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“My equipment is perfectly fine,” Garrett snaps, glaring at his teammate. “I’m focusing on hockey. We have a championship to win this year, in case you forgot. And my grades actually matter if I want to keep my spot on the roster.”

Logan snorts from his spot next to Dean, running a hand through his dark hair. “Please. You’ve been coasting on a B-minus average since freshman year. This sudden dedication to academia is a smoke screen. You’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost anything.” Garrett sits up, grabbing the water bottle at his side. He takes a long swig, ignoring the way the cold water does nothing to cool his rising irritation. It’s not that they’re completely wrong. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone lately. But it’s not because he can’t. It’s because he doesn’t want to.

Between the pressure of being captain, the scouts watching his every move on the ice, and the lingering, suffocating weight of his father’s relentless phone calls, Garrett just doesn’t have the energy for meaningless hookups. Phil Graham is a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate, a constant reminder of the bruises he used to hide and the mother he couldn’t save. Her battle with lung cancer took the only good thing out of that house, leaving Garrett alone with a man whose fists spoke louder than words. Garrett pushes the thought down, locking it away where he keeps everything else.

“He’s in a slump,” Tucker adds smoothly, his Southern drawl making the insult sound entirely too polite. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. No shame in it.”

“I am not in a slump,” Garrett says, his voice dangerously low. “It’s completely voluntary.”

“Voluntary celibacy,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. “Right. Sure. Because the captain of the hockey team, the guy who practically had a waiting list outside his bedroom door last spring, just suddenly decided to become a monk.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re drying up,” Logan counters, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I bet you couldn’t pull a number right now if your life depended on it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Logan.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Logan chuckles. “Admit it. You’ve lost your mojo.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Pride is a dangerous thing, and Garrett has always had too much of it. It’s what makes him a lethal center on the ice, but it’s also what gets him into stupid situations off it. “I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to.”

Silence falls over the small group. Dean stops tossing grapes. Tucker raises an eyebrow. Logan’s grin simply widens into something predatory.

“Any girl?” Dean repeats, the words tasting like a challenge.

“Any. Girl.” Garrett enunciates every syllable, crossing his arms. “I just haven’t felt like it. But if I wanted to, I could have anyone.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Those are fighting words, G.”

“It’s the truth,” Garrett insists, though a small voice in the back of his head is already telling him to shut up. He ignores it. “Name a girl. Any girl at Briar. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, we’re making a bet out of this?” Dean is practically vibrating with excitement. He sits up straight, his eyes scanning the crowded quad. “This is fantastic. I love bets.”

“What are the stakes?” Logan asks, leaning forward.

Garrett shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t entirely feel. “You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.”

“The end of the semester?” Dean balks. “That’s in December. It’s September, man. That gives you three whole months.”

“Quality takes time,” Garrett says smoothly. “Besides, if I’m pulling someone out of my usual demographic, I need time to lay the groundwork. I’m not an animal.”

“Fine. End of the semester,” Logan agrees. “But if you fail … you wax your chest.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“You heard me,” Logan says, his eyes gleaming. “Full chest wax. At that salon down on Main Street. The one with the windows that face the sidewalk.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Garrett says.

“Why? Are you scared?” Tucker asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thought you could pull anyone, Graham.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends, seeing the collective challenge in their eyes. He’s the captain. He doesn’t back down. “Fine. But if I win, the three of you have to wax yours.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, extending a hand.

Garrett shakes it, sealing his fate. “Alright. Pick the target.”

The three of them immediately turn their attention to the quad, scanning the throngs of students rushing between classes. It’s peak hour. The pathways are packed with girls in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, girls in sundresses clinging to the last days of summer, and girls huddled over their phones.

“What about her?” Dean points to a blonde sitting on a bench, expertly applying lip gloss.

Logan shakes his head. “Too easy. That’s a puck bunny. She’d jump into Garrett’s bed before he even finished his opening line.”

“Fair point,” Dean concedes.

“How about the brunette by the fountain?” Tucker suggests.

Garrett squints. “We hooked up sophomore year. Doesn’t count.”

“Damn it, Garrett, you’ve slept with half the campus,” Logan complains.

“I have not,” Garrett argues, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “Just pick someone.”

They sit in silence for another three minutes, watching the foot traffic. Garrett is starting to think they’re going to give up when a loud thwack echoes across the pavement, followed by a startled gasp.

All four of them turn their heads toward the sound.

Garrett sees you first.

You’re clutching a thick, leather-bound notebook to your chest, your other hand rubbing the center of your forehead. Your hair is half falling out of a messy bun, and you’re wearing an oversized Briar Engineering hoodie that swallows your frame. You’ve just walked face-first into the cast-iron lamppost near the library steps.

“Oh, my bad,” you say, your voice muffled but completely sincere. “Sorry about that.”

You are apologizing. To a lamppost.

Dean bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound that makes a few passing students turn and stare.

You don’t notice. You don’t even look around to see if anyone saw you. Instead, you drop your hand from your forehead, adjust your heavy-rimmed glasses, and immediately bury your nose back into the notebook, resuming your frantic scribbling as you continue walking down the path. You narrowly miss colliding with a garbage can.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan asks, staring after you in disbelief.

“I have no idea,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But she just apologized to an inanimate object.”

Tucker is grinning. “That’s her.”

Garrett snaps his head toward Tucker. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the girl,” Tucker says, pointing a finger in your direction. You’re halfway down the path now, still completely oblivious to the world around you. “That’s your target.”

Garrett stares at you. He takes in the oversized hoodie, the complete lack of spatial awareness, the way you’re muttering to yourself while you write. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows exactly what you are.

You’re a ghost. One of those hyper-focused academics who live in the library and survive on vending machine coffee and sheer panic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrett says, his voice flat.

“He’s absolutely right,” Logan says, catching on immediately. “She’s perfect. Look at her, Garrett. She’s gorgeous.”

Garrett squints. You are turning the corner now, and for a brief second, he catches a glimpse of your profile. Logan isn’t wrong. Underneath the bulky clothes and the distracted demeanor, you are stunning. Striking features, clear skin, and eyes that he can’t quite make out the color of from this distance, but they look intense.

But you are also completely, unequivocally, off the grid.

“She’s an Aerospace major,” Dean says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I had a general physics elective with her freshman year. She sat in the front row and corrected the professor on day one. She doesn’t go to parties. She doesn’t go to games. I don’t think she even talks to people unless it’s about thermodynamics.”

“You know her name?” Garrett asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Nope. Just remember the professor looking like he wanted to cry when she started talking about orbital mechanics.” Dean claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

“This is insane,” Garrett argues, watching the spot where you disappeared. “She’s not going to talk to me. She probably doesn’t even know what hockey is.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Logan says smugly. “You said any girl. You said you could pull anyone. So … pull her.”

Garrett looks at his friends. They look entirely too pleased with themselves. The trap is perfectly set. If he backs out now, he admits defeat. He admits his slump. He admits that there’s a girl on campus who wouldn’t fall for the Garrett Graham charm.

And then he has to wax his chest.

Garrett exhales a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. He thinks about the playbook. He thinks about the scouts. He thinks about the suffocating pressure of his father’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he’s never quite good enough.

He needs a distraction.

Maybe the girl who apologizes to lampposts is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Garrett says, his voice hard with resolve. “Her. I’ll do it.”

“End of the semester,” Logan reminds him, holding up a finger.

“I won’t even need that long,” Garrett lies, leaning back on his elbows. “Consider it done.”

Dean snickers. “I’m booking the wax appointment right now. Just to be safe.”

Garrett ignores him, turning his gaze back to the path where you vanished. He has no idea how he’s going to get your attention. He doesn’t even know where to start. But as he watches the spot where you stood, a strange, unfamiliar flicker of anticipation settles in his chest.

Game on. 

***

It takes Garrett three full days to figure out how to approach you.

Three agonizing days of strategically loitering around the engineering building, looking like an idiot while pretending to check his phone, only to realize he’s hunting in the wrong territory. You don’t hang out on the quad. You don’t grab coffee at the student union. And you definitely don’t go to the campus bars.

He finally accepts the cold, hard truth: you are a creature of the library.

Which is how the captain of the Briar hockey team finds himself on the third floor of the campus library on a Thursday night, navigating a maze of dusty bookshelves and stressed-out undergrads. The air up here smells like old paper, stale espresso, and desperation. It’s entirely foreign territory.

Garrett spots you in the far corner.

You’ve constructed a literal fortress out of textbooks. It’s actually impressive. There’s a towering stack of hardcovers to your left, a barricade of notebooks to your right, and in the center, you’re hunched over a laptop, typing with a furious speed that suggests the fate of the free world depends on your keystrokes. You’re wearing the exact same oversized hoodie you had on when you fought that lamppost, with your hair twisted up in a messy clip.

He stands there for a moment, observing. He’s used to girls noticing him the second he walks into a room. He’s used to the sideways glances, the whispers, the subtle adjustments of hair and posture.

You don’t even blink.

Garrett rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He’s Garrett Graham. He doesn’t get nervous. He thrives under pressure.

He closes the distance between you and pulls out the heavy wooden chair directly across from you. It scrapes against the floor with a loud, obnoxious screech. Several people at nearby tables glare at him.

You don’t. You just keep typing.

Garrett slowly lowers himself into the chair. He props his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Okay,” Garrett mutters under his breath. He reaches over and lightly taps the back of your laptop screen.

You finally pause. Slowly, you lower the screen about three inches, just enough to peer over the top of it. Your eyes are deep and piercing, framed by thick lashes and currently narrowed in absolute irritation.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is flat, lacking any recognizable trace of awe or interest.

“Is this seat taken?” Garrett flashes his signature smile. The one that usually results in a phone number within thirty seconds.

You look around the library. “There are roughly forty empty chairs on this floor alone. Three of them are at the table right behind you.”

“I like this one,” Garrett says smoothly. “It has a great view.”

He expects a blush. A giggle. Even an eye roll would be something. Instead, you stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before lifting your laptop screen back up, effectively hiding your face again.

“Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet. I have a fluid dynamics midterm on Monday.”

The typing resumes.

Garrett stares at the silver Apple logo on the back of your computer, his jaw slightly slack. He’s been dismissed. Summarily and completely dismissed. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spikes in his chest. This isn’t going according to plan. You’re not supposed to ignore him. You’re supposed to be flustered.

“Fluid dynamics, huh?” Garrett tries again, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of your keys. “Sounds intense.”

“It is,” you reply, not looking up.

“I’m more of a … physical learner, myself.”

“That’s fascinating.” Your tone is drier than the Sahara.

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. His usual playbook is entirely useless here. Flirting isn’t working. Charm is bouncing right off your textbook fortress. He needs an angle. Fast.

“Actually,” Garrett blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can filter them. “I’ve always had a really deep appreciation for aerospace.”

The typing stops abruptly.

The laptop screen is lowered again. This time, you don’t just peer over it. You push the laptop back entirely, resting your arms on the table and giving him your full, undivided attention. It’s intense enough to make him want to squirm.

“You,” you say slowly, “have a deep appreciation for aerospace.”

“Yep.” Garrett nods firmly. “Huge fan. Always have been.”

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a particularly confusing equation on a whiteboard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garrett. Garrett Graham.”

“Well, Garrett Graham. Do you even know what aerospace engineering is?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, offended. “It’s … space. And planes. Rockets. Thrust.”

“Thrust,” you repeat, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow shooting upward.

“Yeah. Aerodynamics and all that.” Garrett is fully committed now. He’s digging a hole, but he’s determined to dig it with confidence. “I actually … I want to be an astronaut.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, Garrett wants to punch himself in the face.

An astronaut. Really? He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player majoring in history because it requires the least amount of science. He hasn’t taken a STEM class since his junior year of high school, and he only passed that because his lab partner felt sorry for him.

But he can’t take it back now.

You stare at him. The silence stretches between you, heavy and thick. Garrett braces himself for the rejection. For you to pack up your bags and leave.

Instead, a slow, amused expression begins to pull at the corners of your mouth. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“An astronaut,” you say, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“NASA or SpaceX?” You ask, firing the question like a slapshot.

“NASA, obviously,” Garrett counters, leaning into the lie. “Classic. You can’t beat the original.”

“Right. Because nothing says NASA material quite like a Briar University hockey jacket.” You nod toward his chest, where the interlocking BU logo sits over his heart.

