,” you mumble, leaning into his touch.

He tenderly wipes your tears before tipping his head down to greet you with a kiss - completely forgetting the baseball hat that rests on his head and the rim of it knocks into your cheek.

The action startles your girl, and she lifts her head from you to look at him in confusion. You chuckle at the slight blush that blooms over Steve’s face from being so eager to press his lips to your own that he forgot to slip the hat off.

“Are you laughing at me?” He teases, lifting the cap - raking a hand through his hair to try to tame the wild locks that have been suffocating underneath it.

You grin, raising your own hand to card through the sweaty tendrils that curl at the base of his neck, “You’re so cute.”

“Daddy’s cute,” your girl repeats, a smile finally taking over her features.

Steve pouts at that, hand shooting out to tickle her side and she squeals in laughter - trying to crawl away from him despite the fact that she’s still hanging off of you. When he lets up, she stares at him lovingly - dissolving into giggles again when he holds his hat over her eyes, moving to kiss you properly this time.

His lips are soft against yours, working in slow presses to express his gratitude for you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, honey,” he murmurs quietly, thumb stroking over your jaw.

You hum in content, “It’s okay baby, your job is important.”

His leans down, nose skimming over the column of your throat, “You needing me is more important.”

Steve litters kisses back up your neck before placing a final kiss to the corner of your mouth - pulling away when your girl knocks the hat out of his hands. She beams at him when he makes a face of mock offense, and it’s then that your ten year old boy pads into the room, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Is she done?” He groans tiredly, stomping over to your girl's bed and plopping down on it.

“My bed,” she says, pointing possessively at it.

He yawns in response, “Yeah, well I couldn’t sleep in my bed with you being so loud.”

“Agreed,” his twin sister appears at the door.

“You hear that, baby? You were keeping your siblings up too,” Steve says playfully, pressing a sweet kiss to her hairline.

She scrambles out of your arms, attention now fully on her sister who picks her up easily. Your middle girl carries her over to the rocking chair that resides in the corner of the room- settling herself on it and propping your youngest up in her lap. They’ve formed quite the little bond, and it makes a pleasant ache settle under your ribs.

“Read book,” your toddler demands, and her sister immediately pulls one off the shelf that sits next to the chair to read to her. The sound of her voice carrying throughout the room makes her twin brother pop up on his elbows to listen along.

With your hands free, you slip them around Steve’s waist - melting into him, finally feeling like you can rest for the first time all day. He leans his head against yours, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders.

“Long day, honey?” He questions, keeping his voice hushed - not wanting to interrupt the storytime happening.

“It’s always long without you,” you admit, nestling your head under his chin.

The two of you fall silent as you watch your babes reading together - your middle girl trying to teach her sister some of the words, and your boy interjecting to get her to repeat after him when she says a word incorrectly.

It’s blissfully peaceful for a moment, before another sharp, shrill voice echoes throughout your home.

“Mommy!” It’s your youngest boy, calling from down the hallway.

You take a deep breath, pulling back from Steve to go assess the situation, but he stops you.

“I’ll get him,” Steve asserts, caressing your shoulders fondly.

You shake your head in protest, “No, Steve. You’ve been working all day. Go take care of yourself.”

He cups your face, tilting your head to look at him, “Be honest with me. Was it a hard day?”

You swallow harshly, thinking about how your youngest had spent most of the day acting out, and it’s the cue Steve needs to make his decision.

“No answer is an answer, baby. I’ll take care of it," he captures your lips in a brief kiss before turning to go take care of his boy.

You sigh heavily, tension releasing - in disbelief over how he finds new ways each day to prove to you that he’s the best husband you could ever ask for.

When you look back at your children, you freeze, because they’re already staring back at you.

“What?” You ask suspiciously.

“You love Dad,” your boy says teasingly.

You huff out a breath of laughter, “You love Dad too.”

You move to settle on the bed next to him, and he promptly rests his head in your lap - eyes closing lethargically.

“Yeah, but you’re in love with Daddy,” his twin emphasizes, placing the book back where it belongs.

“That’s how marriage is supposed to work, hun,” you tell her, hand absentmindedly running through your boy's hair.

“Could you,” she trails off, suddenly growing too shy to ask.

You smile encouragingly at her, “You can ask me anything, baby.”

Her confidence grows at that, “Could you tell us the story of how you and Dad fell in love?”

“Gross,” your boy complains, frowning at her.

“It’s not gross,” she snaps back.

“What’s not gross?” Your eldest boy shuffles into the room with a blanket wrapped around him.

A vivid memory of him flashes to the forefront of your mind; him standing in front of you when he was younger - begging for your attention because he was sick and wanted you to take care of him, and a bittersweet feeling of wistfulness settles over you at the sight.

“Don’t you have to wake up early tomorrow, hun?” You ask him, referring to the fact that he’s on the student council - knowing he has a meeting before school starts.

“Um, yeah, but it’s not my fault I’m awake,” he makes a point of looking at your toddler, “Was gonna offer to help, but then I heard Dad come home.”

He takes a seat on the floor by the dresser - assuming the position you were in earlier, and your youngest excitedly maneuvers herself off her sister, clambering over to her oldest brother and settling against his legs.

“Rude,” your girl quips.

“How come I’m the only one she didn’t come to?” Your middle boy complains.

“Maybe because you’re hogging her bed and think that Mom and Dad being in love is gross,” his sister deadpans.

“Just wait until you’re older, dude. You won’t think love is gross then,” your oldest chimes in - heated flush rising to his cheeks once he realizes what he’s let slip.

Your daughter gasps, “Oh my gosh, you’re in love!”

“No, I’m not!” He panics, vehemently denying the accusation, but he doesn’t sound all that convincing.

“Are you sure?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pressure him too much, but eager to hear his answer.

“Dunno. I’m not sure if I even know what it feels like,” he shrugs, looking down to pick at his nails.

“That’s okay, hun. You’re only seventeen. You don’t need to feel pressured to know if it feels like love yet,” you tell him gingerly.

“Are we talking about how obvious it is that he’s in love with his girlfriend?” Everyone’s attention swings to your eldest girl, who stumbles into the room after tripping over a toy. Her hair is disheveled, and it’s clear that she’s just woken up.

“It’s not obvious,” he argues back.

“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say,” she replies sarcastically - squeezing her way into the chair next to her little sister.

“Don’t taunt your brother,” you chide her.

“I think it’s obvious too,” your middle girl mumbles to her sister, and they laugh boisterously together.

Your oldest narrows his eyes at them, “Yeah, real funny.”

They continue to lob remarks back and forth like a tennis match, your youngest’s head is swiveling as she tries to keep up with the jeering. You feel a tap on your arm and look down to see your boy observing you worriedly.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask him cautiously.

“I don’t actually think you loving Dad is gross,” he admits, keeping his tone quiet so none of his siblings can hear him.

You give him a small smile, “Don’t worry hun, I wasn’t upset by that.”

He sits up, hand grabbing onto your arm, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod, “Always.”

He gets close to your ear, and you bend to hear him better, “I don’t know if any of my friends' parents are in love.”

“What makes you think that?” You ask curiously.

“None of them act like you and Dad,” he states, like it’s a fact that can’t be refuted.

“You’re father’s not shy about the things he loves. How lucky for us, right?” You murmur, and the conversation is interrupted by the man himself.

“Think I’ve got a new record for the quickest shower of my life,” Steve says, walking in with your four year old gripping onto his back.

He’s changed into sweatpants and a worn Hawkins Middle School Staff t-shirt that he wears to sleep in. His damp hair is pushed off his forehead, making it look slicked back, and your breath hitches when he lifts your boy up - hem of his shirt rising, exposing the sliver of skin that makes your head spin with desire.

God, you still thought he was the prettiest man you’ve ever seen.

Steve laughs at the sight of your children packed into the small room, “I was gone what? Ten minutes? And they’ve multiplied somehow.”

He sets his son down, who hops swiftly onto the bed with you - snuggling into your free side, “Daddy told me I had to wait for him to get ready for bed to see you. He took forever.”

Steve scoffs, “Again, that shower was maybe five minutes.”

You bite your lip in amusement, and Steve crams himself onto the minuscule bed - picking your youngest boy up and tossing him lightly to the other end of it, making him burst into a giddy fit of giggles.

“Needed you to move, I missed my wife,” Steve says jokingly, cuddling up to you instead - relaxing into your hold when you slip an arm around him.

“I want Mommy,” your boy replies, crawling back over to the two of you.

“So do I, buddy,” Steve grabs onto him, battling him for the spot next to you - peals of laughter leaving his lips as his dad fake wrestles with him. Your boy tires after a moment and lets himself stretch out on Steve’s legs.