Garrett glances down, momentarily cursing his wardrobe choices. “Hey, astronauts need to be in peak physical condition. Hockey is just … cross-training.”

“I see.” You tap a pen against your lower lip, a gesture that immediately draws his attention. “So, let’s look at the facts. You’re Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. You lead the division in scoring, but you also lead the team in penalty minutes.”

Garrett blinks, genuinely surprised. “You follow hockey?”

“I read the campus newspaper,” you correct him. “It’s practically shoved down our throats. So, you spend most of your weekends getting slammed into fiberglass boards by men who weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It’s a contact sport.”

“It’s a concussion factory,” you deadpan. “You willingly subject yourself to repeated, blunt-force head trauma on a bi-weekly basis. And your GPA … well, considering I’ve never seen you in the science building, I’m going to guess you aren’t exactly pulling straight As in quantum mechanics.”

“My grades are perfectly fine.” It’s a defensive snap, and he hates how quickly you got under his skin.

“I’m sure they are. For history.” You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. The annoyance from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical curiosity. “So, tell me, Garrett. How exactly does your propensity for violence and your complete lack of STEM experience translate to surviving zero gravity and piloting a multi-billion dollar spacecraft?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He stares at you, momentarily paralyzed by how effortlessly you just dismantled him.

You aren’t intimidated by him. You aren’t swooning. You’re looking right through the bravado, the captain’s patch, and the reputation, and you’re calling his bluff with ruthless efficiency.

It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“I have excellent hand-eye coordination,” Garrett finally says, offering a lopsided grin.

You let out a short, sudden laugh. It’s a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the library. It hits Garrett squarely in the chest.

“Hand-eye coordination,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Well, I’m sure NASA will be thrilled to hear that. You can swat away the space debris with your hockey stick.”

“Exactly. See? I bring a unique skill set to the table.”

“You are completely full of shit,” you say, though there’s no real malice in your tone anymore.

“Guilty as charged.” Garrett shrugs, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “I don’t want to be an astronaut. I don’t even like flying on commercial planes. The legroom is terrible.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because you were ignoring me.” Garrett drops the charm, allowing a sliver of honesty to peek through. “And I’m not really used to being ignored.”

You study him for a moment, the amusement fading back into something more cautious. You glance down at the heavy textbook sitting open in front of you, the pages filled with complex equations and diagrams that make Garrett’s head hurt just looking at them.

“I wasn’t ignoring you to be rude,” you say quietly. “I’m just busy. This major isn’t a joke. If I don’t keep my head down, I’ll drown.”

“I get it,” Garrett says, and surprisingly, he does. He knows what pressure feels like. He knows what it’s like to have something you can’t afford to fail at. For you, it’s aerospace. For him, it’s hockey. If he fails, he has to face his father. The thought makes his stomach tighten. “You don’t have time for distractions.”

“No. I don’t.” You look back up at him. “And you, Garrett Graham, look exactly like a distraction.”

“I can be very helpful,” he argues. “I could … quiz you.”

“On fluid dynamics?”

“I can read flashcards. I know the alphabet.”

You smile again, a small, subtle curve of your lips, but it feels like a massive victory. “I don’t use flashcards.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you work.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you reach out and slowly pull your laptop screen back up.

“You have exactly twenty minutes before I pack up,” you tell him from behind the silver Apple logo. “If you breathe too loudly, I’m throwing a textbook at your head.”

“Deal.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He spends the next twenty minutes in absolute silence, watching you work. He watches the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re frustrated. He watches the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. He watches the sheer, undeniable brilliance radiating from you as you tear through your notes.

When your phone alarm vibrates softly on the table, signaling that your twenty minutes are up, you immediately begin stacking your books.

Garrett sits forward, ready to offer to carry them, to walk you home, to do something, but you’re too fast. You shove everything into a worn-out backpack with practiced efficiency.

You stand up, slinging the heavy bag over one shoulder.

“Goodbye, Garrett,” you say.

“I’ll see you around, astronaut,” he replies.

You pause, looking down at him. “It’s Y/N.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t, actually. He hadn’t bothered to ask Dean if he ever figured it out. But he likes the way your name sounds in his head.

You shake your head, turning away. “Good luck with your thrust.”

Garrett watches you walk away, weaving your way through the tables until you disappear down the stairwell. He remains in the chair for a long time, the silence of the library pressing in around him.

He didn’t get your number. He didn’t secure a date. By Dean and Logan’s standards, this interaction was a complete and utter failure.

But as Garrett finally stands up and pushes his chair in, he can’t help but smile. He got you to look at him. He got you to laugh. He got you to admit that he wasn’t completely repulsive.

It’s a small win.

But Garrett is a competitor. He knows that championships aren’t won in a single game. They’re won shift by shift, battle by battle.

He walks out of the library, the cool night air hitting his face.

You are a fortress. You are heavily guarded, entirely focused, and completely unimpressed by everything he usually relies on.

This isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take time, patience, and a whole lot of effort.

And for the first time in a very long time, Garrett is actually looking forward to it.

***

“What in the actual hell are you doing?”

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. He reaches blindly into the bowl resting on his stomach, grabs a handful of popcorn, and shoves it into his mouth. “I’m conducting research.”

Dean drops his hockey bag by the front door of the off-campus house they share with a heavy thud. He walks into the living room, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment. Logan and Tucker follow close behind, both stopping dead in their tracks.

On the screen, a laugh track blares as a tall, painfully thin guy in a Flash t-shirt says something about string theory.

“You’re watching The Big Bang Theory,” Logan says, his voice flat.

“Episode four, season one,” Garrett confirms, chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m starting to pick up on the terminology. Bazinga.”

Tucker lets out a loud, wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, my God. He’s broken. Our captain is broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Garrett snaps, pausing the TV. He turns to glare at his three teammates. “I’m adapting. You guys gave me an impossible target. The girl practically speaks a different language. If I’m going to get close to her, I need to understand her people.”

“Her people,” Dean repeats, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Garrett, she’s an engineering major, not an alien species. And I’m pretty sure watching a ten-year-old sitcom isn’t going to magically teach you thermodynamics.”

“It’s about the culture,” Garrett argues, though he knows he sounds completely ridiculous. He defends his ground anyway. “I need to know how to banter with her. Do you know what a quark is? Because I do now.”

“You are pathetic,” Logan says, walking over and snatching the popcorn bowl right off Garrett’s stomach. “You’re telling me you haven’t even talked to her since the library?”

“I have a strategy.” Garrett sits up, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? What’s the strategy? Quoting Sheldon Cooper until she sleeps with you?” Dean asks, throwing himself onto the adjacent armchair.

“Attrition,” Garrett says, pointing a finger at Dean. “It’s a classic military tactic. You wear the enemy’s defenses down over time. She’s heavily guarded. If I rush in there with cheesy pickup lines, she’s going to shut me down and ignore me until graduation. I have to acclimate her to my presence.”

Tucker snorts, heading for the kitchen. “Acclimate her. Like a feral cat.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to just … be there. Until she gets used to me. Until she expects me.”

“Well, good luck, Spock,” Logan says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Garrett’s head. “Just remember, the clock is ticking.”

Garrett brushes the popcorn off his shirt. The clock is ticking, but he isn’t worried. He has a plan.

***

Phase one of Garrett’s master plan begins the very next evening.

He finds you in your usual spot on the third floor of the library, fortified behind a wall of textbooks. He pulls the chair out across from you, the scrape of the wood cutting through the silence.

You slowly lower your laptop screen. The irritation in your eyes is palpable.

“I thought we established that you are not going to be an astronaut,” you say flatly.

“We did,” Garrett agrees, taking a seat and pulling a totally blank notebook out of his backpack. “I’ve moved on to a new dream. I’m thinking of working on a memoir. Requires a lot of writing. So, I’m here to write.”

You stare at the blank notebook. Then you look at him. “You don’t have a pen.”

“I’m a mental writer.”

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head before pulling your screen back up. “Don’t breathe too loud, Graham.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N.”

And that’s all he does. He sits there for two hours, pretending to look at his phone, while actually watching you work.

He does it again two days later. This time, you don’t even lower your screen. You just slide a loose piece of notebook paper across the table toward him without looking up. Written on it in neat, precise handwriting are the words: silence is golden.

He writes back: I’m the quietest guy you know. And slides it back.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you tuck the paper away.

By the end of the second week, Garrett notices a pattern. You are a machine, churning through complex equations and drafting endless schematics, but your fatal flaw is your basic human maintenance. Specifically, you forget to eat.

On a Wednesday night, after watching you rub your temples and wince for the fourth time in an hour, Garrett stands up. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks away.

Twenty minutes later, he returns.

You flinch slightly as a large, steaming paper cup and a brown pastry bag are deposited directly onto your open textbook.

You look from the cup, to the bag, and then up to Garrett as he takes his seat across from you.

“What is this?” You ask, your voice a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.

“Black coffee. Two sugars. And a blueberry muffin from the café downstairs,” Garrett says casually, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-five minutes. Your blood sugar is crashing. You look like a zombie.”

Your eyes narrow. “I do not look like a zombie.”

“You really do. A cute zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.”

The word slips out before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it when he sees a faint pink flush creep up your neck. You look down at the coffee cup, wrapping your hands around the warm cardboard.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you say softly.

“I know,” Garrett replies. “Eat the muffin before I throw it at you.”

You finally open the bag, tearing off a piece of the muffin. You take a bite, and he watches your shoulders physically drop an inch as the sugar hits your system. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just consider it a peace offering.”

“For what?”

“For taking up your oxygen.”

You take a sip of the coffee, closing your eyes for a brief second. “It’s good coffee.”

“I aim to please.”

The next time he comes to the library, he brings a turkey and swiss sandwich. You protest, but you eat the entire thing in under four minutes. The time after that, it’s a pack of peanut butter crackers and a Gatorade.

Slowly, the fortress starts to lower. You stop glaring when he pulls out his chair. You start greeting him when he sits down. Sometimes, when you take a break to rest your eyes, you actually complain to him about your professors.

Garrett listens. He doesn’t understand a word of the orbital mechanics jargon you vent about, but he listens to the tone of your voice, watches the animated way you wave your hands when you’re annoyed, and realizes, with a slight jolt of panic, that he genuinely enjoys your company.

It’s been three weeks. The acclimation phase is complete. It’s time to make a move.

***

It happens on a Monday.

Garrett tracks you down not in the library, but in a small courtyard outside the engineering building. It’s noon, the sun is shining, and you are sitting on a concrete bench with a terrifyingly thick textbook balanced on your knees.

He walks up, casting a shadow over your pages.

You blink, looking up and squinting against the sunlight. “Graham. What are you doing out here? It’s daylight. You’re usually a nocturnal pest.”

“Very funny,” Garrett says, offering a grin. He gestures toward the street. “Come on. Pack it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lunchtime. You need to eat. And I am starving after morning ice time.”

You immediately shake your head, clutching the textbook tighter. “No way. I can’t. I have a lab report due at four, and I’m only halfway through the data analysis. I’m just going to skip lunch.”

“Skipping lunch is bad for cognitive function,” Garrett counters smoothly. “You told me that yourself two days ago when I tried to skip breakfast.”

“That’s different. You’re an athlete. You need calories to smash people into boards.”

“And you need calories to do math that looks like an ancient alien language.” Garrett steps closer, reaching out and gently tapping the cover of your book. “Come on. Just a quick bite. Thirty minutes. You’ll work twice as fast after you get some real food in you.”

“Garrett, I really can’t-”

“Please.” He drops his voice, leaning in just a fraction. He uses the look. The one that works on everyone. But he tempers it, adding a layer of genuine pleading. “I don’t want to eat alone. My teammates are animals and I need civilized company.”

You stare at him, your resolve visibly wavering. You look from his face, to your textbook, and back again. Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh that he’s coming to recognize as your personal white flag.

“Fine. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

“Deal.”

Garrett waits as you shove your massive book into your backpack. You stand up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder, and he falls into step beside you.

“There’s a Panera just off campus,” Garrett suggests. “Fast, decent food, and they have that green tea you like.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You noticed I drink green tea?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The walk to the restaurant is surprisingly easy. You don’t talk much, still clearly pre-occupied with your lab report, but it’s a comfortable silence. When you arrive, the lunchtime rush is in full swing, but they manage to find a small booth near the window after ordering.