In the silence that follows, your middle girl adjusts herself - swinging her own legs over her sisters, “So, can you?”

Steve notices her looking at you and him, “Can we what?”

“Tell us how you fell in love,” she repeats her previous question.

“It’s late,” you reply.

“And yet, we’re all awake,” Steve smiles at you, thumb coming up to swipe affectionately along your cheekbone.

“C’mon, Mom. We wanna know,” your oldest straightens up, adjusting your youngest in his arms. Her eyelids are drooping, though you can tell she’s still trying to ward off sleep.

You cave when you see the pleading eyes from the rest of your children, “I knew from the moment I met him that I wanted him to be mine.”

“Mom was obsessed with me,” Steve teases.

“Like you weren’t just as obsessed,” your eldest girl accuses.

“He wasn’t,” you say, and at the dramatic gasp from your girls, you add, “at first. He was going through a break up when I moved here.”

This is news to your kids, and they all start talking over one another with questions. When the most obvious question is asked - with who - you make eye contact with Steve, silently communicating on whether or not to disclose his relationship with Nancy Wheeler.

Steve hates lying to them, but doesn’t particularly feel like going down that specific rabbit hole at the moment, “It doesn’t matter who it was because Mom’s the love of my life.”

Your eldest girl rolls her eyes at the cop out, “Fine, but then how did things change between the two of you?”

“We had the same friend group,” you reply hesitantly. It’s not the full truth, because your children don’t know anything related to the hell you and Steve lived through during your teenage years - still haven’t decided if they ever would know the whole story.

“Like Uncle Dustin and Auntie Robin?” Your four year old inquires.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “And I started to develop the biggest crush on Mom. I mean, how could I not? Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s got the best heart, doesn’t she?”

He grabs your hand, bringing your palm to his lips sweetly as your kids titter delightedly in agreement.

“But I was too nervous to tell her because her brother didn’t like me very much,” Steve mumbles against your hand, holding onto it firmly.

“Why not?” Your ten year old boy furrows his brows, finding it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t like his father.

Steve squeezes your hand, giving you the courage to take over.

“Billy,” you take a deep breath, “Billy wasn't a good person. I loved him at one point, but things changed between us.”

“That’s why it’s really important to us that you all take care of each other,” Steve confesses.

It’s silent for a beat, before your oldest smiles and says what the rest of his siblings are all thinking, “We will.”

“What happened after Uncle Billy was gone?” Your middle girl questions meekly, not wanting to upset you.

“I knew she was hurting, and I wanted to help take some of that pain away,” Steve looks at you in adoration.

“He asked me out to Mel’s Diner, and we both knew it was a date but didn’t have the confidence to name it that yet,” you add on.

Steve delicately strokes his fingers along the back of your hand, “Then we grew closer, and one day we went to the local roller rink.”

“That’s when you told him you loved him, right?” Your oldest asks you softly.

“Yeah,” you close your eyes briefly at the memory, “He knocked me off my skates while trying to kiss me, and I knew I was a goner.”

The question that’s asked next - but how did you know it was love - makes you pause, reflecting on the harsh upbringing you had. The way no one had ever cared enough to give you a term of endearment and truly mean it before Steve.

Your mother had called you baby, but she left you to fend for yourself against your father. Neil would sneer sweetheart at you when he was drunk. Tommy Hagan would call you princess in the hallways of Hawkins High with a look of lust on his face. When you worked at the Hideaway, sleazy men would call you sugar to order another beer.

But Steve?

Steve had looked at you in awe when he called you beautiful, and there was never any underlying tone or suggestiveness behind it. It was just raw, unfiltered honestly, simply calling you that because he couldn’t fathom not telling you so.

“Because Dad was the only one who ever called me honey like it meant something to him,” you press a swift kiss to Steve’s cheek.

“That’s because it does mean something, honey,” he emphasizes.

“I don’t understand,” your eldest girl wonders.

“Well, he didn’t actually start calling me honey until we were officially together. I just mean that when he called me anything other than my name, I knew he wasn’t looking down on me or being sarcastic about it. He didn’t say it to intimidate me, or to mock me, but because he wanted me,” you admit, growing a bit shy under the lingering stare your husband is giving you.

Steve swallows thickly, eyes flitting over your features before landing on your lips - and you can feel it, feel the way his love pours out of him for you.

“I’m starting to feel like we’re interrupting something,” your oldest jokes, voice lowering when he realizes your toddler has drifted off into a deep slumber - right along with your youngest boy who’s passed out in Steve’s lap.

You feel a rush of heat course through you, because Steve was looking at you a bit too intimately in front of your children.

“I think we need to leave before they start making out,” your eldest girl chirps, which leads to a combination of grumbling and snickering at the thought.

That snaps Steve out of his stupor, “Hey, cut me some slack here. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, of course I wanna make out with her.”

“Ugh, Dad,” she gripes.

“Aren’t we supposed to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” Your oldest tags on.

“You are, but only because you’re a product of my love for her,” Steve grins cheekily.

“Oh god. You two make me sick sometimes. I’m going to bed,” your eldest girl slings her sister's feet off of her in order to stand up.

The motion sets a chain reaction of movement from your children - a flurry of goodnight hugs and teasing about how disgustingly in love their parents are. As you bid them goodbye for the evening, you feel an overwhelming swell of emotion stir within the crevices of your chest, because while Steve was being facetious, it was true. They were a product of your love, each inheriting something from you and from Steve; and you would never tire of admiring how perfect each of them turned out to be.

“You never told me that,” Steve murmurs, head resting against your stomach - arm tightly locked around your sternum as you finally unwind in your own bed.

“Hmm?” You hum drowsily.

He lifts his head to look at you, “What you told the kids, how you feel about me calling you honey.”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” you utter meekly.

His face pinches in concern, “You’re embarrassed that you like me calling you honey?”

“No, of course not. It’s about the fact that no one’s ever been genuine about calling me any sort of pet name before you were mine,” you confide, feeling increasingly ashamed of the fact that you were never worth anyone’s time.

“Oh, honey,” he breathes, rolling over onto his back - dragging you with him so you’re settled on top of him.

“I’m sorry. That sounded pathetic,” you mutter sheepishly.

“Absolutely not,” Steve replies steadily, “you wanting to be shown affection is not pathetic.”

You hide your face in the juncture of his shoulder, index finger tracing lazily along the freckles and moles that line his collarbone.

“It’s not?” You ask timidly.

“I think it’s criminal that you weren’t treated the way you deserved to be,” his tone is laced with fire - anger bubbling up for the people who made you feel less than.

You release a shaky breath, “So, it’s not me?”

“Not in the slightest, gorgeous,” he reassures, hands moving to grasp at your thighs - hiking you closer to him.

The jostled action forces you upwards, and he nudges his nose against yours, “Screw anyone who ever acted like you were an afterthought.”

You incline your head a little, brushing your mouth by his, “You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me, Steve.”

“Biggest honor of my life, honey,” he promises, slotting his lips with yours.

You thaw into his embrace, relishing the benevolence he has for you as he silently reminds you to trust him - to trust that your heart’s always going to be safe when it’s trapped within the confines of his.

Divider credits to @mattflvwr

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In the weeks leading up to what could only be called the most important mission of your career, you’d been doing your best to hide your nerves from your partner. It had been no easy feat, since Bradley Bradshaw was the most attentive man to ever walk the earth. Most of the time, he knew what you were feeling and why before you knew yourself, and since this was one of the reasons you loved him so much, it made no sense for you to hide things from him.

You justified it to yourself by saying you were doing it to protect him. If he didn’t know how stressed and nervous you really were about this mission, then he wouldn’t feel stressed and nervous either. He would be able to let you go with the promise of dinner at your favourite restaurant when you returned home, and hopefully, he wouldn’t spend the following month worrying about you.

You thought you’d been doing a pretty good job so far.

But now, on the night before the mission, you found yourself stuck in the shower waiting for the sobs wracking your body to abate so you could finish washing your hair and get back to Bradley. He had a whole afternoon planned: farewell drinks with the Daggers at The Hard Deck, followed by dinner served picnic-style on the private beach by your home. You were supposed to have been ready half an hour ago, and you knew the longer you spent crying, the harder it was going to be to stop. You had to hurry the hell up and—

‘You okay in there, sweetheart?’ Bradley called from the doorway.

You swallowed another sob before it could hit you. ‘Y-yeah!’ You sputtered. ‘Sorry! I’ll be five minutes.’

‘Okay…’

Bradley didn’t sound convinced, but he closed the door anyway.

About ten minutes later, you were washed and halfway dressed.