As the cashier rings them up, you immediately start digging into your backpack for your wallet.

“Don’t bother,” Garrett says, already handing his debit card to the cashier.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m paying for my own food.”

“I asked you out,” Garrett says, stepping smoothly in front of the card reader to block you physically. “I pay.”

“It’s not a date, Graham,” you hiss, trying to reach around his broad shoulder. “It’s a hostage situation you initiated.”

“Call it what you want. I’m paying.” He shoots the cashier a charming smile. “Just put it all on the card, please.”

You huff in annoyance, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as the receipt prints. “I’m paying you back.”

“You can try,” Garrett says, grabbing the pager and turning to you. “But I’m surprisingly fast for my size.”

You roll your eyes, but the fight drains out of you. You follow him to the booth, sliding into the vinyl seat with a heavy sigh.

Garrett sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. In the bright, natural light of the restaurant, away from the dim fluorescent bulbs of the library, he takes a moment to really look at you. The way your hair catches the light, the faint blush spreading across the bridge of your nose that he hadn’t noticed before. The sheer exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“So,” Garrett starts, deciding to drop the playful banter for a moment. “Lab report due at four. Midterm on Thursday. Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down like a robot?”

You offer a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Six hours a night. Mostly. It’s just … crunch time right now.”

“It’s always crunch time with you,” Garrett observes. “I’ve never seen anyone study as much as you do. Not even the pre-med guys.”

You trace a pattern on the laminate table top with your fingernail. For a moment, he thinks you’re going to brush off the comment with a sarcastic remark. But instead, you let out a slow breath.

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly.

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not if I want to stay at Briar.” You look up, your eyes meeting his, stripped of their usual defensive walls. “I’m not here on a hockey scholarship, Garrett. I’m here on a full-ride academic scholarship. The only way I could afford this school.”

Garrett pauses, all the teasing immediately evaporating from his system. He leans forward, his full attention focused entirely on you. “Okay.”

“The terms are strict,” you continue, your voice low. “If my GPA drops below a 3.8, I lose the funding. Instantly. No probation, no second chances. I pack my bags and I go home. Aerospace is one of the hardest programs at this university. If I slip up on one lab report, or bomb one midterm, that 3.8 drops. So … I study.”

Garrett feels a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. All this time, he thought you were just a typical overachiever, obsessed with grades for the sake of being top of the class. He had no idea you were constantly walking a tightrope, with your entire future hanging in the balance.

It makes the crushing pressure he feels from his father seem almost … different. He plays hockey to escape his dad. You do math to secure your survival.

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” he says honestly.

“It is what it is.” You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the casual movement. “It’s worth it. If I make it through, I get to do exactly what I want for the rest of my life.”

The pager on the table buzzes loudly, startling them both. Garrett jumps up quickly. “I’ll grab the food.”

When he returns with their trays, setting your soup and salad in front of you, he sits back down, his mind racing. The bet with the guys suddenly feels incredibly juvenile. Gross, even. You’re sitting here fighting for your academic life, and he’s treating you like a game to stroke his own ego.

He pushes the thought down. He can’t back out now, but he can at least make sure this isn’t a complete joke.

“So,” Garrett says, opening his sandwich wrapper. “Why aerospace? Out of everything you could have chosen. Why rockets and thrust?” He smirks slightly at the callback to your first conversation.

You roll your eyes, taking a spoonful of your soup. But as you swallow, a genuine, completely unguarded smile breaks across your face. It completely transforms you, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with pure, radiant passion.

“I grew up in Cocoa Beach,” you tell him, your voice softening.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Florida?”

“Yeah. Right there on the Space Coast. When you live down there, launches are just a thing that happens in the background, you know? You’re playing in the yard, and suddenly the sky lights up and the windows rattle.” You pause, looking past him, lost in a memory. “But the last space shuttle launch. The final one back in 2011. STS-135 Atlantis.”

“You were there?”

“My dad took me out to the beach to watch it,” you say, your eyes practically glowing now. “I was young, just a teen, but I remember it perfectly. There were thousands of people packed onto the sand. And when the countdown hit zero, you didn’t just hear it. You felt it. The ground literally shook beneath my feet. And then this massive, beautiful machine just tore through the sky, defying gravity, heading for the stars.”

Garrett stops chewing his food. He’s completely captivated. Not by the story, but by the way you’re telling it.

“I looked up at that streak of fire in the sky,” you continue, your hands moving as you speak, “and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to watch them anymore. I wanted to build the things that go up there. I wanted to understand the math that makes the impossible, possible.”

You suddenly blink, pulling yourself back to the present. You clear your throat, picking up your spoon again, suddenly looking incredibly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m nerding out. You don’t care about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett asks, his voice thick with a sincerity that surprises even him. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery. When you find none, you relax slightly against the back of the booth. “It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll bet.” Garrett takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, you’re from Florida. That explains why you look like you’re freezing to death every time the wind blows here.”

You let out a loud laugh, the sound bright and warm. “It is so cold here, Garrett. Unreasonably cold. Why do people live in this state?”

“It builds character,” he jokes. “Besides, it makes for good hockey.”

“Right. Hockey.” You tilt your head, studying him with that same analytical gaze from the library, but the edge is completely gone. It’s softer now. Curious. “So, tell me. Why do you do it? And don’t tell me it’s for the character building.”

Garrett hesitates. He doesn’t talk about hockey in a serious way. He talks about the glory, the hits, the stats. He never talks about the fact that the ice is the only place he feels completely in control. The only place where the ghost of his mother’s illness and the reality of his father’s fists can’t reach him.

He looks at you. You just handed him a piece of your soul, wrapped up in a story about a space shuttle.

“It’s quiet,” Garrett says slowly, the truth slipping out before his defenses can catch it.

Your brow furrows. “Quiet? I’ve seen clips on ESPN. It looks like the exact opposite of quiet.”

“The arena is loud,” Garrett clarifies, leaning forward. “The fans, the sirens, the coaches yelling. But when I’m on the ice … when I have the puck on my stick and I’m moving toward the net … everything else just turns off. The noise goes away. It’s just me, the ice, and the goal. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.”

You stare at him, your eyes wide, processing his words. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The clatter of the busy restaurant seems to fade away, leaving only the charged space between the two of you.

“I get that,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how I feel when I finally solve an equation that’s been taking me days. The world just stops for a second.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that Dean, Logan, and Tucker were wrong.

He didn’t just pull a target. He found someone who actually understands him.

“Eat your soup,” he says softly. “You have a lab report to write.”

You smile back, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett eats the rest of his sandwich, his heart beating a slightly different rhythm in his chest. He knows he has to win this bet. But as he watches you wipe your mouth with a napkin, he realizes he wants to win for entirely different reasons now.

He doesn’t just want you in his bed. He wants you in his life.

***

Garrett feels like an absolute idiot.

He is walking across the bustling Briar University quad on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a bouquet of bright, aggressively cheerful flowers wrapped in brown paper. He’s getting stares. A few whispers. Two girls from his sports sociology seminar actually stop in their tracks and giggle as he walks past.

He ignores all of it, adjusting his grip on the stems. He spent two hours on the internet and visited three different florists in town to find these specific flowers. If Logan, Dean, and Tucker could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it. The captain of the hockey team, reduced to a lovesick errand boy.

But as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the engineering building, Garrett realizes he doesn’t actually care.

He checks the schedule you mentioned offhandedly two days ago. You should be getting out of your aerodynamics lecture right about now. He posts up against the tiled wall near the lecture hall doors, crossing his ankles and waiting.

Ten minutes later, the double doors swing open, and a flood of exhausted-looking students pours into the hallway. Garrett scans the crowd until he spots you. You’re wearing your signature oversized Briar hoodie, your hair clipped up, your nose already buried in a planner as you walk.

Garrett steps right into your path.

You stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision with his chest. You blink, looking up from your planner, the familiar flash of annoyance in your hazel eyes instantly softening when you register who it is.

“Graham,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Are you stalking my classes now?”

“Just providing an escort service,” Garrett says casually. He pulls his hand from behind his back and extends the bouquet toward you. “Here.”

You freeze. Your eyes drop to the bright orange, pink, and yellow petals bursting from the paper. You don’t reach for them right away. Instead, you look back up at his face, your expression a mixture of confusion and deep suspicion.

“What is this?” You ask slowly.

“They’re flowers, Y/N. Usually, people give them to other people as a gesture of goodwill.”

“I know they’re flowers,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a faint pink flush is already rising on your cheeks. “But why are you giving them to me? Did you accidentally run over someone’s garden and need to ditch the evidence?”

Garrett laughs, stepping a fraction closer. “Take them.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the bouquet. You look down at the blooms, your fingers gently brushing against a bright orange petal. “They’re … really beautiful. What kind are they?”

“Zinnias,” Garrett says.

“Zinnias,” you repeat. You look up at him, waiting for the punchline. “Okay. Is there a joke I’m missing?”

“No joke.” Garrett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable. He clears his throat. “I, uh … I read an article online. Well, Wikipedia. But the source cited an actual NASA press release, so I think it checks out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “NASA?”

“Yeah.” Garrett shifts his weight. “In 2016, astronaut Scott Kelly tweeted a picture of a flower from the International Space Station. It was the first flower to ever bloom entirely in space, in zero gravity.” He nods toward the bouquet in your hands. “It was a Zinnia.”

The hallway around them is noisy, filled with the chatter of students rushing to their next classes, but Garrett barely hears any of it. He is entirely focused on your face.

You look down at the flowers again. Your breath hitches, just slightly, but he catches it. When you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. It’s a look of total shock.

“You …” you start, your voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat and try again. “You researched the first flower grown in space?”

“I did.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan,” Garrett deadpans.

You let out a startled, breathless laugh, clutching the flowers closer to your chest. The walls you constantly keep up — the defenses, the sarcasm, the intense academic focus — seem to crumble right in front of him. You look genuinely touched.

“Garrett,” you say softly. “This is … I don’t even know what to say. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me,” he counters smoothly, seizing the opening. “A real date. Friday night. Not Panera. Not the library. An actual dinner.”

You bite your lower lip, a habit he’s quickly becoming obsessed with. “I have a fluid dynamics quiz on Monday.”

“You’ve been studying for it since Tuesday. You know the material.” Garrett pulls one hand from his pocket and gently taps the cover of your planner. “Take one night off. Give your brain a rest. Let me take you out.”

You look from him, to the Zinnias, and then back to him. The hesitation in your eyes dissolves, replaced by a warm, definitive spark.

“Okay,” you say.

Garrett’s chest swells with a massive, undeniable sense of victory. “Okay?”

“Yes, Graham. It’s a date.” You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress nice. I’m taking you somewhere that uses real cloth napkins.”

You laugh again, a sound Garrett wants to bottle up and keep. “I’ll see you at seven.”

***

Friday night arrives, and the energy in the house is chaotic.

Garrett stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, dark blue button-down shirt. He checks his hair, runs a hand over his jaw to make sure his shave is clean, and grabs his favorite cologne.

The door to his bedroom swings open without a knock.

“Hey, G, are we ordering pizza or-” Dean stops dead in the doorway. His eyes go wide. “Whoa. Look at you.”

Logan and Tucker appear behind Dean a second later, peering into the room.

“Is there a funeral?” Tucker asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Very funny,” Garrett mutters, grabbing his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going out.”

“With the lamppost girl?” Logan asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re wearing a collar for the lamppost girl? Damn, the strategy must be working.”

Garrett shoots Logan a dark look. “Her name is Y/N. And yeah, I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Where? The dining hall?” Dean teases.

“Osteria.”

The three guys fall completely silent. Osteria is the nicest Italian place in town. It takes a week to get a reservation, and it definitely isn’t cheap.

“You’re taking the bet to Osteria?” Logan asks, his smirk fading into genuine confusion. “Garrett, you just need to get her in bed. You don’t need to buy her a fifty-dollar steak.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Hearing them call you that suddenly makes his stomach turn. It feels dirty. It feels wrong. The bet was a stupid, arrogant mistake, but the date tonight? The date is real. He wants it to be real.

“I know what I’m doing,” Garrett snaps, pushing past them into the hallway. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaves the house before they can say anything else, his pulse drumming a heavy beat against his ribs.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett pulls his Jeep up to the curb outside your apartment complex. He walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor, his palms actually sweating. He wipes them on his dark jeans before raising a hand to knock on your door.

He waits. He hears footsteps inside, the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door pulls open.

Garrett’s brain instantly flatlines.

You are standing in the doorway, and you look absolutely devastating. The oversized hoodies and messy buns are completely gone. In their place is a sleek, black slip dress that hugs your curves perfectly, the silk material catching the warm porch light. Your hair is down, falling in soft, loose waves over your shoulders. You’re wearing a touch of makeup — dark mascara that makes your eyes pop, and a dark red lip that makes Garrett’s mouth go entirely dry.

You aren’t wearing your glasses.

“Hi,” you say, a nervous, shy smile breaking across your face.

Garrett realizes he hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring. He forces his vocal cords to work. “Hi. Wow. You look … wow.”

You laugh, the sound a little breathless, and step out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind you. “Is that a good thing, or do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“It’s a very, very good thing,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look stunning. You look like the kind of girl who stops traffic. “I feel incredibly underdressed.”

“You look great, Garrett,” you say softly, your eyes raking over his button-down and jeans. You step closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral washing over him. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Garrett clears his throat, finally finding his brain again. He steps to the side, pressing a light hand against the small of your back to guide you toward the stairs. “My car is right down here.”

The drive to the restaurant is easy, filled with light banter about the horrific traffic on campus and a debate over the local sports radio station playing quietly in the background. But the moment they walk into Osteria, the atmosphere shifts into something more intimate.

The restaurant is dimly lit, smelling of garlic, roasting meats, and expensive wine. The maître d’ leads you to a secluded booth in the back corner.

Once they’re seated, Garrett watches you pick up the menu. The candlelight flickers across your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the soft curve of your lips. He is genuinely captivated.

“Okay, I stand corrected,” you say, scanning the menu. “They do use real cloth napkins here. And the prices don’t actually have dollar signs next to them. That’s how you know it’s fancy.”

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Garrett says immediately. “Order whatever you want.”

You lower the menu, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to bribe me, Graham?”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he admits, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You already gave me space flowers,” you point out, a soft smile playing on your lips. “The bar is pretty high.”

“I like a challenge.”

The waiter arrives, and they order. Garrett asks for a bottle of red wine, and you don’t object, even allowing him to pour you a glass when it arrives.

Once the waiter leaves, the quiet intimacy of the booth settles over them again. You take a sip of the wine, your eyes locking onto his.

“So,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the team. Unlikely future astronaut. You know all about my stress, my scholarship, and my deep, abiding love for rockets. But I feel like I barely know anything real about you.”

Garrett shifts slightly in his seat. He’s used to girls asking him about his stats, his NHL chances, or his workout routine. He isn’t used to anyone asking him to be real.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Start with the basics,” you suggest. “Where are you from?”

“In New York. The city, mostly. But my dad moved us out to the suburbs when I was in middle school so I could play for a better youth hockey program.”

“Ah,” you nod slowly. “A hockey family.”

“Something like that.” Garrett takes a long drink of his wine. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment coats his tongue whenever he thinks about his father. He decides to test the waters, offering a piece of the truth he rarely shares. “My dad played in the NHL. Phil Graham. He had a solid career with the Rangers. Made a lot of money. Won a Norris.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s a huge legacy to follow.”

“Yeah. It is.” Garrett stares into his glass. “He’s … intense. To put it mildly. He thinks second place is just the first loser. If I don’t score a hat trick, the game is a failure. If I don’t get drafted in the first round, my career is a bust.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.

Garrett looks up. There’s no pity in your eyes. Just a quiet, steady understanding. “It is. But it’s the way he is. He trained me to be a machine. No distractions. No emotions. Just the puck and the net.”

“Is that why you act like nothing ever bothers you?” You ask, your tone completely devoid of judgment. “Because you were trained to shut it off?”

Garrett feels a jolt of shock run through him. You see right through him. You always have, from the very first day in the library. You don’t buy the charming, carefree persona he projects to the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice thick. “I guess it is. If I don’t care, he can’t use it against me.”

You reach across the small table. Your fingers lightly brush against his knuckles, a fleeting, electrifying touch that makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“You’re allowed to care, Garrett,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He flips his hand over, catching your fingers before you can pull away. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand on the table. Your skin is soft, warm, and the connection sends a rush of heat straight to his chest. You don’t pull back. You just look at him, your eyes dark and magnetic in the candlelight.

“I’m starting to care about a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

The waiter returns with their food, forcing you to break apart, but the tension between you only thickens as the meal progresses. The conversation flows effortlessly. You argue playfully about the best sci-fi movies, you mock the pretentious names of the dishes on the menu, and you share stories about their worst college professors.

Garrett realizes, halfway through his steak, that he is having the best night of his life. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the cool, detached captain. He is just Garrett, and you are looking at him like he’s the only person in the room.

By the time the waiter clears their plates and brings out a slice of tiramisu to share, the air between them is practically humming with electricity.

You take a bite of the dessert, groaning softly as the chocolate and espresso hit your tongue. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”

Garrett watches the movement of your mouth, his mind suddenly going entirely blank of anything but the intense, overwhelming urge to kiss you.

“Glad you like it,” he manages to say, his voice tight.

“You aren’t having any?” You ask, offering him the fork.

“I’m good,” he says, his eyes locked on your lips. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching again. The playful banter fades away, replaced by a heavy, charged silence. You put the fork down, your eyes dropping to his mouth before rising back to his eyes.

Garrett signals for the check, pays quickly, and they step out of the restaurant into the cool, crisp autumn air.

You shiver almost instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Okay, the food was amazing, but I officially hate Massachusetts weather.”

Without a word, Garrett shrugs off his suit jacket and steps behind you, draping it over your bare shoulders. The warmth of his body heat transfers to you, and you lean back slightly into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rumbling right by your ear.

“Much,” you whisper.

He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer than necessary before guiding you to the Jeep.

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it’s not the comfortable silence of earlier. It’s heavy. It’s loaded with anticipation. The radio plays softly, but Garrett barely registers the song. His hands grip the steering wheel tight, his mind racing.

He wants to keep you. He wants to drag this night out until the sun comes up.

He pulls up to the intersection where he normally turns right to head to your apartment.

The blinker ticks loudly in the quiet cab of the car.

Garrett doesn’t turn the wheel. He hits the brake, sitting at the red light, and looks over at you. You are already looking at him, buried in his suit jacket, your eyes dark and expectant in the shadows of the car.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” Garrett says, the words spilling out before he can overthink them. He is laying all his cards on the table. No games. No strategies. Just the raw, honest truth. “I don’t want this night to end.”

You hold his gaze, the silence stretching out between you. Garrett’s heart hammers against his ribs. He waits for the rejection. He waits for you to tell him about the fluid dynamics quiz, or the late hour, or the fact that you need to go to sleep.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand gently over his on the center console.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you say softly.

Garrett turns his hand, threading his fingers through yours once again. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you … do you want to come back to my place?”

The light turns green.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you say. “Take me to your place, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he met you. He flips the blinker off, hits the gas, and drives straight through the intersection, heading away from your apartment, and straight toward the house.

***

The drive takes less than ten minutes, but to Garrett, it feels like an eternity. Every time he shifts gears, his knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. The car is completely silent save for the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

He pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. The house is dark. Dean, Logan, and Tucker are out, probably at whatever Friday night mixer is happening on campus. For the first time in his life, Garrett is overwhelmingly grateful for his teammates’ predictable party habits.

“They’re not here,” Garrett says, his voice low in the quiet cab.

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. Your eyes catch the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside. There’s a nervous energy radiating from you, but there’s no hesitation in your voice.

He gets out, walking around the front of the Jeep to open your door. You step down, shivering slightly as the brisk autumn air hits your bare legs, and Garrett instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your side flush against his chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispers.

He guides you up the porch steps, his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. The house smells faintly of stale beer and athletic gear, but Garrett barely registers it. He leads you straight past the living room and up the wooden stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in a warm, dim light. His room is surprisingly clean — he’d practically scrubbed it top to bottom before the date, just in case.

You step inside, your eyes darting around the space, taking in the framed hockey jerseys, the neatly made bed, the stack of textbooks on his desk. Garrett closes the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The moment the door shuts, the reality of the situation settles over you both. The air is suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. Garrett stays by the door, his hands in his pockets, watching you. He’s dying to touch you, to close the distance, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

You turn to face him, clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his gaze locking onto yours. He needs to know. He needs to hear it. “Because we can just hang out. You can borrow a t-shirt and go to sleep. I don’t want you to feel pressured just because I bought you dinner.”

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a step toward him. Then another. Until you are standing right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“I’m sure, Garrett,” you whisper, tilting your head up. “I want to be here.”

That’s all it takes.

Garrett’s hands come out of his pockets, immediately finding your waist. He pulls you against him, ducking his head, and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It’s not slow or tentative. It’s exactly what he’s been craving all night. His mouth opens over yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the sweet, dark hint of the tiramisu and the intoxicating flavor that is just you. You let out a soft gasp, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you kiss him back with a fierce, unexpected intensity.

“Fuck,” Garrett groans against your mouth. His hands slide up your back, gripping the jacket and pulling it off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He steps forward, backing you slowly across the room until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back onto the comforter, and Garrett follows you down, bracketing your body with his arms.

He takes a second to just look at you. Your dark hair is fanned out across his pillows, your lips are swollen and slick from his mouth, and the black silk slip dress rides dangerously high on your thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, down the column of your neck. He feels your pulse jumping wildly against his lips.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Take this off. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits up slightly, grabbing the hem of your slip dress. “Lift your arms.”

You comply, and he pulls the silk over your head, tossing it aside. You are left in a matching set of black lace underwear, and Garrett feels his mouth go completely dry. He traces a finger down the center of your stomach, watching the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, leaning down to press a hot, wet kiss to your stomach.

Garrett takes his time. He wants to memorize every inch of you. He unhooks your bra, peeling it away, and his mouth immediately replaces the fabric. He circles the tight peak of your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently, and you let out a high, sweet moan that sends a surge of blood straight to his groin.

“You like that, Starshine?” He asks, his voice thick and raspy.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips arching up off the mattress involuntarily. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He continues to worship your chest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your lace panties, slowly dragging them down your legs and tossing them onto the floor.

You instinctively try to cross your legs, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing your face, but Garrett gently catches your knees, pressing them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He rests his forearms on your thighs, looking at you. “I want to see you.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh, right near your center. You jump, your fingers digging into his bedsheets.

“Garrett-”

“Relax,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you first.”

He trails his lips higher, his breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds. The scent of your arousal fills his senses, sweet and completely intoxicating. He traces the delicate seam with the tip of his nose, and then, slowly, he presses his tongue flat and takes a long, slow drag upward.

You scream his name, your entire body bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s smiling against you. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you higher, tilting your hips exactly where he needs them. “I’ve got you.”

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He swirls his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard, and then diving two fingers inside you. You are incredibly tight, and so wet his fingers slide in effortlessly. He curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust of his hand, mirroring the flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” you sob, thrashing on the pillows. “Garrett. Please. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, quickening his pace. “Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

You unravel completely. Your thighs clamp down on his head, your nails ripping into the sheets as a violently intense orgasm tears through your body. You cry out, your core pulsing and clenching frantically around his fingers, milking him of every drop of sanity he has left.

Garrett waits until the last of your tremors subside before he pulls away. He crawls back up your body, his chest heaving, and captures your lips in a devastating kiss, letting you taste your own release on his tongue.

You are completely limp, your eyes half-closed, a dazed, blissful smile on your face.

Garrett pulls back, stripping off his button-down shirt and throwing it across the room. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, and stands by the bed, completely bare.

Your eyes drag down his chest, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, before dropping lower. Your eyes go wide, a flash of something akin to panic crossing your face for a fraction of a second, but you quickly mask it, biting your lower lip.

Garrett turns, opening the drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a foil packet. He tears it open, quickly rolling the condom down his length, before moving to hover over you.

He settles between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress. He braces his weight on his forearms, looking down into your flushed face.

“You okay?” He checks, his thumb brushing a stray piece of hair off your forehead.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders. “I want you.”