Bradley was sprawled out on your bed, watching you pick an outfit with a bemused smile on his face.

‘You don’t have to wear anything fancy,’ he told you. ‘It’s only The Hard Deck.’

You frowned at your wardrobe. ‘I know, but I’m gonna be stuck in flight suits for the next month, so I wanna make the most of it.’

The bed creaked as Bradley got up, and not a second later, his arms slid around your waist and pulled you against his chest. He pressed kisses along your bare shoulders and up the side of your neck.

‘What about that pretty yellow dress you wore on our first date,’ he suggested, voice low and sultry. ‘You always look amazing in it.’

You smiled. ‘I thought you said only you’re allowed to see me in it.’

‘Maybe I was being dramatic,’ he purred.

You laughed. ‘Okay, yellow dress it is. Now shoo,’ you patted his arm, and he pulled away from you. ‘We’re already late.’

‘We could just cancel,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘I’ll tell them I want you all to myself on your last night Stateside.’

Your stomach dropped at the mention of your mission. ‘No, we should go. Who knows when I’ll see them again,’ you mumbled.

As you swiped the dress in question off its hanger, you caught Bradley stiffen in your peripheral.

‘What was that?’ He asked.

You balled up the soft yellow fabric in your fist, willing yourself not to cry. ‘I said we should go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not gonna see them again for a while,’ you replied stiffly.

‘It’s only a month, baby,’ he reassured you, taking the dress from your hands and laying it on the bed. ‘It’s gonna go by so fast.’

Oh no. This was exactly what you didn’t want—Bradley making a fuss, reassuring you, telling you everything was going to be okay. It only made you want to cry even more.

‘I know,’ you said quickly, grabbing the dress again. ‘I’m gonna get changed and do my hair. Be ready to leave in ten.’

And with that, you disappeared into the bathroom, leaving a very concerned Bradley to wonder what the hell just happened. 

Later, in The Hard Deck, Bradley didn’t leave your side once. If any of the Daggers noticed that you were on edge, they didn’t mention it.

Everyone in your squad had been on their fair share of lengthy, high-profile missions without the security blanket that was the rest of the group to comfort them. It wasn’t as if this was your first rodeo; you just felt worse about it than usual. Maybe it was because you and Bradley had built such a beautiful life together, and you had more to lose if it went wrong.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Phoenix said, sliding into the seat beside you.

Bradley squeezed your thigh reassuringly, and you threw on a convincing smile. ‘Just thinking about how much I’m going to miss happy hour,’ you joked.

‘Valid,’ Phoenix laughed. ‘How are you feeling about the mission?’

Terrified, sick to my stomach, ready to disappear into hiding and get dishonourably discharged were all answers that ran through your head.

But you said: ‘I feel great about it. It’s a great career stepping stone.’

Phoenix nodded, but she looked unconvinced. ‘What about you, Bradshaw? You gonna be alright fending for yourself for a month?’

The thought of him doing all your shared rituals by himself made you want to fling yourself into the ocean.

‘I’m not totally helpless, Nat,’ he drawled.

‘That’s yet to be proven,’ she quipped.

You got up and left the table under the guise of getting another round, and ran into Maverick at the bar. He was nursing a cold beer, watching his fiancée work the bar—pretty much his default state these days.

‘Hey, Captain,’ you greeted, already exhausted by all the fake smiles but unable to stop. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Pretty good,’ he replied, gesturing to Penny. ‘Just waiting for this one to get off work. How are you, Lieutenant? You’ve got an early start in the morning, so I’d rethink those shots I know Hangman’s making you order.’

You chuckled. ‘No shots. At least not for me. I don’t need my head getting any more messed up than it already is.’

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you facepalmed internally.

‘What’s up? You getting cold feet about this mission?’ Maverick asked, concern etched into his face.

‘Would it matter if I was?’ You asked. ‘It’s not like I can pull out.’

‘No,’ he relented. ‘But if you wanna go over anything, I’m happy to sit and talk with you as long as you need.’

You knew the mission inside and out. Bradley said you’d been reciting parts of it in your sleep over the past couple of weeks. Talking about the mission parameters was probably the last thing you needed.

‘I’m okay, but thanks, Mav,’ you smiled.