Garrett groans, the sound completely animalistic. He shifts his hips forward, aligning the blunt head of his cock with your slick opening. He pushes forward, letting himself sink into your heat.

But immediately, he feels resistance. It’s tight. Impossibly tight. And as he pushes another fraction of an inch, your breath hitches sharply, your hands flying to his chest to grip his biceps.

“Ouch,” you gasp, your body tensing completely.

Garrett stops instantly.

Every alarm bell in his head goes off. He freezes, pulling back slightly, his eyes snapping to your face. You are biting your lip, your eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

He pulls out entirely.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with concern. He looks down, and the sight makes his heart completely stop in his chest.

There is a single, vivid streak of crimson blood on his condom.

Garrett stares at it. The room suddenly starts spinning. The air is sucked entirely out of his lungs.

He looks back up at you. You have opened your eyes, and you are staring at the ceiling, your cheeks burning with a fierce, humiliated blush. You look incredibly small, pulling the edge of the comforter over your chest.

“Y/N,” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling now. “Look at me.”

You slowly turn your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you … is this your first time?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You pick at a thread on the comforter, your voice incredibly quiet when you finally speak.

“Yes.”

The word hits Garrett like a physical blow to the stomach. A brutal, agonizing hit that leaves him completely winded.

A virgin.

You are a virgin.

And he is about to take your virginity to win a fucking bet.

A wave of nausea washes over him so intensely he actually feels dizzy. The memory of Dean, Logan, and Tucker laughing on the quad violently assaults his brain. You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.

He is a monster. He is worse than his father. His father broke his mother’s body, but Garrett is about to shatter your heart. You, the girl who apologizes to lampposts. The girl who gets starry-eyed talking about space shuttles. The girl who looks at him like he’s actually a good person.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, your voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just … I know you’re super experienced, and I didn’t want you to think I was a total loser or some kind of prude. I just … I’ve never had the time. Or met anyone I wanted to do this with. Until you.”

Your words twist the knife deeper.

“Hey,” Garrett says immediately, forcing the panic down, forcing the crushing guilt into a dark, locked box in the back of his mind. He has to take care of you right now. He can hate himself later. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do not apologize. Are you crazy? Y/N, you’re not a loser.”

“But you stopped,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes. “I’m ruining it.”

“You are not ruining anything,” he says fiercely. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m just … I’m honored, baby. I just wish I had known so I could have been gentler. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It only hurt for a second,” you assure him, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I promise. Please, Garrett. I want to. I want it to be you.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to pull away, put his clothes on, and run out of the room. But looking at your face, so open, so trusting, so incredibly beautiful — he knows that pulling away now would destroy your confidence. It would humiliate you.

He’s in it. He has to finish this. And he vows right then and there, he is going to make it the best experience you’ve ever had.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Okay. But you have to tell me if it hurts too much. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Garrett settles back between your legs. He reaches down, sliding a hand between your folds, using the slickness of your earlier orgasm to massage you, stretching you gently with two fingers before he tries again. He leans down, capturing your lips, keeping your mouth busy and distracted as he aligns himself once more.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You inhale sharply, and as you exhale, Garrett pushes forward.

He goes excruciatingly slow. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to drive deep, to bury himself to the hilt, but he fights it. He pushes through the tight, resistant barrier with agonizing patience. You whimper against his mouth, your nails biting into his shoulders, but you don’t tell him to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you, his voice ragged. “You’re doing so good for me. Just relax. Let me in.”

He pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself completely inside you. You are so tight it takes his breath away, his cock throbbing from the intense pressure. He stays perfectly still, burying his face in your neck, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Wow.”

“You okay?” he pants, pressing a kiss to the pulse point jumping at your throat.

“Yeah. The pain is gone. It just feels … really full.”

“It feels perfect,” he corrects, pulling back slightly to look at your face. The tension has left your features, replaced by a heavy-lidded, glazed look of arousal.

Slowly, carefully, Garrett pulls back, almost to the tip, and drives forward again.

You let out a soft moan, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins to move, establishing a slow, steady, grounding rhythm. He makes love to you with a reverence he’s never shown anyone in his entire life. He watches your face, memorizing the way your brow furrows when he hits a certain spot, the way your lips part as he drags himself out and slides back in.

He makes sure every thrust counts. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, and begins to rub in circles, matching the pace of his hips.

“Oh!” You cry out, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing you deeply. “Let it go, baby. Come for me again.”

The combination is too much for you. You don’t last long. Your internal muscles clamp down viciously around his cock, triggering a second, violent orgasm. You scream his name, your body arching like a bowstring.

The feeling of you coming around him snaps Garrett’s control entirely. He lets out a guttural groan, driving into you hard, once, twice, three times, before his own climax rips through him. It is blinding. It is the most intense, earth-shattering release he has ever experienced. He empties himself into the condom, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the pillows next to your head, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

You wrap your arms around him, your hands tracing soothing patterns up and down his sweaty back.

“That was …” you whisper, sounding completely dazed. “That was incredible.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a profound sense of self-loathing pooling in his gut. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

After a few minutes, Garrett forces himself to move. He rolls off you, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash, before grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand. He gently cleans you up, his heart breaking all over again when he sees the faint smear of pink on the white tissue.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the thick comforter up over both of you.

You immediately curl into his side. You rest your head on his chest, right over his heart, and drape an arm across his stomach. You are warm, soft, and smelling like vanilla and sex.

“I really like you, Garrett,” you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m really glad you talked to me in the library.”

Garrett stares up at the ceiling. The shadows in the room seem darker now. Menacing.

“I’m glad too,” he lies, his voice barely a whisper.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you tight as your breathing slows and evens out, signaling that you’ve fallen asleep.

Garrett remains wide awake.

The digital clock on the nightstand flips from 1:00 AM to 1:01 AM.

He just won the bet. He secured his victory. His chest is safe from a wax.

And he has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

He is in too deep. This hasn’t been a game to him since the second week in the library. He cares about you. He cares about your stupid equations, and your obsession with space, and the way you apologize to inanimate objects.

He’s falling in love with you.

And when you find out how this started — when you find out that your virginity was the punchline to a joke in the campus quad — it is going to destroy you. And you will never forgive him.

Garrett pulls you a little tighter against his chest, staring into the dark. He knows he has to tell you. He has to confess before someone else does.

But as you let out a soft, contented sigh in your sleep, Garrett knows he’s a coward. Because right now, the thought of losing you hurts far more than the guilt.

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Part One: 2 AM and a Fork

Y/n was three chapters deep into her psychology textbook, fighting the losing battle against sleep, when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Unknown Number - 2:47 AM 

Dude. Where are you? Dean just tried to microwave a fork.

She blinked at the screen, reading it twice to make sure exhaustion wasn't making her hallucinate. A fork. Someone's friend Dean had tried to microwave a fork, and this person was texting... whoever they thought she was.

The reasonable thing would be to ignore it. Or send a quick "wrong number" and go back to studying. But Y/n had been staring at the same paragraph about cognitive behavioral therapy for twenty minutes, and honestly, she needed to know more about this fork situation.

Y/n - 2:48 AM 

I think you have the wrong number, but now I need the rest of this story.

She watched the three dots appear almost immediately.

Unknown Number - 2:49 AM 

Shit, sorry.

Unknown Number - 2:49 AM  

My roommate Dean decided he wanted to "see what would happen" if he microwaved a metal fork. At 2 in the morning. While drunk.

Unknown Number - 2:50 AM  

There were sparks. So many sparks. He screamed like a little girl. The microwave is now deceased. RIP, you served us well.

Y/n found herself grinning at her phone, her textbook completely forgotten.

Y/n - 2:51 AM 

I have so many questions. First: is Dean okay? Second: is the fork okay? Third: how drunk are we talking?

Unknown Number - 2:52 AM  

Dean is fine, just traumatized. The fork is... well, it's seen better days. And we're talking "thought it would be a good idea to microwave a fork" drunk, so pretty damn drunk.

Unknown Number - 2:52 AM

I'm Garrett, by the way. Since we're apparently texting now.

Y/n - 2:53 AM  

Y/n. And I feel like I should thank Dean for this entertainment. I was studying and slowly dying of boredom.

Garrett - 2:54 AM

Studying at 3 AM? What are you, some kind of masochist?

Y/n - 2:54 AM

Psychology major. So yes, actually.

Garrett - 2:55 AM  

That explains so much. You're probably analyzing why Dean thought the fork was a good idea.

Y/n - 2:56 AM 

Alcohol impairs the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for decision-making and impulse control. Dean's fork incident is basically a textbook example of why drunk people do stupid things.

Garrett - 2:57 AM

I'm keeping you. Anyone who can explain drunk stupidity with science is worth knowing.

Y/n - 2:58 AM

Bold of you to assume I want to be kept by someone whose friends microwave silverware.

Garrett - 2:59 AM  

Fair point. But in my defense, I tried to STOP him. I was outvoted.

Y/n - 3:00 AM 

How many people voted in favor of microwaving the fork?

Garrett - 3:01 AM 

Just Dean. But he was very enthusiastic about it.

Y/n laughed out loud, then immediately covered her mouth, remembering her roommate was asleep in the next room.

Y/n - 3:02 AM 

So you were outvoted 1-1? That's not how voting works.

Garrett - 3:03 AM

Listen, it was 2 AM and he was already opening the microwave. I made an executive decision to text for backup instead of physically wrestling a drunk guy away from kitchen appliances.

Y/n - 3:04 AM 

Solid strategy. How's that working out for you?

Garrett - 3:05 AM

Well, I texted the wrong number, so not great. But I'm talking to you now, so maybe it worked out after all.

Y/n felt her cheeks warm. Was this guy actually flirting with her? At 3 AM? Over a destroyed microwave?

Y/n - 3:06 AM 

Smooth. Do you use the fork incident as a pickup line often?

Garrett - 3:07 AM 

You're actually the first. How am I doing?

Y/n - 3:08 AM

Well, I'm still texting you instead of studying, so... surprisingly well.

Garrett - 3:09 AM 

I'll take it. So what are you studying? Besides the psychology of drunk idiots.

Y/n - 3:10 AM

Cognitive behavioral therapy. Riveting stuff at 3 AM.

Garrett - 3:11 AM 

I'm sure it's fascinating. Teach me something.

Y/n - 3:12 AM

You want me to teach you about CBT right now?

Garrett - 3:13 AM  

I want you to keep texting me. The subject matter is negotiable.

Y/n bit her lip, staring at her phone. This was insane. She was texting a complete stranger at three in the morning, and she was enjoying it. More than enjoying it; she was actively not wanting it to stop.

Y/n - 3:14 AM 

Okay, here's something: CBT is based on the idea that our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are all connected. Change one, and you can change the others.

Garrett - 3:15 AM

So if I think positive thoughts, I'll feel better?

Y/n - 3:16 AM 

Oversimplified, but basically. It's more about identifying negative thought patterns and challenging them.

Garrett - 3:17 AM 

What if my negative thought pattern is "I should be asleep right now" but I keep texting this girl instead?

Y/n - 3:18 AM  

Then you challenge it. Ask yourself: is texting this girl actually a problem? Or is it just what you think you SHOULD be doing vs. what you WANT to be doing?

Garrett - 3:19 AM 

Damn. You're good at this.

Y/n - 3:20 AM

I'm a psych major and it’s 3 AM. This is literally my entire personality right now.

Garrett - 3:21 AM

What's your personality when it's NOT 3 AM?

Y/n - 3:22 AM

Guess you'll have to keep texting me to find out.

Garrett - 3:23 AM 

Challenge accepted.

They texted for another hour. Garrett told her about his hockey practice schedule (he played hockey, apparently, though he was vague about details). Y/n told him about her roommate's obsession with true crime podcasts. They debated the best late-night snacks (Garrett was team pizza, Y/n argued for breakfast food at any hour).

By the time Y/n finally said goodnight at 4:30 AM, her psychology textbook was closed, her exam the next day was a problem for future-her, and she was smiling at her phone like an idiot.

She saved his number as "Fork Guy."

***

Part Two: The First Three Weeks

Fork Guy - 11:23 AM 

Update: Dean has been banned from the kitchen. We're getting a new microwave today. The fork has been given a proper burial.

Y/n was in line at the campus coffee shop when the text came through. She'd been thinking about texting him all morning but didn't want to seem too eager. The fact that he'd texted first made her ridiculously happy.

Y/n - 11:25 AM 

A burial? You didn't just throw it away?

Fork Guy - 11:26 AM 

It gave its life in service of our entertainment. The least we could do was show some respect.

Y/n - 11:27 AM 

You're actually insane.

Fork Guy - 11:28 AM 

You're still texting me, so what does that say about you?

Y/n - 11:29 AM 

That I have questionable taste in texting buddies.

Fork Guy - 11:30 AM

Texting buddies? Is that what we are?

Y/n hesitated, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. What were they? They'd been texting for less than twelve hours, but it already felt like more than just random messages to a wrong number.

Y/n - 11:32 AM

I don't know. What do you want to be?

Fork Guy - 11:33 AM

Honestly? I want to keep talking to you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... this.

Y/n - 11:34 AM 

Just this?

Fork Guy - 11:35 AM

Just this. Whatever this is.

Y/n - 11:36 AM

Okay. I can do this.

Fork Guy - 11:37 AM

Yeah?

Y/n - 11:38 AM 

Yeah.

And just like that, they fell into a rhythm.

Garrett texted her good morning most days, usually with some ridiculous story about his roommates or hockey practice. Y/n sent him photos of terrible coffee shop signs and complained about her professors. They texted throughout the day — quick messages between classes, longer conversations late at night when neither of them could sleep.

Day 3:

Fork Guy - 2:15 PM 

Question: if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Y/n - 2:17 PM

That's impossible. I'd die of malnutrition.

Fork Guy - 2:18 PM 

Okay, fine. If you could only eat one food without getting sick of it, what would it be?

Y/n - 2:20 PM 

Sushi. Definitely sushi. You?

Fork Guy - 2:21 PM  

Pizza. I'm a simple man.

Y/n - 2:22 PM  

You're a boring man.

Fork Guy - 2:23 PM 

Says the girl who's probably drinking her third coffee of the day.

Y/n - 2:24 PM 

It's my fourth, actually. And coffee is a personality trait, not a beverage.

Fork Guy - 2:25 PM

That explains so much about you.

Day 7:

Y/n - 10:47 PM 

Random thought: do you think penguins have knees?

Fork Guy - 10:48 PM 

It's 11 PM. Why are you thinking about penguin knees?

Y/n - 10:49 PM 

I'm procrastinating on an essay. Answer the question.

Fork Guy - 10:51 PM  

I just googled it. They do have knees, but they're hidden under their feathers. Their legs are actually much longer than they look.

Y/n - 10:52 PM

You googled it? You didn't just make something up?

Fork Guy - 10:53 PM 

I'm not going to lie to you about penguin anatomy. I have standards.

Y/n - 10:54 PM  

Your standards involve penguin facts?

Fork Guy - 10:55 PM

My standards involve not bullshitting you, even about penguins.

Y/n stared at that message for a long moment, something warm unfurling in her chest.

Y/n - 10:57 PM

That's... actually really sweet.

Fork Guy - 10:58 PM  

Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.

Y/n - 10:59 PM

What reputation? Fork Guy?

Fork Guy - 11:00 PM

You saved my number as Fork Guy, didn't you?

Y/n - 11:01 PM  

Maybe…

Fork Guy - 11:02 PM 

I saved you as "Wrong Number Girl."

Y/n - 11:03 PM  

Creative.

Fork Guy - 11:04 PM 

I'm thinking of changing it to "Penguin Knee Girl."

Y/n - 11:05 PM 

Don't you dare.

Day 12:

Fork Guy - 7:30 AM 

Morning. I have a game tonight. Wish me luck?

Y/n - 7:45 AM 

You play hockey, right? What position?

Fork Guy - 7:47 AM

Forward. Center, specifically.

Y/n - 7:48 AM  

I have no idea what that means, but good luck!

Fork Guy - 7:50 AM 

It means I'm in the middle of everything. Lots of pressure, lots of action.

Y/n - 7:52 AM 

Sounds stressful.

Fork Guy - 7:53 AM 

It is. But I love it. There's nothing like being on the ice, you know? Everything else just... disappears.

Y/n - 7:55 AM

I don't know, actually. I've never been ice skating.

Fork Guy - 7:56 AM  

WHAT. That's a crime. We're fixing this.

Y/n - 7:57 AM 

We are?

Fork Guy - 7:58 AM 

Okay, maybe not WE. But someone needs to take you ice skating. It's a life experience.

Y/n - 8:00 AM

I'll add it to my list. Right after "stop texting strangers at 3 AM."

Fork Guy - 8:01 AM

Hey, that worked out pretty well for you.

Y/n - 8:02 AM 

Jury's still out on that one, Fork Guy.

Fork Guy - 8:03 AM  

Ouch. Right in the ego.

Y/n - 8:05 AM 

You'll survive. Now go win your game.

Fork Guy - 8:06 AM  

Yes ma'am.

That night, Y/n found herself wondering how his game went. She almost texted to ask, but stopped herself. That felt too... couple-y. Too invested. They were just texting. Just friends. Just this.

Her phone buzzed at 11:47 PM.

Fork Guy - 11:47 PM 

We won. 4-2. I got two assists.

Y/n - 11:48 PM 

I'm going to pretend I know what that means and say congratulations!

Fork Guy - 11:49 PM 

It means I helped score two goals. It's good.

Y/n - 11:50 PM 

Then I'm genuinely saying congratulations. You must be exhausted.

Fork Guy - 11:52 PM  

I am. But I wanted to tell you. Is that weird?

Y/n's heart did a little flip.

Y/n - 11:53 PM  

No. It's not weird.

Fork Guy - 11:54 PM 

Good. Because I've been thinking about texting you all night.

Y/n - 11:56 PM

Even during the game?

Fork Guy - 11:57 PM

Especially during the game. You're distracting, Wrong Number Girl.

Y/n - 11:58 PM 

Sorry?

Fork Guy - 11:59 PM

Don't be. It's a good distraction.

Day 18:

They'd started playing a game: two truths and a lie. It started innocently enough, but quickly became their way of learning about each other without asking direct questions.

Y/n - 3:34 PM 

Okay, my turn: 1) I can speak three languages 2) I've never broken a bone 3) I'm afraid of birds.

Fork Guy - 3:36 PM  

Afraid of birds? That's oddly specific.

Y/n - 3:37 PM

That's not a guess.

Fork Guy - 3:39 PM 

Fine. I think the lie is the languages. You seem like someone who would break a bone doing something stupid.

Y/n - 3:40 PM 

Rude. And wrong. I really can speak three languages. English, Spanish, and French.

Fork Guy - 3:41 PM

So you've broken a bone?

Y/n - 3:42 PM  

Fractured my wrist in middle school. Fell off a bike.

Fork Guy - 3:43 PM 

Called it. Stupid accident.

Y/n - 3:44 PM

It wasn't stupid! There was a squirrel!

Fork Guy - 3:45 PM 

You crashed your bike because of a squirrel?

Y/n - 3:46 PM

It ran right in front of me! I swerved to avoid it!

Fork Guy - 3:47 PM 

This is the best thing I've heard all day.

Y/n - 3:48 PM 

I hate you. Your turn.

Fork Guy - 3:50 PM

Okay: 1) I've been playing hockey since I was five 2) I have two sisters 3) I can't cook to save my life.

Y/n - 3:52 PM 

The cooking one is the lie. You live with Dean. You HAVE to know how to cook or you'd starve.

Fork Guy - 3:53 PM  

Wrong. I really can't cook. Dean actually does most of the cooking, believe it or not.

Y/n - 3:54 PM

The guy who microwaved a fork does the cooking?

Fork Guy - 3:55 PM

He's actually pretty good when he's sober. It's a whole thing.

Y/n - 3:56 PM 

So you don't have two sisters?

Fork Guy - 3:57 PM  

I have one sister. She's a pain in my ass but I love her.

Y/n - 3:58 PM 

Older or younger?

Fork Guy - 3:59 PM 

Younger. She's in high school. Thinks she knows everything.

Y/n - 4:00 PM 

Sounds like someone else I know.

Fork Guy - 4:01 PM 

Are you calling me a know-it-all?

Y/n - 4:02 PM 

If the hockey skate fits...

Day 21:

Fork Guy - 1:23 AM 

You awake?

Y/n - 1:25 AM  

Unfortunately. Can't sleep. You?

Fork Guy - 1:26 AM 

Same. Too much on my mind.

Y/n - 1:27 AM  

Want to talk about it?

Fork Guy - 1:29 AM

Not really. Want to distract me instead?

Y/n - 1:30 AM 

How?

Fork Guy - 1:31 AM

Tell me something. Anything. Something you've never told anyone else.

Y/n stared at her phone, her heart beating faster. This felt like a shift, like they were crossing some invisible line from casual texting into something deeper.

Y/n - 1:34 AM 

Okay. Sometimes I feel like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. Like I'm playing a role and everyone believes it except me.

Fork Guy - 1:35 AM 

What role?

Y/n - 1:37 AM  

The girl who has it all together. The one who knows what she wants, who's confident and sure of herself. But most of the time I'm just... winging it. Hoping no one notices I have no idea what I'm doing.

Fork Guy - 1:39 AM

I think everyone feels like that sometimes.

Y/n - 1:40 AM

Do you?

Fork Guy - 1:42 AM 

All the time. People see me on the ice and think I'm this confident guy who has everything figured out. But half the time I'm terrified I'm going to fuck it all up.

Y/n - 1:43 AM  

What are you afraid of fucking up?

Fork Guy - 1:45 AM 

Everything. Hockey. School. Relationships. Life in general. I'm good at pretending I'm not scared, but that's all it is. Pretending.

Y/n - 1:47 AM  

I don't think you're pretending. I think you're just... human.

Fork Guy - 1:48 AM  

Is that your professional psych major opinion?

Y/n - 1:49 AM 

It's my personal opinion. The psych major in me would say you're experiencing normal anxiety about performance and expectations. The regular me just thinks you're being too hard on yourself.

Fork Guy - 1:51 AM 

The regular you is pretty smart.

Y/n - 1:52 AM 

She has her moments.

Fork Guy - 1:54 AM  

Can I tell you something?

Y/n - 1:55 AM  

Of course.

Fork Guy - 1:57 AM

Texting you has become my favorite part of the day. I look forward to it. To hearing from you. To making you laugh. To just... this.

Y/n felt her breath catch. She read the message three times, her heart pounding.

Y/n - 1:59 AM 

Me too.

Fork Guy - 2:00 AM 

Yeah?

Y/n - 2:01 AM 

Yeah. You're my favorite distraction.

Fork Guy - 2:02 AM 

I'll take it.

Y/n - 2:03 AM 

You should. It's a big compliment.

Fork Guy - 2:04 AM

I know. That's why I'm smiling like an idiot at my phone right now.

Y/n - 2:05 AM  

Me too.

Fork Guy - 2:06 AM  

We're pathetic.

Y/n - 2:07 AM 

Completely.

Fork Guy - 2:08 AM 

I don't care.

Y/n - 2:09 AM 

Me neither.

***

Part Three: Weeks Four Through Eight

By week four, Y/n had to admit she was in trouble. She thought about Garrett constantly. She checked her phone obsessively. She found herself smiling at random times throughout the day, remembering something funny he'd said.

Her roommate, Sophie, noticed.

"Okay, who is he?" Sophie asked one night, watching Y/n grin at her phone for the fifteenth time in an hour.

"Who's who?" Y/n asked, not looking up.

"The guy you're texting. You've been glued to your phone for weeks."

"I'm not —" Y/n started, then stopped. "It's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"I don't actually know him. We've never met."

Sophie raised an eyebrow. "Online dating?"

"No. Wrong number. He texted me by accident and we just... kept talking."

"For weeks?"

"For weeks," Y/n confirmed.

"And you don't know what he looks like?"

"Nope."

"Or his last name?"

"Nope."

"Y/n —"

"I know how it sounds," Y/n interrupted. "But it's not like that. We're just... talking. Getting to know each other. It's nice."

"It's also potentially dangerous."

"He's not dangerous. He's sweet and funny and —"

"And you're falling for him," Sophie finished.

Y/n opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Was she falling for him? Could you fall for someone you'd never met?

"I don't know," she said finally. "Maybe."

Her phone buzzed.