Maverick glanced at Bradley, who was watching your whole interaction knowingly. ‘If you aren’t gonna talk to me, maybe you should talk to Rooster. It’s normal to be anxious, and talking it out really does help. If you bottle everything up, it’s gonna overflow at the most inconvenient time—better it happens in a controlled environment than in the air tomorrow.’

You released a shaky breath, appalled at yourself for not thinking of it that way. What if you had a breakdown mid-flight and got yourself and your unit killed?

‘You know what,’ you sighed. ‘You’re right. Thank you.’

‘Any time,’ he said. ‘Good luck, Y/CS. You’re the best pilot for this mission—don’t let yourself forget it.’

For the rest of the evening, you tried your best to be present in the moment. You laughed at all of Fanboy’s bad jokes, listened to Bob’s clever advice, played pool with Hangman and Coyote, let Payback thrash you at darts one last time, and let Phoenix buy you one cocktail. After that, it was time to head home. You still had to get through dinner with Bradley and make it to bed at a healthy time.

Bradley didn’t speak the whole drive home, which would have been fine, except he didn’t sing along to the shitty 80s pop songs that played on the radio, either. When you arrived home, he went straight to the kitchen and started filling the cool bag with food and drink for your picnic.

It wasn’t until you started the short walk to the private beach in front of your house that he spoke.

‘I spoke to Mav,’ Bradley said, switching the picnic bag to his other hand so he could hold yours. ‘He thinks you’re torn up about the mission.’

Your stomach flip-flopped. ‘Why would he think that?’

‘It’s his job to know how his pilots are feeling,’ Bradley explained. ‘Plus, he’s been flying for a long, long time.’

‘I’m fine,’ you insisted, swallowing thickly. ‘As I said to Mav, it’s not my first rodeo.’

Bradley stopped. He set the bag down on the ground and turned to face you, taking both your hands in his.

‘You don’t need to put on a front for me, sweetheart. It’s normal to be scared. Hell, I’m terrified, and it’s not even me going on the mission.’

Your bottom lip started to wobble, and you knew it was only a matter of time before the facade you’d spent weeks building crumbled around you.

‘I don’t want to go,’ you mumbled. Bradley pulled you close to his chest, and the tears started to flow. ‘It just doesn’t feel like all the other times,’ you said. ‘What if something goes wrong? What if I don’t make it back to you this time? Or what if I make it back and I’m not the same person I was when I left?’

Bradley stroked your hair softly. ‘You’re one of the greatest pilots I’ve ever known,’ he told you earnestly. ‘If anyone can make it through this mission, it’s you. If they didn’t think you have what it takes, they wouldn’t be sending you.’

‘And if it changes me?’ You sniffled.

‘Then I will love that version of you just as much as I love this one. What’s the worst that could happen? You come back even stronger and hotter than when you left?’

You laughed, pulling back so you could see Bradley’s face. ‘You always know just what to say.’

Bradley beamed. ‘What can I say? I’m good at loving you, because you make it so goddamn easy.’

Your whole body softened as you threw your arms around your boyfriend, breathing him in. Suddenly, you felt like a massive idiot.

‘I never should’ve hid my feelings,’ you murmured against his neck.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, somehow pulling you even closer to him. ‘I could’ve made you feel better about this weeks ago if you’d just talked to me, baby.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head. ‘Just let me support you the way you always support me, okay?’

You nodded, and he swiped your tears away with the pad of his thumb.

‘Do you really think you’re going to be able to fend for yourself?’

Bradley tipped his head back and laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound you’d heard all day. ‘What is it with all the women in my life having no faith in me? I know how to make instant noodles!’

‘Bradley!’ You exclaimed, cheeks aching from grinning. ‘This is exactly why I don’t wanna go!’

He smirked, sweeping you off your feet and throwing you over his shoulder. He didn’t put you down when you screeched, just held tighter as he ran down the short path to the sand.

When your feet touched the warm sand, and you looked up at his flushed cheeks and his toothy grin, you were reminded of everything good in your life—everything you would fight like hell to come home to.

‘Bradley—’

‘Instant noodles aren’t that bad,’ he said, cutting you off. ‘And I was only kidding.’

You reached up and brushed a stray curl off his forehead. ‘No, I was just going to say how much I love you. Also, you forgot the picnic.’

Bradley froze, looked down at the sand, and then realised that he had indeed left the food in the dunes.

‘Fuck!’ He yelled. ‘I’ll be back!’

He turned on his heel and ran, but stopped halfway up the path, as though he’d forgotten something important.