Fork Guy - 9:47 PM  

Question: if you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?

Y/n - 9:48 PM 

That's a big question for a Tuesday night.

Fork Guy - 9:49 PM 

I'm a big question kind of guy.

Y/n - 9:51 PM 

Okay. My grandmother. She died when I was twelve. I'd want to have dinner with her now, as an adult, and actually talk to her. Really talk to her.

Fork Guy - 9:53 PM

That's beautiful. What would you want to talk about?

Y/n - 9:55 PM

Everything. My life. Her life, her choices, her regrets. What she was like before she was just "grandma." I feel like we never really know our family members as actual people, you know? Just as their roles.

Fork Guy - 9:57 PM 

I get that. I'd want to have dinner with my dad.

Y/n - 9:58 PM  

Is he...?

Fork Guy - 9:59 PM 

No, he's alive. We just don't talk much. Haven't in years.

Y/n - 10:00 PM

I'm sorry.

Fork Guy - 10:02 PM

It is what it is. He got too competitive with hockey. Thought I should focus on being “as good” as he was. We had a falling out when I got my scholarship.

Y/n - 10:03 PM 

He didn't support your scholarship?

Fork Guy - 10:05 PM  

He thought it was a waste of time. That I'd never be as good as him. We haven't really spoken since.

Y/n - 10:06 PM 

That's his loss. You're amazing.

Fork Guy - 10:07 PM

You don't even know me.

Y/n - 10:08 PM  

I know enough. I know you're dedicated and passionate and you care about people. I know you text me good morning even when you have early practice. I know you googled penguin knees just to give me an honest answer. That's not nothing.

Fork Guy - 10:10 PM  

You're going to make me emotional over penguin knees.

Y/n - 10:11 PM

I'm just saying... your dad is wrong. You're not wasting anything.

Fork Guy - 10:13 PM  

Thank you. Really.

Y/n - 10:14 PM 

Anytime.

Fork Guy - 10:16 PM  

Can I ask you something personal?

Y/n - 10:17 PM  

You just told me about your dad. I think we're past the personal question threshold.

Fork Guy - 10:18 PM  

Fair. Have you ever been in love?

Y/n stared at the question, her heart racing. Where was this coming from?

Y/n - 10:20 PM  

I thought I was. Once. In high school. But looking back, I don't think it was real love. It was just... intense feelings. Infatuation, maybe.

Fork Guy - 10:21 PM 

What's the difference?

Y/n - 10:23 PM 

Love is steady. It's choosing someone every day, even when it's hard. Infatuation is just the high of new feelings. It burns hot and fast and then it's gone.

Fork Guy - 10:24 PM  

That's very philosophical.

Y/n - 10:25 PM

I'm a psych major. It's literally my job to overthink feelings.

Fork Guy - 10:26 PM 

So you've never been in love for real?

Y/n - 10:27 PM 

No. You?

Fork Guy - 10:29 PM  

I don't know. I've had relationships. Some lasted longer than others. But I don't think any of them were... it. You know?

Y/n - 10:30 PM

It?

Fork Guy - 10:32 PM

The real thing. The kind of love that makes you want to be better. That makes you feel like you've found your person.

Y/n - 10:33 PM 

You believe in "your person"?

Fork Guy - 10:34 PM  

I want to. Don't you?

Y/n - 10:36 PM 

Yeah. I do.

Fork Guy - 10:37 PM 

Good. Because I think when you find it, it's worth everything.

Week Five:

Y/n - 2:15 PM

I have a confession.

Fork Guy - 2:16 PM 

This sounds serious.

Y/n - 2:17 PM 

I googled "hockey positions" so I could understand what you're talking about when you mention games.

Fork Guy - 2:18 PM 

You did?

Y/n - 2:19 PM 

I did. I now know that centers are responsible for face-offs and are usually the playmakers of the team.

Fork Guy - 2:20 PM

I'm impressed. And a little touched.

Y/n - 2:21 PM  

Don't let it go to your head.

Fork Guy - 2:22 PM 

Too late. My ego is already inflated.

Y/n - 2:23 PM 

I also learned that hockey players are missing a lot of teeth.

Fork Guy - 2:24 PM

I have all my teeth, thank you very much.

Y/n - 2:25 PM  

For now.

Fork Guy - 2:26 PM

You're really selling the sport here.

Y/n - 2:27 PM  

I'm just saying, maybe wear a better mouth guard.

Fork Guy - 2:28 PM 

Are you worried about my teeth?

Y/n - 2:29 PM

I'm worried about your face in general. It's probably a nice face. Would be a shame to mess it up.

Fork Guy - 2:30 PM

"Probably a nice face"? That's the best you can do?

Y/n - 2:31 PM

I've never seen it. I'm working with limited information.

Fork Guy - 2:32 PM

I could send you a picture.

Y/n's heart stopped. They'd been texting for over a month and neither of them had suggested exchanging photos. It felt like an unspoken rule; keep the mystery, keep the distance.

Y/n - 2:34 PM 

Do you want to?

Fork Guy - 2:36 PM

I don't know. Do you?

Y/n - 2:38 PM  

I don't know either.

Fork Guy - 2:39 PM

We're really good at making decisions.

Y/n - 2:40 PM

The best.

Fork Guy - 2:42 PM

What if we like this better? The not knowing?

Y/n - 2:43 PM  

What if we do?

Fork Guy - 2:44 PM 

Then maybe we keep it this way. For now.

Y/n - 2:45 PM 

For now.

Week Six:

Fork Guy - 11:34 PM  

Worst date you've ever been on. Go.

Y/n - 11:36 PM

Oh god. Okay. Sophomore year. Guy took me to a movie and fell asleep ten minutes in. Snored through the entire thing.

Fork Guy - 11:37 PM 

That's not that bad.

Y/n - 11:38 PM  

I'm not finished. When the movie ended, he woke up and pretended he'd been awake the whole time. Tried to discuss the plot. Got everything wrong. And still tries to kiss me afterwards.

Fork Guy - 11:39 PM  

Okay, that's pretty bad.

Y/n - 11:40 PM  

Your turn.

Fork Guy - 11:42 PM 

Junior year of high school. The girl spent the entire date talking about her ex-boyfriend. And I mean the ENTIRE date. I knew his whole life story by the end of the night.

Y/n - 11:43 PM  

Did you go out again?

Fork Guy - 11:44 PM 

She asked. I politely declined.

Y/n - 11:45 PM 

Politely?

Fork Guy - 11:46 PM  

I told her I thought she needed more time to get over her ex.

Y/n - 11:47 PM 

That's actually really mature for a high school junior.

Fork Guy - 11:48 PM  

I have my moments.

Y/n - 11:49 PM  

Clearly.

Fork Guy - 11:51 PM 

Can I ask you something?

Y/n - 11:52 PM  

Always.

Fork Guy - 11:54 PM 

Why haven't you asked me what I look like? Or for my last name? Or any identifying information?

Y/n - 11:56 PM 

I could ask you the same thing.

Fork Guy - 11:57 PM  

I asked first.

Y/n - 11:59 PM 

Honestly? I kind of like this. I like that you don't know what I look like or where I'm from or what my GPA is. You just know... me. The real me. And I know the real you.

Fork Guy - 12:00 AM 

You think this is the real me?

Y/n - 12:01 AM  

Isn't it?

Fork Guy - 12:03 AM  

Yeah. It is. More real than I am with most people.

Y/n - 12:04 AM  

Then why would I want to ruin that by adding all the other stuff?

Fork Guy - 12:05 AM 

You wouldn't be ruining it.

Y/n - 12:06 AM  

Wouldn't I? Right now, you like me for me. Not for what I look like or where I go to school or who my friends are. Just... me.

Fork Guy - 12:08 AM  

I'd still like you if I knew all that stuff.

Y/n - 12:09 AM 

Maybe. But this way, we don't have to find out.

Fork Guy - 12:11 AM 

You're scared.

Y/n - 12:12 AM 

Yeah. Are you?

Fork Guy - 12:14 AM  

Terrified.

Y/n - 12:15 AM  

Of what?

Fork Guy - 12:17 AM

That you'll meet me and be disappointed. That the real me won't live up to the version you have in your head.

Y/n - 12:18 AM

I don't have a version of you in my head. I just have you. The person who texts me good morning and asks me about penguin knees and tells me about his hockey games. That's enough.

Fork Guy - 12:20 AM  

Is it though?

Y/n - 12:21 AM 

For now? Yes.

Fork Guy - 12:22 AM 

And later?

Y/n - 12:23 AM 

I don't know. Can we just... be in the now?

Fork Guy - 12:24 AM 

Yeah. We can do that.

Week Seven:

Y/n was having lunch with her friends Hannah and Allie when her phone buzzed. She tried to ignore it, but Hannah noticed her smile.

"Is that him again?" Hannah asked.

"Who?" Allie perked up.

"Y/n's mystery man," Hannah explained. "She's been texting some guy for like two months."

"It hasn't been two months," Y/n protested.

"It's been seven weeks," Hannah said. "That's almost two months."

"You've been texting someone for seven weeks and haven't met him?" Allie asked, incredulous.

"It's complicated."

"It's insane," Hannah corrected. "What if he's a serial killer?"

"He's not a serial killer."

"How do you know?"

"Because serial killers don't text you about their hockey games and their roommate's cooking disasters."

"He plays hockey?" Allie asked.

"Yeah. He's a center. Whatever that means."

Hannah and Allie exchanged a look.

"What?" Y/n asked.

"Nothing," Hannah said quickly. "It's just... we know a lot of hockey players."

"It's a big school," Y/n said. "I'm sure there are lots of centers."

"Right," Allie agreed, but she was still giving Hannah a weird look.

Y/n's phone buzzed again.

Fork Guy - 1:45 PM  

I'm having a crisis.

Y/n - 1:46 PM 

What kind of crisis?

Fork Guy - 1:47 PM  

I want to meet you.

Y/n's heart stopped. She stared at the message, her friends' conversation fading into background noise.

Y/n - 1:49 PM  

Oh.

Fork Guy - 1:50 PM

I know we said we'd keep this just texting. But I can't stop thinking about you. About what it would be like to actually talk to you. To see you.

Y/n - 1:52 PM

Garrett...

Fork Guy - 1:53 PM

You don't have to say yes. I just needed to tell you. I needed you to know that this isn't just texting for me anymore. It's more than that.

Y/n - 1:55 PM 

It's more than that for me too.

Fork Guy - 1:56 PM  

Yeah?

Y/n - 1:57 PM  

Yeah. But I'm scared.

Fork Guy - 1:58 PM  

Me too.

Y/n - 1:59 PM  

What if we meet and it's not the same?

Fork Guy - 2:00 PM  

What if we meet and it's better?

Y/n - 2:02 PM 

I don't know if I'm ready for that.

Fork Guy - 2:03 PM

That's okay. I can wait.

Y/n - 2:04 PM 

Really?

Fork Guy - 2:05 PM 

Really. You're worth waiting for.

Week Eight:

Fork Guy - 3:27 AM 

You awake?

Y/n - 3:29 AM 

I am now. You okay?

Fork Guy - 3:30 AM  

Can't sleep. Keep thinking.

Y/n - 3:31 AM 

About what?

Fork Guy - 3:33 AM 

You. Us. This thing we're doing.

Y/n - 3:34 AM

What about it?

Fork Guy - 3:36 AM  

I'm falling for you. And I know that's crazy. I know we've never met. But I can't help it.

Y/n sat up in bed, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it.

Y/n - 3:38 AM 

That's not crazy.

Fork Guy - 3:39 AM  

It's not?

Y/n - 3:41 AM

No. Because I'm falling for you too.

Fork Guy - 3:42 AM  

You are?

Y/n - 3:43 AM  

I am. And it terrifies me.

Fork Guy - 3:45 AM 

Why?

Y/n - 3:47 AM

Because what if we meet and you don't like what you see? What if I'm not what you expected?

Fork Guy - 3:48 AM

What if you're exactly what I expected? What if you're even better?

Y/n - 3:50 AM  

You can't know that.

Fork Guy - 3:51 AM  

I know you. That's what matters.

Y/n - 3:53 AM

Is it enough though? Looks matter. Chemistry matters. What if we don't have that in person?

Fork Guy - 3:55 AM 

Then we'll deal with it. But I don't think that's going to happen.

Y/n - 3:56 AM  

How can you be so sure?

Fork Guy - 3:58 AM

Because I've never felt this way about anyone. Not even close. And I don't think that's going to change just because I see your face.

Y/n - 4:00 AM

You're very confident for someone who's never seen me.

Fork Guy - 4:01 AM 

I don't need to see you to know you're beautiful.

Y/n - 4:02 AM  

That's a line.

Fork Guy - 4:03 AM 

It's the truth. You're beautiful because of who you are. Because you're kind and funny and smart and you care about people. Because you text me at 4 AM even though you have class in the morning. Because you make me want to be better.

Y/n - 4:05 AM 

You're going to make me cry.

Fork Guy - 4:06 AM  

Good tears or bad tears?

Y/n - 4:07 AM 

Good tears. Definitely good tears.

Fork Guy - 4:08 AM 

Then my work here is done.

Y/n - 4:10 AM

Garrett?

Fork Guy - 4:11 AM  

Yeah?

Y/n - 4:12 AM  

I want to meet you. I'm still scared, but I want to.

Fork Guy - 4:13 AM 

Yeah?

Y/n - 4:14 AM  

Yeah.

Fork Guy - 4:15 AM 

When?

Y/n - 4:17 AM  

I don't know. Soon?

Fork Guy - 4:18 AM 

I have a game next Saturday. You could come. If you want.

Y/n - 4:20 AM  

To your hockey game?

Fork Guy - 4:21 AM  

Yeah. You could watch me play. And then after, we could meet. Officially.

Y/n - 4:23 AM  

That's a lot of pressure. What if you play badly because you're nervous?

Fork Guy - 4:24 AM  

I won't play badly. I'll play the best game of my life because you'll be there.

Y/n - 4:25 AM  

More confidence.

Fork Guy - 4:26 AM  

More truth.

Y/n - 4:28 AM 

Okay.

Fork Guy - 4:29 AM 

Okay?

Y/n - 4:30 AM  

Okay. I'll come to your game.

Fork Guy - 4:31 AM  

Really?

Y/n - 4:32 AM 

Really. But I'm bringing friends. For safety.

Fork Guy - 4:33 AM  

Smart. I'd expect nothing less.

Y/n - 4:35 AM 

And if this goes badly, I'm blaming you.

Fork Guy - 4:36 AM 

Fair. But it's not going to go badly.

Y/n - 4:37 AM 

How do you know?

Fork Guy - 4:38 AM  

Because it's us. We're going to be fine.

Y/n - 4:40 AM

I hope you're right.

Fork Guy - 4:41 AM  

I am. Trust me.

Y/n - 4:42 AM  

I do. That's the scary part.

***

Part Four: Weeks Nine Through Twelve

The week leading up to the game was torture. Y/n checked her phone constantly, second-guessing her decision a hundred times a day. Garrett texted her like normal, but there was an undercurrent of anticipation in every message.

Monday:

Fork Guy - 10:15 AM  

Morning. How'd you sleep?

Y/n - 10:17 AM  

Terribly. You?

Fork Guy - 10:18 AM  

Same. Kept thinking about Saturday.

Y/n - 10:19 AM 

We don't have to do this. We could just keep texting.

Fork Guy - 10:20 AM 

Do you want to just keep texting?

Y/n - 10:22 AM  

No. But I'm freaking out.

Fork Guy - 10:23 AM 

Me too. But I think that's normal.

Y/n - 10:24 AM 

Is it?

Fork Guy - 10:25 AM

I'm about to meet the girl I've been falling for for three months. I'd be worried if I wasn't freaking out.

Y/n - 10:27 AM

Three months. Has it really been that long?

Fork Guy - 10:28 AM  

Twelve weeks on Thursday.

Y/n - 10:29 AM

You've been counting?

Fork Guy - 10:30 AM  

Of course I have.

Tuesday:

Y/n - 2:45 PM  

Question: what if I'm not what you're expecting?

Fork Guy - 2:46 PM

What if you're better?

Y/n - 2:47 PM  

I'm being serious.

Fork Guy - 2:48 PM  

So am I. Y/n, I don't have expectations. I just have hope.

Y/n - 2:50 PM 

Hope for what?

Fork Guy - 2:51 PM 

That you're as amazing in person as you are over text. That we have the same connection face-to-face. That this is the beginning of something real.

Y/n - 2:53 PM

That's a lot of hope.

Fork Guy - 2:54 PM 

I'm a hopeful guy.

Y/n - 2:55 PM 

What if I disappoint you?

Fork Guy - 2:57 PM  

You won't.

Y/n - 2:58 PM 

You can't know that.

Fork Guy - 2:59 PM  

I know you. That's enough.

Wednesday:

Fork Guy - 11:30 PM  

I'm nervous.

Y/n - 11:31 PM 

You? Mr. Confident?

Fork Guy - 11:32 PM 

That's all an act. Inside I'm a mess.

Y/n - 11:33 PM 

That's actually comforting.

Fork Guy - 11:34 PM  

That I'm a mess?

Y/n - 11:35 PM

That you're nervous too. Makes me feel less crazy.

Fork Guy - 11:37 PM

You're not crazy. This is a big deal.

Y/n - 11:38 PM 

It is, isn't it?

Fork Guy - 11:39 PM 

The biggest.

Y/n - 11:41 PM  

What if when we meet it's awkward?

Fork Guy - 11:42 PM 

Then we'll laugh about it and keep texting.

Y/n - 11:43 PM  

Really?

Fork Guy - 11:44 PM  

Really. I'm not losing you over one awkward meeting.

Y/n - 11:46 PM  

Promise?

Fork Guy - 11:47 PM  

Promise.

Thursday:

Y/n - 3:15 PM

I told my friends about you.

Fork Guy - 3:16 PM 

What did you tell them?

Y/n - 3:17 PM 

That I've been texting a guy for three months and I'm finally meeting him at his hockey game.

Fork Guy - 3:18 PM 

And what did they say?

Y/n - 3:20 PM  

That I'm either very brave or very stupid.

Fork Guy - 3:21 PM 

Which do you think you are?

Y/n - 3:22 PM 

Both, probably.

Fork Guy - 3:23 PM

I think you're brave.

Y/n - 3:25 PM 

I don't feel brave. I feel terrified.

Fork Guy - 3:26 PM  

That's what bravery is. Being terrified and doing it anyway.

Y/n - 3:27 PM 

When did you become so wise?

Fork Guy - 3:28 PM  

I've always been wise. You're just now noticing.

Y/n - 3:29 PM  

There's the confidence I know and love.

Fork Guy - 3:30 PM

Love?

Y/n - 3:32 PM  

Figure of speech.

Fork Guy - 3:33 PM 

Sure it is.

Friday:

Fork Guy - 1:00 AM 

Can't sleep.

Y/n - 1:02 AM  

Me neither.

Fork Guy - 1:03 AM  

Tomorrow's the day.

Y/n - 1:04 AM  

Today, technically. It's after midnight.

Fork Guy - 1:05 AM 

Don't remind me. I'm already freaking out.

Y/n - 1:07 AM  

You're going to do great. You always do.

Fork Guy - 1:08 AM 

I'm not worried about the game. I'm worried about after.

Y/n - 1:09 AM  

Me too.

Fork Guy - 1:11 AM 

What if you take one look at me and run?

Y/n - 1:12 AM 

What if you take one look at me and regret everything?

Fork Guy - 1:13 AM  

Not possible.

Y/n - 1:14 AM  

You don't know that.

Fork Guy - 1:16 AM 

I do. Because I already know the important stuff. I know you're kind and funny and smart. I know you care about people. I know you make me laugh. I know you make me want to be better. That's not going to change.

Y/n - 1:18 AM

You're really good at this.

Fork Guy - 1:19 AM  

At what?

Y/n - 1:20 AM  

Making me feel better. Making me believe this is going to be okay.

Fork Guy - 1:21 AM 

It is going to be okay. Better than okay.

Y/n - 1:23 AM 

I hope you're right.

Fork Guy - 1:24 AM  

I am. You'll see.

Y/n - 1:25 AM  

Garrett?

Fork Guy - 1:26 AM  

Yeah?

Y/n - 1:28 AM 

I'm really glad you texted the wrong number.

Fork Guy - 1:29 AM

Me too. Best mistake I ever made.

Y/n - 1:30 AM 

Get some sleep. You have a big game tomorrow.

Fork Guy - 1:31 AM 

You too. Sweet dreams, Wrong Number Girl.

Y/n - 1:32 AM  

Sweet dreams, Fork Guy.

you: i'm scared

you: i don't like where this is going

you: what did you do al

al 🦭: actually me AND hans came to this decision 

hans 🐢: i'm only a tad bit involved 

hans 🐢: it was her plan

al 🦭: you suggested it?? 

hans 🐢: I DIDNT???? 

hans 🐢: i said it would be fun 

you: i should leave 

al 🦭: get back here. 

al 🦭: alright so 

al 🦭: do you remember the bet you lost at tucker's party?

you: i don't actually 

hans 🐢: look at her trying to escape... 

you: don't gang up on me 🙁

you: i thought you guys forgot about that

al 🦭: how could we

al 🦭: we finally get the chance to torture our precious pie

you: don't call me that 

hans 🐢: LMAOO 

al 🦭: as i was saying

al 🦭: me and hannah finally decided what we want you to do 

hans 🐢: why am i more nervous than her

hans 🐢: SPIT IT OUT ALREADY

al 🦭: alright man i was building up the suspense 

you: how about girls night and i treat you guys to the most delicious toe curling meals of your lives instead of whatever you have planned ☺️☺️

al 🦭: as tempting as that sounds... what we have is More fun

you: Fuck me. 

hans 🐢: i'd love to

you: i'm telling your bf

hans 🐢: hey :c

you: al baby can you please just tell me i'm dying to know

al 🦭: Fine...

al 🦭: okay so how does trolling some random guy online and making him think you're really into him and that he can get into your pants sound 

hans 🐢: okay now that you phrase it like this it definitely sounds cringe

you: Okay

you: no

you: i'm not doing that

al 🦭: WHY NOT

hans 🐢: it'll be fun hey...

you: are you guys crazy

you: why would i dm a random MAN that i'm into him. 

al 🦭: because men suck and they deserve to be humiliated 

hans 🐢: oh wow ❤️ 

hans 🐢: love that! 

you: no but seriously why would i do that

you: out of all the things i could've done why THAT

hans 🐢: because you're very anti love so weve decided to spice up your love life

you: sexting a random man online is going to spice up my love life huh

al 🦭: exactly 

you: do i ever have a choice here... 

hans 🐢: if you don't feel comfortable you don't have to do it bae

you: it's just really embarrassing 

you: but it's fine ig

al 🦭: FUCK YEAH

al 🦭: alright wait i'll grab his profile for you 

you: scary

hans 🐢: drumroll drumroll

al 🦭:

you: DI LAURENTIS???? 

hans 🐢: yeah...

you: oh FUCK no

you: we said a random man not fucking dean di laurentis

hans 🐢: AL I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE A BAD IDEA

hans 🐢: y/n hates him

you: he's the bane of my existence. 

you: i'm not doing that

you: nope not even gonna entertain the idea of it 

al 🦭: oh come on

al 🦭: THATS WHAT MAKES IT MORE FUN

al 🦭: laugh in his face

hans 🐢: dean is actually very sweet why do you hate him so much 

you: he's a manwhore

you: he's fucked every girl on campus

you: + he's a DICK

you: i don't like him

you: on top of the embarrassment i have to shove compliments in his face???!!??

you: as if his ego needs it

hans 🐢: im giggling

hans 🐢: c'mon it's not that bad

hans 🐢: besides you'll be doing it from an anonymous account so he wont know it's you

al 🦭: PLS PLS PLS YN PLS 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

you: get that ugly emoji off my screen god

you: i'm never ever ever ever ever everrrrrrrr doing anything like this ever again

you: only once

hans 🐢: ONLY ONCE

al 🦭: YES PLS

you: you guys are a little too excited about this

you: i need to avenge myself 

al 🦭: do that later

al 🦭: now go on and text him 

hans 🐢: keep us updated :3

you: i hate you both 

al 🦭: aw ☺️

al 🦭: luv you too 

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vibe rators 😈

you: i'm so fucking screwed

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